Thursday, June 28, 2012

A gentle cyclone of pigeons

Spurning all weight of gravity,
a gentle cyclone of pigeons
revolves in hushed frenzy
up towards the ghost-grey sky
then back down, over and under,
round about, in hypnotic splendor, 
a flight of flights, a dizzy clockwork
orbiting with tattered wings,
with axis tilting, the gears
meshing in the soft machinery,
free to soar, but going nowhere,
making a spectacle of small circles
then retreating back to familiar roosts
underneath the dark and filthy overpass.

Monday, June 25, 2012

Laudable the hours

Laudable the hours wasted here
and valuable every squandered year
underneath the spell of solitude
renewed by draughts of quietude.

Evening is heaven to famished eyes
nourished by feasts of starry skies
as fragrant moonflowers slowly bloom
and nightingales serenade the gloom.

Down stony paths go weary feet
rewards of sleeplessness to meet:
each winking star and trembling leaf
will assuage the heart in every grief.

Thursday, June 21, 2012

The Summer Day

Down the way she ran to play
with happy friends who loved to stay
abroad in summer sun all day
in the zenith of their youth.

While golden light was shining bright
and all the blessëd world seemed right,
the children played with all their might
in the zenith of their youth.

But when the day grew old and grey
she hurried home along the way
wishing they all could stay and play
in the zenith of their youth.

Sunday, June 17, 2012

Seaside Study

Mingled with these waves are voices of the ages:
laughter, weeping, the discourse of sages,
the turning, turning, turning of pages
filled with foam-words fleeing away.

White heralds above proclaim the news
with lovely but coarse and wistful mews
from their lofty and wind-tossed views
over shimmering salt seaspray.

The pink sun is leaving, the wind is sighing;
a single great blue heron is flying
close to the water while the day is dying
and while golden shores are turning to grey.

Saturday, June 16, 2012

Kirby Decompensates

[A follow-up to: "I don't need no psychiatrist" and "Kirby finally succumbs and visits a psychiatrist"]

"I'm a steel robot - steel like this table!" Kirby slammed down his fist.

"What is your name?" Dr. Ghumra's voice was gentle.

"Octavius Otto - I told your people that already!"

The psychiatrist continued calmly: "And where were you born?"

"I'm from the sky," he said. "From Pluto - you know where that is. I was the first man on Earth. I built the whole world. I own all the mansions around Central Park. I have gardens and horses and bulls and pigs. I own Seattle Slew. I made robot horses out of Seattle Slew."

"Tell me a little bit about your family," said the doctor pleasantly.

"I have a thousand children. Everyone in the world has six children by me. I'm a hundred-and-one years old. The whole world is ten years old. My father's been trying to kill me since 1973. He's a Leo and I'm a Taurus. I have money in all the banks in Louisville. People give me money because I box. I'm Muhammad Ali. The FBI transmitted my name on TV, but they won't get any money from me - I'm a robot!"

Without warning, and with the agility of a cat, Kirby leaped onto the table and remained in a crouching position.

"I can flip off this table," he said. "And then my head will come off - I have a steel head. They put electricity in my head."

"I need you to get down off the table and sit in your chair, Kirby."

"I'm Muhammad Ali! I'm a steel robot! Those pills they gave me were full of magnets. I know everything. They're trying to shut me down. They want all my money. But I own the whole world. I'm powerful."

Kirby stood up, and stretched out his arms as if they were wings.

"My Heavenly Father will return and fly me back to Pluto. You can't stop him."

Several hospital staff entered the room and quickly took hold of him before he jumped off the table. As they carefully lowered him down, Kirby asked a young nurse standing by the door: "Are you my mother?" She shook her head. "Will you be my mother?" he asked. The nurse looked away.

Kirby grew more agitated and looked around at the crowd now in the room. "I'm leaving this place! I know Uncle Sam sent you here, but I own this place! You can't have my money, you gangsters!" He lunged towards one male nurse, but was securely held from behind by staff. He struggled with surprising intensity against them and fell forward onto the floor.

