The Castle

Richard Rodgers

Both a genius as a craftsman

And more brilliantly inspired

Than a zillion Stephen Sondheims

Whose conceit just makes me tired.

He wrote so many songs

The music of the spheres is his.

Angels come to listen

Saying, “That's what music is.”

Music of intelligence

Melded with the heart.

Then as he grew older he

Began to fall apart.

His throat, his jaw and alcohol

Murdered him at night.

Though carried on a stretcher,

He was only there to write.

A treasure to all people

Not a blessing from the skies!

Age destroys the body,

And then the body dies.

 

The Truth

Everybody hates the truth

Which nothing can endear,

Like taking home a couple hundred

Thousand every year.

Should a lonely loser with no

Ego wander by,

A self-appointed shrink will tell him

No one's really shy.

The poems that come easy are

A bore when they are done.

The ones I hate to write come out

An awful lot of fun.

 

The Cat

As I told my cat

When he expressed a little sigh,

Let's live and die together, Kitty,

Together you and I.

It began to rain last night,

But then it tapered off.

After all the pain, if Man

Were sane he'd only scoff

At god. And go on eating

At the trough.

The Castle

Is anybody ever all that free?

The drawbridge down, the battlements stand high,

And a ghost will exit cross the moat.

Clouds appear, the dark is nigh

And rain incipient. A wooden boat

Floats toward the castle from the sea.

Madmen who have wept no longer cry.

5-27-13