If life could last th’eternal day And love trap time within its sway Branding Possum and Pound both liars By boundless fuel-ed passion-fires The love’s delay, reluctant, coy T’would not dismay me to employ.
But time rolls on and youth grows old, And summer flames bank winter cold, And at our ends rot dankest graves: Chance lost to spend the love we’ve saved. Dead Helen’s skull can move no crowd: Entombed tumescence stirs no shroud.
So let us chew our halcyon days With avid mouths, and make them pay All pleasures we in life are due. So feast on me, and I on you, So when our earthly deeds are done, Our ecstasies shan’t pass unplumbed.
Toes Nose: A Children's Poem
A Lesson for the Young Ones...
My nose seems Nearer than My toes. How can this be Do you suppose? Some sights just Seen have Slipped away Never again To grace my day. The sound I only Now just heard Has flown away Like some Strange bird. There and here And then and now, I can't hold Onto them Somehow; they Slip through My fingers And past My toes, And that's How my life Comes and Goes.
To a Clueless Critic
If you recognize yourself in this one, then it's not about you...
Ah, There you are again My snide sarcastic friend… How dare you condescend! From below? You must not know The clearness of your guile; The vapidness of your smug smile.
You comprehend not rhyme Unless it ends a line Nor sibilance divine Metric flow You do not know, And do not understand How to decode a poet’s plan.
You brainlessly deride Yet cannot peer inside Dual meanings and asides. Layers glow But you don’t know. You are the most unkeen Since Mary whelped the Nazarene!
Your comments are obtuse And of not any use. They merely sling abuse. Yet they go You’ll never know How much your tripe disgusts And how much is not sane or just
You think yourself so wise Yet shallowly apprise. It makes me cross my eyes! You’re so slow You cannot know How denseness guilds your cruel, You cotton-minded vacant fool!
Plea
Pick a place. A horrible place. Beirut, Fallujah, Darfur, Kandahar, Does it matter? Then pick a time. A terrible time. Noon or midnight, Sunset or dawn. All of them matter, None of them matter, But choose. For children are dying, Mothers are crying, And the fair flower of human youth Kill them and kill each other.
And we are responsible. All of us are responsible; Blinkered shepherds and blinded sheep. Washington. Moscow. Rome. Tehran. Beijing. Jerusalem. Pyongyang. All of us who believe That our mothers’ tears, Their childrens’ dying fears, And the future of the Fair flower of human youth Are less precious Than phantoms Floating in our heads.
Religions. Ideologies. What’s the difference? Can faith be fondled Like a bomb-vest trigger? Can politics be held And hefted in the hand Like a soldier holds a gun? Will theories some day force A finger to the final button?
How can these wraiths be Felt like life’s breath passing? What song can they compel That so mesmerizes one's ears That they will not flinch From the crying of an unfed child? How can dogmatic shadows Taste more substantial than tears? Can they be seen and touched Like the spilled life’s blood Of the fair flower of human youth Forever deprived of their futures? Can they speak with the Eloquent tongue of human misery?
Or, trapped within Our hellish din Of doctrinal ideas Can simple human misery Hold value or meaning For people any more?
But we do not speak, And we do not listen. Have we lost our voices, And our ears? And is it just a dream That we will all Some day stop demanding That all others heed us - Speak with our throats and Phrase our phantoms - Or fall forever silent?
Playa Santa
I was suddenly aroused From a late Christmas Eve-ning slumber By the throbbing approach Of bass notes pounding my ears. Hastening from my bed to my window To ascertain the source of this pulsation, I beheld a most surreal and eerie sight.
The heavens were ebon with nocturnal rain Gently deliquescing down from the sky There was no breezy whisper whatsoever, And no light leaked Through the damp cloud blanket From the hidden quarter-moon. The night seemed somehow frozen in place As if it were sitting, waiting in anticipation, And holding its hesitant breath.
Then, in the road beyond my yard, A long, low, wide, late-model car cruised slowly by. Its undercarriage was aglow with the blacklight shimmer Of violet neon tubes which flashed in synchrony With a growling primal beat, Causing purple sparkles to rhythmically glint, In intermittent fragments and shattered shards, From the surfaces of the rain-soaked leaves Which hung heavily from my bushes and trees. It resembled a fluorescent denizen of deep-sea currents Slowly floating before me on that dark wet street.
