All writing

Craps table loud and crowded, raw emotion.
She giggles, makes a move as if to blow,
reverses and releases in one motion.
Designer glasses, blouse that's cut as low
as gambling den propriety allows,
and bright red lipstick. Mop has seen it all.
but chuckles; mops the dice towards the blouse.
She plucks them, real smooth, another roll.
Don't bet against the pass, her real game,
those lashes blinking willingness and pleasure.
The chances of success not quite the same,
but much, much better odds by any measure:
the promise of a tourist trip to heaven.
This gentleman will do. She rolls a seven.

My dreams are stitched together, a collage
of roughly cut out stills and celluloid.
They're guarded by a jealous entourage
that tries its best to keep out Jung and Freud.
But no defense is fool proof. On those nights,
when ravens feast on carrion and caw,
performing their unspeakable last rites,
I fight to try forgetting what I saw,
but cannot. With the shadows closing in,
reality a sweaty, foggy mirror,
attempts to hide what cannot be unseen,
and failing that, hold on to what is dearer,
protect it and deliver it from harm...
and rescued, at the last, by the alarm.

I swore to love four better, and far worse.
Results have been, I must confess, uneven.
I asked my love: but honey, why the curse,
the oath we took had made these loves a given.
They get more rapt attention, it is true,
and visits are as conjugal as needed,
but none are loved as well as I love you,
excepting as the oath demands, I pleaded.
Thrown out, alone, I'm wondering the street,
write poems, though it's not a panacea.
I should have told her it's autocomplete.
To make and print our vows was her idea.
It could have been four letter and four words.
The kind they bleep when they present awards.

Ten fingers on our hands, and five on each,
but oddly it is seven we most cherish.
We sanctify it, seal with it, and preach
the perils of indulging, lest we perish.
We sail the seven seas for seven wonders,
with expertly curated bucket lists.
A monk recites the chakras as he ponders
what evidence exists that he exists.

Three sevens in a row, the bandit teases,
its metal arm will ratchet up the bet
as soon as I release it. As it eases,
its jackpot rolls on by. Plays hard to get.
Old Fashioned losing flavor. Melting ice.
Craps table roaring. Seven on the dice.

Why must it be a virgin sacrifice
when those are in such limited supply?
Would somewhat of a novice still suffice,
or hymen absent, no need to apply?

Are dragons merely giant phallic symbols?
A penis with a wing, look at their pics.
The ceremony, cue the drums and cymbals,
and all the while we've just been talking dicks?

I must confess the following suspicion:
Dear virgin, dragons are a real danger.
But have no fear, a simple proposition.
To save you, just five minutes in the manger.

These fairytales, unless I've been misled,
are ways to get a virgin into bed.

A salmon sunrise greets the morning,
as gentle as a lover's blush,
then turns the color of a warning.
The sun, as if it's in a rush,
invading every nook and cranny,
and catching shadows, still uncanny,
as they are hurrying to flee.
Each minute granting a degree,
it climbs the stairway into heaven
without a gripe or a complaint
and all the while it seeks to paint
our skies the proper blue for seven,
so when at last the deed is done,
the night is over, day begun.

No doubt each of the wives of Henry Tudor,
the second and more famous one, the eighth,
got sonnets in the mail as Highness wooed her.
Most probably, those weren't about faith,
although the king was known to write a  carol,
and ultimately headed a whole church,
I think more likely intimate apparel,
a topic I continue to research.
Since history is muted on the matter,
while leaving little else to be explored,
let's serve these tidbits neatly, on a platter.
What queen does not deserve to be adored?
And here there are so many, count them, six.
Each queen comes with her ladies and her cliques.

Each queen comes with her ladies and her cliques,
and Katherine of Aragon is surely
the one that must go first into the mix.
The love the king confessed to her, most purely,
as genuine as any in the land,
considering that she's his brother's wife --
convenient when needed, at the end --
for better and for worse, and yes, for life,
he married her, and at the first, was happy.
But all she gave the man was Bloody Mary,
and so before the story gets too sappy
the king decides perhaps he'd rather marry
once more with feeling.  Eminent domain.
A lady is in waiting. Anne Boleyn.

