The Artichoke

Strange Music

Quaint originalities of words,

Not total demolition of all form,

That wake the mind to what is happening,

Poignant like the touching of cool breath

On the skin of hearts that are asleep -

This is what a poet can accomplish

When he is alert to what he's thinking,

And doesn't drown his children when they're strange.

Teachers praise an element of art,

But not the magic of what's being said.

Is magic unawareness of the reasons,

Or is it more than something that mundane?

3-18-14

The Artichoke

Opera! A genre magical,

Eclipsed to some,

A paradise for others.

A fluke in time,

A modern Muse in Europe

For about a hundred years,

Mozart predeceased it,

Verismo at the wake,

The prickly leaves of artichokes

Protect the tender heart,

Before it crude, unpleasant

Music, at the end

Berg and his insanity

Taper into mist.

Regardless what is written

In lengthy explanations,

Like Pollack and his pictures,

The proof is in the glory of the sound

That one need but listen to endear.

Now opera is silent in its grave,

Although misshapen zombies from the tomb,

Barely recognized for what they were,

Come out at night – and crumble into dust.

3-18-14

 

Kitty

I ruined the cat by hollering

When he was in the way.

Now he doesn't know whether to move

Or settle down and stay.

When I touch him or pat his butt

He turns to face the wall,

And stands there like a horse who can't

Turn round inside his stall.

Kitty the terrorized pussy cat!

Men are just the same,

Whether they are wanted,

Frightened, mild and tame.

But pet him as though he's normal,

He'll lie upon my lap,

And just this side of waking,

Take a little nap.

I killed the mind of a pussy cat.

It wasn't hard to do.

Fall in love with someone,

It could be done to you.

I was not born unburdened

By terror of the sea,

But 10 years with my mother

Did the same to me.

3-18-14

Kitty

In the twisted mind of our oldest cat,

He clings to me like ivy,

And will not go away.

At the slightest effort to shoo him,

He turns toward the wall,

Like he's used to being beaten

And suffers it with love,

Julie Jordan to my Bigelow.

An emaciated spectre

That simply doesn't learn,

Flinches at a movement,

Terrified to live,

A foil that strikes back rarely

At our terrorizing kitten,

And who unlike the others,

Cannot endure three hours

Of fasting by our tabby

Who has to take a pill,

He stirs a rage in me that I

With difficulty smother.

And still he will not love somebody else.

3-18-14