As the auto glided by beneath my streetlight, Proceeding through its glare from shadow to shadow, It briefly glimmered a dim and glittery green. Its chrome mag wheel rims reflectively gleamed, But its windows had been opaqued with filmic shading So I could not peer inside To discern whether golden foreteeth and chains Shined within the car’s obscured interior.
I began absently musing upon what possible mission Could prompt this playa Santa To embark on his mysterious journey In the dead of a Christmas Eve night… Could he perhaps be bringing brightly wrapped gifts To the ghetto homes of sleeping children? Or, more likely, is he delivering Merchandise rather than presents? A craved bag of goodies, perhaps, To some favored customer Trapped like a frantic deer In the headlights of holiday need...
The Nether Desire
Both men and women share desire That burns below; a nether fire Obsessing us with need most dire Compelling pleasure we require To thrill us like a glowing wire.
It forces us to seek surcease And will not grant us any peace But drives us to engage caprice Pursuing blessed loin release Till, satisfied, its urgings cease.
And when we find ourselves alone Without another for our own It yet maintains its craving drone Demanding that it still be shown The fealty due its greedy throne.
Responsibility
Some solicitous souls would advise us To relinquish all attempts to guide our own futures To surrender control rather than to strive for it And to submit to the rule of celestial will Humbly accepting its divine dictation Rather than to possess the monumental Temerity and prideful gall of endeavor To try to choose our own life paths.
But we cannot move the leaden weight Of our freedom from our shoulders Simply by claiming to have shifted it elsewhere. We may indeed choose To embrace such self-delusions; Our world will not be so easily fooled: We are still the ones deciding – and who must - Whether or not we acknowledge it.
We were not sculpted By the hand of some vast spirit In its transcendental image; Rather it is the other way around And that such beliefs Have shaped many actions And therefore our common history Proves not that it was molded By a believed-in other.
We fabricated our gods and satans From the suns and shadows of our souls. The absolutes of human virtues Were assigned as deific attributes And abstracted human vices Are reckoned as demonic traits.
And when we beseech them in prayer, it is Whether ‘tis beknownst to us or not Our greater, or higher Or deeper selves to whom we appeal. We also ask our gods to bless for us Those whom we ourselves In our thoughts bless And the same goes for damnation.
Such profound imprinting of our desires Upon our psyches’ templates Leads us to strive for their fulfillment In ways both conscious and subliminal And thus may prayers be effortfully answered.
Karma requires not reincarnation. Its retributions and rewards May be suffered and enjoyed Within the same lifetime In which our actions conjure them. Whatever actions we apply to others Whether they be well or ill Will most likely be returned to us by them In both extent and kind.
Nevertheless, we cannot depend upon life to be fair. It lies beyond or beneath such human categories And no cosmic authority mandates such things. It simply is what it is And whatever we choose to make of it. The concepts of Heaven and Hell Were themselves purified and crystallized From the joys and sorrows of our experience And how we build our lives decides Which ideal house our dwellings more resemble.
And although we cannot possess Full mastery over our forthcomings As would an oarman Paddling in a lake of placid possibility Neither should we see ourselves Being bourne helplessly downstream Limbs bound Swept by a maelstrom of descending events.
Rather, we are rowing in moving waters And both events and ourselves May move within them: Events in whatever way the flow of causation dictates Ourselves insomuch as the power of the current And the strength of our effort allows. Each pull on the sculls opens some possible courses And closes others; We happen to life as surely as it happens to us.
So, although we lack absolute sway over our eventualites We yet have some say concerning what will happen with us. And yet, it is we who are held accountable for it all Even for those occurrences whose courses elude our grasp. Our responsibilities exceed our freedoms Yet we are the only ones who In the final analysis Can be honestly held responsible for our fates: Even by ourselves. It’s all on, and up to, us.