A lady is in waiting. Anne Boleyn.
Though soon enough they will not call her lady,
but Majesty.  In trying to explain
to Clement, who had deemed the matter weighty,
the lustful king attempted to retract
his marriage to his brother Arthur's widow,
suggesting that she wasn't quite intact
at consummation. Clement kept his veto,
and Anne, as luck would have it, lost her head,
but gave us Queen Elizabeth -- we're grateful --
while Henry made the church into his stead.
Was Anne indeed, as is alleged, unfaithful,
and was it really worth it, all that waiting?
The part she loved the best? Anticipating.

The part she loved the best? Anticipating.
Is there a queen for whom this isn't true?
A topic that is surely worth debating.
For some the power strikes out of the blue,
but others scheme through their entire lives,
while salivating merely at the thought,
until the thought alone is what survives,
sustaining them through times both good and fraught.
Jane Seymore, though, by all accounts, in love,
and gave the king the thing he most desired.
If queenship was what she was dreaming of,
the queen that Henry surely most admired,
died happy, for she gave the king a son!
Of all the six, Jane got to be the one.

Of all the six, Jane got to be the one,
though sadly doesn't live to celebrate it.
A son is born and so the deed is done.
The queen is done as well.  Don't you just hate it
when fate, to solely demonstrate its power,
plays such a cruel joke upon our kind?
She keeps her head and skips stay in the Tower
producing a male heir as been assigned,
but soon enough, replaced by Anne of Cleves,
whose portrait failed to do her any justice,
and not even a year before Anne leaves.
(aside to portraitists: when you say "trust us",
a skillful brush subtracts too many pounds)
Her portrait, like her beauty, knew no bounds.

Her portrait, like her beauty, knew no bounds.
A generous divorce and it is over.
She'll get  -- per year -- five hundred English pounds,
and castles not a hundred miles from Dover,
but Henry is already on Miss Howard.
Another of the Cathies lays in wait --
apparently in waiting means empowered,
and all the queen's affairs, affairs of state.
A verdict of adultery was listed.
By then the king could hardly even move,
but memories of better times persisted,
with Cathy he felt younger, in the groove.
She helped him loosen up and to relax.
Eighteen and guilty, Cathy got the ax.

Eighteen and guilty, Cathy got the ax.
Was that a harsher fate than Anne Boleyn's,
who got a Frenchman, not some local hack's
idea of a cut? If that explains
the rumor that the king expressed regret
for Anne upon his deathbed, may it be.
But we're not done with wives, at least not yet.
It'll take another wife to set him free.
A widow, and a Catherine to boot --
you wonder if by now he got confused --
this Catherine was worthy of pursuit,
and when pursued she couldn't have refused.
So here is to the last one, and a star.
Four husbands to her name.  She's Mrs. Parr.

The difference between Sodom and Gomorrah
and your town, USA? Don't ask a priest.
Referring to the passage in the Torah,
some questionable beauties, but no Beast,
though plenty on the flaws in human natures,
both real and imagined by old men
and hastened into law by legislatures
that claim to know the details of God's plan.
His wrath? Oh, that's a common enough story.
His meting out a punishment: pure joy.
What softer hearts forgive as allegory
the harder ones call reason to destroy.
Our values, they will preach, under assault.
Please take these pillars with a grain of salt.

to err is human
to forgive -- decline

Accomplishment was wrecked by Indecision.
The two becoming enemies of sorts.
The former never lacking wit or vision,
but often failed, according to reports,
in bringing her initiatives to closure.
Left them to flail, while trying to decide,
to later find them dying of exposure,
Accomplishment is once again denied.
Attempting each and every panacea,
a spreadsheet with a checklist, pros and cons,
she simply couldn't choose, had no idea,
how to convert her zeros into ones,
when finally, deserving of a break,
she made a good decision by mistake.

Admit it: you knew better than to click,
but now entrapped and clicking like a zombie,
still searching for the promised nifty trick,
avoiding popup ads from Abercrombie
& Fitch --  boy, they do wonders with those buttons,
the Next one moves about so that you miss.
Wait, what is that? A diet made for gluttons!?
No, must continue, "x" it out, dismiss....
As you do battle armed with but a mouse
(for some of you it's just an index finger)
you wonder if this happens to your spouse
when he is "hard at work"...but do not linger.
Aha, that's better, here's the trick at last.
Turns out the nifty diet is a fast.