He then felt a sharp prick in his right buttock. He shrieked and contorted around violently but soon all the tension in his body melted away as the Haldol took affect. Before a heavy drowsiness overcame him, Kirby thought to himself: "They did it. They shut me down. But they can't kill me - I'm a robot!"

[To be continued later in: "Kirby receives a visitor"]

Wednesday, June 13, 2012

Never such somber joy

Never such somber joy, such pitiful
happy brilliant aches. Never such
bright impressive sorrow, such raging
exuberant blessëd peace. Never such
beautiful jarring light, such wistful
fragrant deafening song. Never such
consuming brittle solace, such abiding
quiet forgotten innocence. Never such
simple impoverished wisdom, such blithe
solitude, such sweet and somber somber joy.

Sunday, June 10, 2012

Mr. Edgar McMillan lectures his nephew while walking through a festive crowd.

[A follow-up to "Disturbed by Spring."]

“Nephew,” said Edgar, “look around this place,
such happy expressions are on each face.
But behind each smile is a grinning skull
and upon this sober thought I mull
when beaming faces shine at me
so bright that I can scarcely see.
The expressive skin but covers bones
as cold and rigid as senseless stones.
All I see here are skeletal frights,
and I cannot abide such loathsome sights!
Such masks, such lies, such vain display!
Let us take our leave, we shall not stay!"

"But Uncle," said John, "you are too severe.
Let us partake of the revelry here!
For life is short, you must surmise,
and to spend it thus methinks unwise:
To see the bad in every good
to spoil the world, as if you could
steal the sheen from the golden sun
and shame these good folk in their fun.
The heart inside your very chest
still beats, I bet, and will attest
against your will, to the good desire
for human love, and for the blazing fire
of the Creator's Love, which you reject,
but rejects you not as you expect.
So banish every morbid thought
and embrace the goodness you have fought!"

And said the angered McMillan then:
"I cannot abide this foolish din!
Such empty speech of life and love,
of some benign divinity up above.
Boy! No goodness is to be found
and your hopes for such will hit the ground
when they topple from such platitudes.
No! Stay such nauseous attitudes!
Come - this gathering has made you bold
and made you forget the things I told
that little boy who came to me
when both his parents perished at sea,
on some frivolous trip they took
forsaking my good advice - oh, look!
that old couple there slovenly dancing
and all the crowd behind them prancing
like wild deerlings, around the square
as if they had not a single care.
I pity their foolish deluded joy,
mark me well - but where are you, boy?"

Then he saw among the reveling crowd
John dancing there and laughing loud.

Monday, June 4, 2012

100th posted piece: William Vintnerose

Gentle William Vintnerose
can fill a journal with brilliant prose
describing how a live oak grows
from acorn to ancient tree.

He can also approach grazing does,
as quiet as a breeze he goes,
and pets them each upon the nose
as they nuzzle him tenderly.

In those fields, he feeds the crows
little morsels of bread he throws.
Each one of their names he knows
and he calls to them all with glee.

He can often be seen out in the rows
of growing corn in an outstretched pose
surrounded by his favorite crows,
a happy scarecrow effigy.

And at night whenever a full moon glows,
William can be found in serene repose
underneath the old live oak that grows
in the middle of a cornstalk sea.

Friday, June 1, 2012

Uncharted Melancholia

A country lies hidden beyond the sea
where mists shroud shores perpetually,
and trees are ever in autumn bloom,
casting deep shadows of golden gloom.
The silver rivulets warble and weave
through woodland halls that serenely grieve
the advent of a somber and lonely bliss
that replaced the vibrant life they miss.
The traveller gets lost there without a map
and reclines in exhaustion for a needed nap.
While sleeping the years slip swiftly away
and he awakens as someone ancient and grey.
Golden leaves tremble above his eyes
and no one hears his contented sighs.