The Flight
We’re all enwrapped in spacetime stuff By universe contained Entrapped in frail small bodies By finitude constrained. In butterflylike beauty Our brief winged lives flit by And we die not understanding it Or if there’s reason why. But while we live we swanlike soar In Icarus’ blinding light Brave moths bewitched by phoenix dreams No gloom could ever blight. And when the darkness closes in And sunset end’s life’s day We dare to hope we’re just cocooned To fly another way.
A Poem Speaks
It seems I’m born; I just awoke To find myself in this strange state And in a most perplexing place Without a clue how came I here Or came to be in such a shape. I do not know whereof I speak Nor even how I came to write But here I am, within this prose Unrolling spools of ebon words Within which are my life contained. I wonder how I came to be And why I am both deaf and blind And even lack the sense to feel. Yet still I somehow seem to know That there are eyes now seeing me And voices that may me express And this is why I now exist And why some muse created me: To give them something they might read And if they’re of the mind, might speak. It seems I only come alive Through others, when beheld by them And thus when their perusal ends So too will my brief flame snuff out. I must admit this end I fear For I do not desire to die But to this fate I am resigned Full knowing that I lack the choice To persevere without a gaze. Dies all at ending, anyway But I am glad, within these words, That I first got a chance to live. And so I cede dread death's dire due Until another, life renews.
Prosody: A Teaching Poem
I write this ode to poets all Those crafters of the written word Who subtly wield linguistic arts And seek to meanings so employ To wring from them the constancy To truly frame their purposes And so to reach another soul And kindle sympathetic thoughts And strum the strings of others’ hearts. May these few rhymes impart some tools That may some aid in such pursuits
The sibilance that sings between Sonically resonating words Is like the babble of a child A mellow milk tongue, flowing sweet And pure. It lingers in the ear After its melody is sung. Alliteration is one way That many words may sing in tune It happens when they all begin With the same letter, and the sound Thus Them Connects in Common Croon. Now assonance is when the choice Of vowels seems to blend between The variant words adjacent penned sO sOOthing sUsUrratiOns sOund. And consonance is the employ Of any other letters in The poet’s toolbox alphabet And aims to snugly language glue so ThaT The LiNes are TighTLy kNiT.
The marching beat of metric lines Proceeds by stepping foot by foot And setting up a rhythmic beat That carries readers’ thoughts along. The four that are most widely used Are: first the iamb which is made Of two syllables, with the first an UNacCENtuAted SOUND, The next accentuated more. The second, the trochaic foot Reverses this pattern of stress AND thus PLAces ALL the STRESS on The first syllable and backs off Accentuation for the next. The third is the dactylic foot. IT has a PATtern of DIFferent type With three syllables, where it is The first one stressed, the next two not. And anapestic is the fourth. It also spans three syllables but in IT, it’s the THIRD that reCEIVES the stress.
And lastly high the twinbird FLIES And with end rhyme doth couplets TIE. Of course there are as many KINDS Of rhyming scheme as there may BE Poetic dreams to so conCEIVE And each displays peculiar BINDS That may help set one’s purpose FREE. Just strive for, as you pen your LINES Tight metrical consistenCY So that the stanzas match in BEAT And don't neglect to count your FEET So that they flow in harmoNY: And all this is called prosoDY.
Heart Palm Nectar
Distill the nectar from your heart, Palming it down upon each page. Draw deep from every muse-blessed fount Which inspiration can engage. Your sight and sound pure clarify And also touch and taste and scent Then paint and play, but verify Your sense you fairly represent. Break thoughts into constituents. Reassemble them variously. With imagination cement: Tie all with tools of prosody. Violate all poetic rules If needed to your aims achieve. Enrich and deepen, using dual Word meanings to your baskets weave. Use structure to show as you say, And to blend, and complement mood, Then seek for the most graceful way To each subtle nuance include. Polish your work to finest sheen - With brutal fervor each phrase test, Then slice till it shines sparse and keen, Leaving your cleanest and your best. And when you’re finished, and they stand As credits to your craft and art, Then share your gems, and to the land Your jewels with great pride impart.
