November drapes the lovers like a shroud;
they long for summer love, so feather light –
a strip of beach, a seagull, half a cloud –
but oh the days of autumn are half night.
So carefree were they up until October
[although the leaves had shown their colors plain]
and ‘though they have grown serious and sober
they both pretend now they enjoy the rain.
How many months to wait out winter’s lease?
[She dare not count for fear he’ll hear her sigh.]
He wishes for a fireplace at least…
a case or two of cognac, whiskey, rye?
Let’s watch to see how summer romance goes
and if it can outlast the freezing snows.
Priests and philosophers seem to agree:
[The former will tell you that lying’s a sin.]
For the most part they’re right but [between you and me]
I think I can show you: such wisdom is thin.
Say soldiers come by shouting where is the yid?!
Old Emmanuel Kant’d be past thinking twice –
He’d tell them straight out where the poor jew had hid
…and all I can say is, his heart’s made of ice.
I can’t stand a law that can’t stand an exemption.
[Me? Follow a dogma? Hey, don’t hold your breath!]
Yes, Truth is a good thing…but LOVE is redemption
although some have a mindset rigid as death –
such types I avoid for they strike me as pettish.
Let’s favour the truth – but not make it a fetish!
the lovers now a sweaty muddle – limbs
askew – and limp as laundry in the tub;
and in her head a spate of perfect hymns
she dare not move to write – aye there’s the rub!
she’s seen – and felt – his lips just graze her hands
she knows he knows the poet and the wife
and loves them both – he even understands
her poetry is synonym for life.
so warm are they that he might even welcome
the breeze the sheets provide when either moves;
it’s her that fears to budge would just be irksome –
a slight The Gods of Love might not approve
and so repeating verses, buying time,
she waits until he yawns to fix her rhyme.
On super highways where big trucks must travel
they call them potholes – as they do in town –
but here, where noise is mostly bikes on gravel,
I think the name might need some paring down,
since here they’d hardly hold a decent pancake
although, when rain has stopped, they catch the sky,
spin archipelagos of melted snowflake
but wouldn’t sink a plough if one passed by.
Like Hansel’s pebbles meant to lead these people
to market square each week between the banks
of poplars, heaven-bound as our church steeple
that every Sunday witnesses loud thanks…
which cause the cows to turn, as if on cue.
They look like cupcakes frosted by the dew.
Never could feature a uniform blue –
hard on the eyes and duller than paint.
I prefer skies that are wild as the Sioux
with great tumbling clouds that show no restraint.
As for the azure – the bird’s egg, the tint –
depends [for the most part] on which way you look.
I look for the place where you don’t have to squint –
where the color stepped out of a nursery book.
A real blue, a young blue, from long ago dreams
with stratus or cumulous doing their act –
enforcing eternal celestial memes
with passion and fury or, sometimes, with tact.
Yes, show me the show all humanity knows.
Give me the clouds till the clouds roll on by.
It’s best viewed from hilltops, this great show of shows –
These whites, greys and pinks performed on blue sky.
His eyes are like two blue-grey doves
‘though doves someday may be his prey
He’s hardly more than one month old
And she is all of a summer’s day
He’s unaware he’s crushed a leaf
She hovers just above the flowers
His life perhaps will run to years
Hers may last no more than hours
But in this instant what unites
A butterfly and a cat
Is something strong, akin to love,
Yes, something quite like that
that’s mine, you can’t said with a shove
all manifest a sprouting Will.
Bend it early into Love –
or one day it may seek to kill!
This surge of self that shapes a soul
is like those compounds found in flowers
[ten drops destroys, but one makes whole]
or salt, that makes taste bright or sours.
Seek Pride of actions, not blind Pride
for Love must serve to aid, increase
not to possess, keep by one’s side –
let Love and Will unite in Peace.
Passion governing hearts, but never the head
By tempered Will alone is Love properly led.
for Robert J. Foss
If needs must
bridge the finite chasms
baptize evanescent bliss
then let your future fetish
be no less than this –
A Being to embrace the sum of being
so that we may invoke a blinded entity –
O Holy Bat – beside some great All-Seeing
If even lowly men can know regret
then model me
a truly penitent god – and don’t forget
the one who spied himself
in some celestial glass
as he strolled by
and in his fleeting likeness
fashioned us –
that mutton-headed cuss
then quite forgot
and left us here beyond the gate to die – alas
Why not now some likelier template seek
and while you’re at it, brother,
quit pretending to be meek !
Invent at last a god resembling –
a thing with teeth and claws –
an eminently laughable
lawless giver of the laws
so we may worship THAT – all aspects in one prayer
a god who wouldn’t give a fig for our dispair
a dervish turncoat given to disguises
a god prone to reward
the very things he most despises
capable of the loftiest creation
given to mean and base destruction
propounding truths without foundation
and lies – derived by sound deduction –
a multi-facetted unfathomable One
some ultimate in oxymoron
or is that the god we’ve got?
if gods you must have
then grant them this above all else –
since even the lowliest of the low
possess it – the living right to improve
to get better, to grow, to understand and evolve
invent, for pete’s sake, a genuine genius –
something that may be said
at least to have lived a rounded loving life
before, exhausted, it dropped dead
or allow the heavenly landlord
to deal with us, for a change
grow richer and more benevolent in the exchange
… or maybe just let him be
fucking fallible !
a truly living god
a genuinely on-going
one palm cups the other
then my dome
[it’s lying on the couch
I’m most at home]
just listenin’ to the birdies
in the trees
and moving less than leaves
twitch in the breeze
They call it doing nothing
that’s a fact
but then advise to think
before you act
They call it wrong and bad
and sloth and sin
I call it peace
if this be sin,
then I’m a sinful knave
and likely will remain so
to the grave
in dreams alone I might traverse
some perfect potlatch universe
where none would give their heart in vain
and all that’s parched be gorged with rain –
love enabling – exchanged in turn –
beneath a sun to warm, not burn