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| Reading at an earlier event at church. |
I read some
poetry last night at the Haystack’s Coffee House Open
Mic and Jam Night in the Unitarian Universalist Congregation in McHenry, in between set of actual
musical entertainment. Gave everyone an
opportunity to go to the bathroom, I guess.
Astonishingly, I have received
a request to post the poems that I read.
Having nothing better prepared for today’s blog entry, I am glad to
oblige. Each of the following have been
posted on this blog separately at least once before.
Knoxville
7/27/2008
10:26
A.M
They are
about to sing about Tomorrow,
as fresh and delicate as impatiens
in the dew,
when Yesterday, desperate and
degraded
bursts through the doors
barking despair and death
from the business end of a sawed of
shotgun.
Tomorrow
will have to wait,
Yesterday—grievances and
resentments,
a life full of missed what-ifs
and
could-have-beens,
of blame
firmly fixed on Them,
the very
Them despised by
all the
herald angel of perfect virtue—
has
something to say.
Yesterday
gives way to Now,
the eternal, inescapable Now,
flowing from muzzle flash
to shattered flesh,
the Now when things happen,
not the reflections of Yesterday
or the shadows of Tomorrow,
the Now that always Is.
Now unites
them,
victims and perpetrator,
the innocent and the guilty,
the crimson Now.
Tomorrow
there will be villain and martyrs,
Tomorrow always know about
Yesterday,
will tell you all about it in
certain detail.
And yet
Tomorrow those dewy impatiens
will sing at
last—
The sun will come out Tomorrow,
bet
your bottom dollar on tomorrow
come
what may…
How wise
those little Flowers
To reunite us all in Sunshine.
Merlin
Said
Love is the only magic—
It enriches the giver
as it nourishes
the object.
It serves the instant
and washes over
the ages.
It is as particular as the moon
and as universal
as the heavens.
If returned it is multiplied
yet spurned it is
not diminished.
It is as lusty as the rutting stag
but as chaste as
the unicorn’s pillow.
It comes alike to the king on his throne
and the cut purse
in the market.
If you would have magic,
place faith in
love or nothing.
The Vestryman
Ash
Wednesday/Washington’s Birthday 2012
The Vestryman performing the duty
expected of the local Squire
attended
chapel when absolutely necessary
and
when no good excuse like fighting an Empire
or
Fathering a Country was handy.
He sat bolt upright on a rigid pew
contemplated
the charms of Lady Fairfax
or
later dental misery.
When
came the Altar Call, he would stand up,
turn
on his heel, and march straight out
as
if a legion was at his back.
No
filthy priestly thumb ever grimed
that
noble brow.
How a Poem Came to Be
An inauspicious lump of gravel
tossed in
the tumbler,
turned,
turned,
until gleaming
smooth,
handsome
moss agate
admired and
mounted
on a new bolo tie slide.
A thing of pride and beauty.
But how much more did it yearn
to be a
geode
struck once
just so,
split to
reveal
the
perfect,
dazzling
crystal.
It Came to Him in a Dream
August 14, 2011
“It came to him in a dream!”
The urgent, rumbling voice intones,
architectural letters scroll the screen—
Beckon the Night.
This gift of Morpheus
sticking, as almost nothing ever does
when brought bolt upright
by an insistent alarm.
I’ll need a double shot
of Dashiell Hammett for this,
pulled from the second desk draw
next to the snub nose
poured into a greasy tumbler.
And a dame, gotta have a dame,
ash blonde and weeping
wreathed in Herbert Tareyton garlands.
A snap brim hat and trench coat,
’41 Ford Coupe headlights
to glimmer on wet pavement,
a bluesy cornet riff.
What else ya’ gonna do with
Beckon the Night?
Write a goddam fairy tale?
There you have
them, like it or not. By the way the first
two poems were included in my 2004 Skinner
House collection We Build Temples in the Heart. The second two are among a bunch of
strays lonesome for a new publisher, hint, hint.
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