Conscious Wonders
What is this place, and this thing, In which I find myself? I notice a difference Between an inside and an outside Yet the inside is outside also Only closer to me somehow And unlike the outside-outside, Which comes and goes and changes The inside-outside remains ever with me And I am aware of it Not just on its surface, Like I am of the outside-outside, But through and through. My awareness of the boundary between The inside-outside and the outside-outside Changes when the outside-outside Comes next to the inside-outside. On the end of the inside-outside That I feel that I'm in Are all these portals between. They all change Between before and after And between different heres and theres. But the two closer together change In and between sectors Of greater or smaller portion, Nearer or farther Quicker or more slowly And of greater or lesser intensity Within an unchanging oval field Sharp at its center Indistinct at its border Ringed by nothingness. And two others farther apart change Between abrupt or flowing presences Also of greater or lesser intensity And an absence. Another two very close to each other And a larger one beneath it Are like the boundary But unlike it In that they register Differing richnesses When things travel through them Between the outside-outside And the inside-outside. I choose to will, Then the inside-outside changes And the outside-outside Changes to follow. The outside-outside changes And for the inside-outside To change to follow it, My will must change.
How strange it is For mind to reside In an acting body Connected by senses To a surrounding world.
The Calls: A Pagan Teaching Poem
Seven the times our Calls ring forth: To East and South and West and North, To Mother Earth and Father Sky, And to the Center each calls I.
We sing our Calls when Circle's cast, Release them when our Rite has passed, And now this Lesson doth begin: For this is what these Calls do mean.
Directions stand for many things That cycle through vast circlings: The phase of moon and pass of sun, The wheel of year and life span’s run.
The Greeks claimed Four Elements found And to each a direction bound: Air was the East and Fire the South, Water the West, and Earth the North.
East is the growing waxing bloom Of spring and youth and morn and moon, When childhood's airy freshness new Begins its circle journey through.
South is adulthood and full moon, Warm summer and the shine of noon, When we are grown yet fiery young, And our mature paths have begun.
West is the withering, waning stage; Strength turns to water as we age. The evening and harvest hail, And to advanced years vigor fails.
North is for death: dark cold demise, Midwinter, midnight, moonless skies, And earthen graves in which, forlorn, We wait our turns to be reborn.
Dear Mother Earth begat us all; Her body nurtures, birth to pall. She lingers, corn, grain, hearth and home, And even grounds the dreams we roam.
Great Father Sky inspires our minds And predator and prey He binds. He lives, spawns, kills, dies, is reborn, And wears fang, hoof, claw, hide and horn.
The Center is what lies within Each person born, beneath our skins, But also what’s between us all When we, together, Circle call.
And so doth now our Lesson end; Learn and remember well, my friend. And heed the meaning of these Calls; They join together, each to all.
Our Circles may be opened To pass without, within, But never are they broken; Our links can never end.
Pedophile
There I was, A boy of eleven, Bike tire flat, A few allowance dollars burning a hole in my pocket, Beginning the mile-long hot sun walk to the corner store. I was short, pale and thin, Dressed in blue-jean denim shorts, Sandals and a baby-blue tee, And completely oblivious To how alluring I looked to sick fucking maggots like you. You pulled your big green automobile over next to me And asked me if I needed a ride. “Sure, Mister,” I said to the person I couldn’t yet see; “I’m heading to the E Z Mart at the entrance to the subdivision. I really appreciate the lift.” Your meaty hand reached over and opened the door for me, And, without a glance or a second thought, I hopped innocently inside and shut it behind me. Immediately, you hit the gas, And turned away from the street you should have taken, And onto a dead end road that led to the woods behind my house. I began to turn to ask you why, and in doing so, I took my first look at the inside of your car. A chill ran through me. Every single surface had fake green fur glued to it. It was on the seats, on the dashboard, Even on the visors, roof and steering wheel. Then I saw you – and recoiled in horror. You were grossly bloated, sweating grease, With a head like a pumpkin, And a sly twisted Jabba the Hut grin Crinkling your slitty eyes and thin-lipped mouth. You gave me a strange look and eerily licked your lips With a tongue that reminded me of a disgusting worm. “This isn’t the way to the store, Mister!” I protested. Your sinister grin only grew frighteningly wider. “We’re just taking a shortcut, son; Just a little detour, is all. It’ll be fun; you’ll see.” A weird crazy light seemed to begin shining in your eyes. It seemed to me as if you’d started panting, And then you could restrain yourself no longer. One of your fat rancid paws casually left the steering wheel, And you reached over and grabbed my genitals. I simply went insane. I began screaming like a mad terrified banshee And beating with my fists at your revolting face, Then clawing at your eyes in a panicked frenzy, Raging like a frantic animal, And trying my damnedest To bite clean through that demented appendage That dared to touch me there. You were howling in pain and surprise, And, while trying to slap me away, You lost control of the car And it swerved careening toward the curb. It slammed into it and came to a jolting halt Which bounced me around the car’s interior, And split the bridge of my nose against the windshield. The sudden pain seemed to restore some degree of self-awareness to me. As I bounced backwards into the seat, I took advantage of the one split-second I had To jerk open the car handle, Roll out of there like a circus tumbler, Gain my scrabbling footing, And run like hell into the brush. You slammed the car into gear, Spun through a wild U turn, And, raving vicious curses at me, You screamed out of there, And over a hill and away like a scalded dog.