Turns out the nifty diet is a fast.
Annoyed that you've just wasted a whole hour,
you check the news: some woman has been cast
as Hamlet.  Speaker's struggling for power,
what else is new, elections coming up,
the Middle East continues medieval,
the Rangers hope to win the Stanley Cup,
and Ivies can't distinguish good from evil,
so basically the same as yesterday.
Remember when the rapid pace of change
was hurtling towards us, come what may?
What happened? Tell me, doesn't it feel strange
that we appear so stuck with change ascendant?
Embittered, disillusioned and dependent.

Embittered, disillusioned and dependent.
We, each of us, reliant on our meds,
ashamed, perhaps, but wholly unrepentant,
our dignity and grace all torn to shreds,
we persevere in rituals of healing
pretending to empower, to connect,
as if one could fix anything by kneeling,
while adding hopes and prayers for effect.
Increasingly we're segmented and tribal,
so like the Ten that went and gotten lost,
to earn no further mention in the Bible,
oblivion their fate, and at what cost.
No longer as a whole, no thing in common.
Alone on Christmas Eve.  I guess it's ramen.

Alone on Christmas Eve.  I guess it's ramen.
Another business trip that can't be moved,
I like it, though, because come feast or famine
at least I'm getting paid, and life's improved.
Oh, I will call her soon, now, don't you worry,
to blow a kiss, and wish the kids good night,
and tell her that for now it's just a flurry,
but I won't make the redeye for my flight.
And then the bar, where others of my kind,
each having done their best to do their duty,
will congregate, filled with the hope to find
a kindred spirit, and a little booty.
Do I feel guilty?  Do you think she knows?
Outside, the blizzard bellows as it blows.

Outside, the blizzard bellows as it blows.
Its huff and puff soon decorates the windows
in delicate designs, and each one glows
with tiny sparks and embers.  Trapped within those,
the fireplace still tends to its intent,
but you can't help but feel that something's missing,
or is it the champagne that's long since spent,
red lipstick tainted flutes.  Lips meant for kissing,
now always in a frown, so cold, unfeeling...
Appearances maintained, you do your best.
The house looks great, its festive and appealing,
so welcoming, so warm that any guest
would leave it thinking: aren't these two great!
How short the distance between love and hate.

How short the distance between love and hate.
A thin, thin line, so goes the ancient wisdom,
yet thick enough for us, at any rate.
We wallow in indifference to appease them:
our children -- no, our children cannot know
that they are the result of having settled,
their parents' love is mostly just for show,
fulfillment of a dream that has been peddled
for countless generations to maintain
the  semblance of a good and proper order:
a husband who's in charge of his domain,
his wife, to boot, and whether he adored her,
or simply tolerated, she's still Mother.
Unhappy couples, each unlike the other.

Unhappy couples, each unlike the other.
Is that a Tolstoy quote from his old book?
They find a way to strangle love, to smother
what lied between them.  Better not to look.
We do not, no, we cannot understand.
Our feelings are too maudlin, too sappy.
For those of us who're dealt a better hand,
a nagging question: can't they just be happy?
Is there some special secret to the task?
No shortage of advisors and well wishers.
You've but to raise a hand, begin to ask,
and they're at work repairing cracks and fissures.
The answer I subscribe to and espouse:
We know, deep down, the day we make our vows.

A snack, hon. Is there anything to eat?
The way to a man's heart still through his stomach,
and Rose, if that's her real name, still sweet --
she runs a little house on the Potomac,
where they make men of power feel at home.
Yes everything is just like in the books
inspired by the ancients, let's pick Rome,
but better dental hygiene from the looks
of Rose's perfect smile, and all is well.
It's grapes and cheese for supper, with champagne.
He'll try ignore the message on the cell,
and in the morning, back to his campaign.
For now, though, can relax and not be nervous.
Love sold and packaged, neatly, as a service.