Poems

Bondage

Out of bondage! Liberate

The white man from his prejudice

And see the rancid horror of his soul!

Racists, Christians, homophobes,

Muslims and the Taliban -

Life is short

And bigotry is longer.

8-31-13

 

An Aria

When at last you make amends

With your past, you miss your friends.

Over 40 years ago.

Even recollection ends.

Gentle friends, just a few,

Who'd never think of hurting you.

Brown was nasty.

Buck was nasty.

Charlie! Jesus Christ in hell!

Rene just hated everybody.

Leave them where the nightmares dwell.

The rolling mist in places clears

Revealing moments in the years,

Happiness that's without care

Or so it seems, then disappears.

8-31-13

 

Euck!

Arrogant and pompous,

Tattoos, guns and smirks,

Three cops, and one a fat one.

Behind their badges, jerks.

The customers and waiters -

Everybody stops

(Tete a tete with god)

And sucks up to the cops.

8-31-13

The New Denny's

I found another Denny's. It will take

A while til I consider it a home.

It's quiet. And the waitresses and waiters

Don't snow you with absurd solicitations

And ask about your children and your health.

After midnight, when the manager

Departs, the cook from somewhere doesn't turn

Up the volume on his radio

And wake the city streets at 2 a.m.

With gangster rap. The servers do not throw

Spitballs up the aisles and leave you sitting

Wishing for a second cup of coffee.

Silly devils celebrating freedom in their hell!

8-31-13

 

Epitaph

I've written all the poems I can write

Before the universe puts out my light.

(How grandiose!). I must find a way

To get my verse to friendly eyes today.

I'll be celebrated if I do.

My verse is god. A feeling that is new.

But if at death the job was never done,

I'll be nothing, poesy just fun.

8-31-13

 

A Metaphor

My ship's in dock. It isn't moving yet.

The sail's are furled. The course is dreamt, unset.

Waiting for the god of the machine,

Or else to disappear, for aye unseen.

I have no chart. I only have a star,

And it's a wish that will not take me far.

I'm self-published. Anyone can be.

Some philanthropist has made it free

To everyone. But still I'm not at sea.

I'm alone. Just poesy and me.

It's not enough to drag the saint from hell,

The bard must be a businessman as well.

8-31-13

 

Changes

I hold back the water of the sea

With a hand held out in front of me,

Both feet settled deeply in the sand.

And breakers flood the shore back to the land.

I am poesy. That is my name.

Joyce said poetry is just a game.

Frost compared it to a tennis match,

And laid a book of eggs that will not hatch.

I have written verses, some that seem

Beautiful to me. So does a dream

Until I wake. But I just wrote them down.

Where'd they come from? Somewhere in a clown.

The poesy is done. Will there be more?

Will age and nature close another door?

I was 10. My first attempt to try it.

At 67 will somebody buy it?

I don't want the money, but I'll take it.

When genius dies, the philistine can't fake it.

Deluded and benighted, I have written

What no one writes. I used to love a kitten.

8-31-13