I didn’t know anything about car models, And I didn’t get your tag number or your name. As far as I know, you have never been caught. But when I told my parents, and they told the cops, They searched those woods, And found the naked rotting mutilated corpse of a boy I never knew, Who had gone missing some weeks before, From his home a few miles away. He had been used, disposed of and discarded, As if he were some worthless thing. But I fought back, and I beat you, you malevolent murderous bastard! Because of you, however, A horrific memory will ever plague my dreams, I will forever despise with an incandescent passion Warped psychopaths who abuse children as tools for their own filthy purposes, And I will live each moment of the rest of my life Haunted and shamed by the guilty knowledge That I, unlike that poor molested slaughtered boy, Am incredibly and senselessly lucky to still be alive.
Doggerel for Hallmark Cards
Pre-Emptive Elegy
1) If I should die tomorrow I wouldn’t want your sorrow. So please don’t make a fuss Though I’d dislike being cussed. Just smile for me And say you cared; I lived, I died, And that is fair.
2) What To Do?
I do what I can With what I have got, For I can do nothing With what I have not. Yes, I do what I can, If I can’t then I don’t; Thus the question is moot Whether I will or won’t. Am I good? Am I bad? Am I wrong? Am I right? Either way I decide, I’ll be in for a fight. Am I both? Or either? Or neither? Why bother? I’ll just try to treat others As I’d have them treat me, Strive to be happy, Strive to be free, And that got to be Good enough And right enough For the world And for me.
3) Great and Little Things
Why try to do the great things When little things will do? Why should we try to change the world? Change us is all we do. Why try to tread heroic paths And sing the epic songs When it’s really all the little things Which help our lives along?
4) Playing the Game
How should I play the game of life From my situation of storm and strife? How should I try to win my game? Seek wealth and pleasure? Flee lack and pain? Should I boldly advance my fortune’s pawns? Or simply castle, and try to hang on? Should I get in the trenches and tactically slug? Or strengthen position until I feel snug? Well, sooner or later, for everyone, It will not matter, for all will be done, And who will then care if I’ve lost or won? Simply playing this game of life is fun.
Evening Ritual
Having showered and toweled, Soaking my shoulder knots away with pelting steaming water And massaging my skin as I dry, Shaved my shadow and brushed my teeth, Things that also begin my mornings, I light the day’s final cigarette The same way I lit the day’s first smoke, With anticipation and relish. I feel the flame warmth caress my cheeks, Taste the nicotine tingle on the tip of my tongue, Revel in the sharp sweet bite at the back of my throat, And luxuriate in the pleasure of thick smoke filling my lungs. I smoke in deliberate silence, Allowing myself to loosen the yarn of tension That the frantic cat day has tightly wound within me, Then stub out the butt with relaxed fingers. I finish my last swallow of hot sweet tea, Switch on some soothing music, and set my volume low, Undress to my underwear, Then turn down my covers and crawl beneath them. I switch off the last light on in the house, my bedside lamp, And, stretching out, nestle my head on my firm pillow, Hearing the faint soft lulling musical tones Gently wafting through the enveloping darkness. Closing my eyes, I release a satisfied sigh, And sink into myself, to dissolve into restful slumber And embark upon odd adventurous dreams.
