Francis

Francis

Will he be shot like all the rest?
A Pope, a Christian with a heart

Speaking out against the tide

For the disenfranchised few.

Scourged and beaten since the Greeks.
Republicans killed Jesus too.
Seeping through the vessel's cracks

Adrift upon the sea of love.

7-31-13

Fantasy

Little men with picks and hats

In the confines of a brain

Diligently day and night

At the pipeline of a vein

Pound and hammer constantly

In a fancy in the rain.

Soon the pipe will burst and spurt,

And he'll be dead. And not again.

7-31-13

 

Group Therapy

He said, “I can't say I am there

For you. He will get mad

Or think me foolish.” And the shrink

Shouted, “You're an ass!

Everybody says it and

Your feelings are absurd."
“I don't like your attitude,”
The patient said, and stood

And headed for the door. The shrink

Was on his feet and yelled,

“You're totally psychotic!

Sit down! Cooperate!

You'll be locked in here forever!”
But the patient just kept walking.

The shrink grabbed hold his shoulder

And he knocked him to the floor.

“No one's going to make a fool

Of therapy with me!”

7-30-13

Method

He used to sit in Denny's for

An hour, maybe two,

Divest his soul of poetry,

And then when he was through

Go home and type two copies

Of the verses he had written,

Do the chores and pet the cats

And cuddle with the kitten.

Now he sits in misery

As dismal as the Spinet

He never learned to play. And he's

Asleep in half a minute.

And if he's ever published

He will reach toward the light,

Unscrew the bulb and lie forever

In eternal night.

7-30-13

 

Memories

I remember every bad thing

Everybody ever said.

They by association keep

Occurring in my head.

Will I be their victim til I

Finally am dead?

All of them implicitly

Impart an errant should.

I've known many people,

Even nice ones too. Why could

Nature not have given me

Some voices that are good?

7-30-13

Purpose

If you're writing to be famous,

Give it up today.

If you write for poetry,

Continue, you are great.

Somewhere in the universe

A bright and gentle soul

Will trump the vulgar philistines

And read your poetry.

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Which?

I sleep very little.

I haven't the time.

I doze into dreams

While I'm writing a rhyme.

Always preoccupied

During a rest -

I've witnessed his worst

And I've witnessed his best.

So I relax. But

Despite his appeal

My cerebrum's wondering

Which does he feel?

7-30-13

 

A Double Bind

Not famous, no, but on a shelf with others

Who do not think of fame, but to be great.

Candles burning in an empty cosmos.

The thought of strangers liking what I write

Nauseates the innards of my soul.

To die unread and stay unread forever

Is a greater death than in a grave.

What's the answer to this double bind?
Just to write what poesy I can

And hope that passed my wishes I'll be known.

Let Alexander cut the double bind.

And if not the Muses, then what else?

7-30-13