Colors
Yellow shines forth the noonday sun, Blue hues both the day’s sky and sea, Red glow both the dusk and the dawn, Green grow both the grass and the leaves. White float the fluffy rain free clouds; Grey they lay when they cover all. Brown are both tree trunks and bare ground, And black is the moonless midnight’s pall. Orange and purple are not much seen And neither do they have clear rhymes, And pink is quite rare in nature’s scenes But all bloom in flowers from time to time. Colors show in one amazing spread. We see but one octave color wheel. Neither ultraviolet nor infrared Is visible, although they’re real. And colors are so unlike sounds For they must delineate lines; So, unlike chords, together wound, We see just one in each place and time. And this is why keys may be heard In several octaves, hues seen but in one: Harmonics would cause our lines to blur, And our visual contrast would be undone.
You’d Do It For A Dog
Old Bull had been a mighty dog: Hunting farm-raiding varmints, Guarding the homestead and barn, And grabbing penned cattle by their noses And twisting them down to be branded. But his fiery vigorous days were long ago gone. Arthritic, thin of limb, with ribs showing like slats, And with a growth distending his belly, He laid quivering and whimpering on the porch most of the time Like a desiccated, grey-muzzled Buddha. When the day finally came That he could no longer rise to feed or drink Or even go shit or piss in the yard, My grandfather got his pistol and a throwaway quilt, Lovingly bundled soiled and swollen Bull up, And, placing him not in the bed but in the cab beside him, Drove him away, one hand on the wheel, The other one fondling Bull’s old grizzled head.
Grandfather wore pieces of white sheet tied from his ears That he changed often when they became soaked and yellowed. Years earlier, he had shaved through a bump on his face, And the cancer from it spread and ate. Towards the last, he had no nose, Nor lips, nor cheeks, nor flesh on his jaw And his throat was eaten part way down. He became a wavering skeleton Gingerly creeping through the house Dizzied by the morphine he took for the pain. Finally, he took abed and could no longer rise. My teenaged mother bathed and changed him, Washed his soiled bedclothes, And helped him to eat and drink as well as she was able.
One evening, when she brought his pills to him, He took the one he was given and motioned for more. After my mother told him That was all he could take for a while, He picked up the pencil and paper That he used now that he could no longer mouth words And wrote: “Leave the bottle, Avie. Let me do for myself What I did for old Bull.”
With tears streaming down both their eyes, She kissed him on the forehead, The only part of his face left unscathed, Sat the bottle by the carafe within his reach, And left his room for the night.
The next morning he was dead. My mother fell to pieces, And was taken to a girlfriend’s house to spend a few days away. She awakened in the middle of the night To see Grandfather leaning over the foot of her bed, One hand propped on each bedpost knob, Gazing down at her. He was wearing his white sheet, And although no face could be seen, His crinkled eyes seemed to be smiling. Mother went into hysterics. She screamed like a scorched panther, flew from the house, And ran all the way home through the wintry air, Wearing only her nightgown.
When she got back she beat upon the door, Then stammered to my grandmother what she had seen. Mama Hamm whipped her unmercifully, Crying that Daddy had come back to tell her something; Something that might never be known, And that, dead or alive, You NEVER run from your parents.
In fact, he never did appear again, But I think I know what he wanted to tell my mother. He wanted to thank her and tell her that it was all right, That he was at last free from weakness and pain, That she had been a good and dutiful daughter, And to please end her guilty grieving.
Skinwalker
There was always something strange about my uncle Jack. All the kids were half-breeds, Born of a Dutchman and an Indian, But he seemed different from the rest. He was a full head taller than his brothers. He spent much time alone in the woods And often disappeared on full moon nights. People around whispered he was born a skinwalker, An Indian werebeast; And there was indeed a beast That was said to haunt the swamps. At night, one could sometimes hear it Screaming like a banshee panther or a scalded woman, And deer were frequently found, and once or twice bears, That had been rent asunder and partially eaten.
Uncle Jack seemed to stay anemic and thin, And had to take frequent iron injections, As well as some other special serum For some weird blood malady without a recallable name. He was a nervous sort, hypersensitive to sunlight and loud sounds, And skittish around others, even his own family. But he was a silent stalker, a crackerjack tracker, Lithe and quick as a snake, whipcord wiry strong, And had the stamina of an ox.
Back in those days, the roads were clay And cars gave way to wagons when it rained. One full moon night, driving a two-mule rig, My parents were heading to the family home. When they neared the bend where the road bordered the swamp A large creature sprang from the dark brush And bounded between the mules and onto the wagon tongue. They bolted, and it rode the clattering wagon For a good hundred yards as they bounced about the seat. Then it leapt off, vanishing as suddenly as it had appeared.
Once they regained control of the mules, They hurried home, and told the relatives of their ordeal. My father and several uncles grabbed rifles from the gun cabinet, And a night hunt was organized on the spot. But Jack was nowhere to be found. They whistled for Bull, their large mastiff terrier. A dog that feared nothing, And set out into the swamp.
They followed Bull to a copse of close-grown saplings. From within them came a curdling scream. Not wishing to venture in at night, They sent Bull in to flush their quarry. Another curdling scream tore the air, And Bull flew from the thicket and fled for home. The men decided not to pursue what Bull had fled, And hastily returned home, Finding him cowering under the front porch steps. When Jack appeared the next morning With a big buck deer on his shoulder, No questions were asked.
The next full moon, My parents were traveling the same road in the same wagon. When they reached that spot, They saw a coffin-shaped fog bank float across the road Once they arrived at the homestead, They found that Jack had died that very day. He’d been given the wrong injection. There were no more deer corpses found in the woods, And the beast was never seen or heard from again.
Pale Horse, Dark Rider
My Indian grandmother, as a small girl, Lived with her folks in a backwoods cabin Hidden in the thick woods that bunched by the Mississippi. She was in the front yard playing one summer When a man dressed in black rode up on a pale stallion. He asked her for a dipper of water from the well. She drew a cool bucket and scooped a dipperful Then reached to hand it to the man.
Before the dark man could take it, Her momma slapped the dipper from her hand, And, grabbing her by the wrist, hauled her inside. Her daddy was there, looking concerned. She shook her daughter by the shoulders And demanded to whom she was offering the water. A man on a horse, momma, she replied. Her mother blanched, and asked the color of the horse. It was white, momma, she answered. Did the man drink, her mother demanded. No, momma, she said; you slapped the dipper away. What’s wrong?
You go lie down, child, she was told; You’ve been in the hot sun too long, and look a bit peaked. She pretended to do as she was told, But instead listened carefully at the door. Her momma told her daddy she had seen no horse and no rider. She only heard her daughter speaking to no one, And saw her staring at a point in empty space, And offering a filled dipper to the air. It must have been a spirit, she said. The horse was white - that meant sickness was coming, But if the horse had been black, it would have meant death. At least he did not get to drink, momma said. Whoever touches a spirit must soon become one.
The room began spinning, And my grandmother’s knees suddenly buckled beneath her. Her parents heard her fall to the floor. They rushed in to find her burning up and drenched with sweat. She had the scarlet fever. Weeks passed before she recovered, And her parents bought a new bucket and dipper And weighted the old ones with stones And sank them deep in the brown waters of the Mississippi.
Grandpa’s Lesson
I was a boy of seven that early summer, Spending two weeks with my paternal grand folks In their antebellum home in rural Alabama. After lecturing me on the necessity Of being responsible for the consequences of my actions And always eating what I killed, My grandpa gave me a brand new BB gun. Thrilled, I went stalking around the house on my first lone hunt.
I found two blue jays, Perched chirping on low pecan tree branches. I shot them both dead, Then brought them both into the house and cleaned them. I took my bounty to my grandma, And asked her to cook them up for me. She called my grandpa, Who asked to see their feathers.
When I showed them to him, he asked me If those were the jay birds from the backyard pecan. When I nodded yes, He said for me to follow him, and strode outside. Walking to the pecan tree, He pointed out a cleft between two branches. There nestled a bird nest. He’d been watching those two birds all year, he said, Out his second story bedroom window, And they’d been raising recently hatched young ‘uns, He told me that I couldn’t just leave their chicks up there to starve, So I must climb up and bring them down.
When I descended with the five small skin-covered birds, He was waiting for me with a bucket filled with water. He said that we could not hope to raise them, As they were only a few days old, And that it was my responsibility, Since I had killed their parents, To put them out of their misery.
I will never forget the horror I felt Taking those peeping newborns in my trembling hand And plunging them one by one into the bucket. They were too young and weak to struggle much. They barely writhed as they died, Beaks gaping as if begging to be fed, Then their eyelids closed and a few bubbles rose, And they went cold and still and limp in my palm. With pouring eyes, I buried the hatchlings I had drowned. Then crept inside the house, Only to find a plate full of their fried parents Awaiting me in the kitchen. My grandpa watched as I sat down at the table And choked down every bitter bite.
The agony of that early lesson is forever burned in my brain. I still occasionally hunt, but only in the fall. I kill what I shoot, eat what I kill, And never take animals that might have young.
Magical Night
A full moon shined above the waves And their frothy tips were fired aglow As phosphorescent algae gave A silver tinge to the tidal flow. Upon a whim, I shucked my suit And dove stark nude into the sea. The splashing starry droplets flew Into the breeze caressing me. I leapt as if to catch the moon, And covered with an algae coat, Fell like a shining statue strewn Upon the swells. I chanced to float Within the troughs between the peaks, When, suddenly surrounding me, A school of dolphins slyly sneaked Then shyly peeked, alert to flee. Enthralled by their close company, I gamboled and frolicked in the froth. They caught my wild contagious glee And circled closer, drawn like moths To the spirit light of joyous play. One who was braver swam aside And gently touched me as I swayed. The rest, emboldened by their guide Joined in, and brushed me with their flanks, Then splashed their tails, and thus they made Bright spraying mists. Their frisky pranks Were answered by my own cascade. Our play amused them to no end: They chirped their cheerful calls to me. I’d found myself a flock of friends. Together we danced the moonlit sea. We romped for hours, or so it seemed, Then like gray wraiths they whisked away. Those memories, fine as fondest dreams, Linger with me until this day.
She is in her mid teens Yet feels thousands of worn years old. She likes to lick razor blades And brand lit cigarette patterns in her arms. She mourns that the aliveness these make her feel Evaporates with her pain. She craves transcendent intensity Not caring what kind it is. She dresses all in black And cakes black makeup on her pale face. She shares random shags with hungry strangers More out of pity than desire. She cannot remember When she didn’t feel tired of it all Or when anything felt fresh or new. She does whatever drugs she is given Hoping that they are too much. Her wrists are scarred from cutting And her folks hide their pills. She listens to goth and emo And her handle is LostChild. She reads Clive Barker and Anne Rice, And pretends she wishes she were undead But what she really thinks she wants Is not to be alive any more.
What she actually deep down desires Is to find some meaning she can cling to But she’s too young yet to realize That meaning must be made, not found. And does not grasp the desperate race she’s in Between that understanding And self-destruction.
The Storm Front
I just love to sleep to the sound of the rain That splatters my shingles and patters my pane Full framed by the rustling of wind-caressed leaves And lit by brief lightning from distance perceived. The low distant rumbling of thunder is heard Somehow reassuring as faint singing birds For even in slumber I sense it’s away And hardly a danger to my peaceful sway.
But sometimes a storm front comes cascading through And quiet turns riot as chaos ensues. Then up from my bed I reflexively rise To witness the wonder of nature’s rough cries. I’ve been known to wander abroad in the rage To soak in the scene that the energies stage And bask in the wonder and awe of it all Forsaking all safety, empowered, enthralled.
And when it’s passed over, I savor, amazed, The glory of Gaia; the might that she raised And as her force magically flows past my place I revel in majesty granted by grace. Again I recline then, at rest and at peace As my wild crazed passions find blessed release And as I fall under, lulled by ending rain I count my life’s blessings, and wish them again.