Poems

With judgement day about to be announced
both hell and heaven getting slightly nervous,
as neither one's expecting to be trounced,
and both submitted rave reviews for service.
The demons, prone to chewing on their nails --
those long enough to pierce for crucifixion --
relying on the their long prehensile tails
to balance, practice ailment and affliction.
Celestials, on the other hand, hosanna,
but stumble on occasion, even stammer,
accompanied by bagpipe and piano --
it's soulful, although lacking certain glamor.
The verdict should be coming, any minute.
And then a sequel. Hoping to be in it.

Inevitable said to Preordained:
beg pardon, but we're not the same at all.
Though this may color our relations strained,
you prophesy, preparing for the fall,
where's I am more so focused on effect,
the cause but an assumption in my work,
whose output is about as you'd expect,
and worthy of an understanding smirk,
that, rather than a shaking, angry fist.

Here Preordained objected with this point:
(in truth she could have given a whole list)
Inevitable, your nose out of joint.
Our means may differ, but our goals the same.
Attempt, when something happens, to lay blame.

A fortune cookie: dubious reward
for getting through some egg rolls and lo mein.
Such fortune surely hates to be ignored.
How else would one endeavor to explain
the fervor with which greedy, lusty hands
will grab and crush each hardened, crusty shell,
in search of wisdom no one understands,
a cryptic and exotic ancient spell,
and showing off, will share it with a neighbor,
the latter, nodding knowingly, like so,
as though the promised future needs no labor,
will check it, food already packed to go,
then throw it out, abandoned and forsaken.
Of fortunes, no offense, but none were taken.

Grey menace, they would call him, spit and curse,
and hunt him with their shotguns and their traps.
Spin fairy tales in chilling nighttime verse
while cradling their children in their laps.
They'd sing of hairs on end and yellow eyes,
of spines that froze when paralyzed by fear,
the pelt up on the wall, a treasured prize,
attempting for another one this year.
At times the old one joined them in this song,
assembling the members of his brood.
An ancient alpha's potent singalong,
a howl, just to remind them where he stood.
And then he'd disappear into the fog.
Can't pardon or forgive them for the dog.

Byzantium, your ancient city walls,
above the silent Bosporus at night,
before your many triumphs and your falls,
before the crawl like dying of the light
that Christendom delivered to your gates.
Could they have known, as Priam knew in Troy,
forewarned by those who traffic with the Fates,
man's appetite to subjugate, destroy,
is central to his being, to his creed?
As Zedekia, king of all the Jews --
he surely knew -- still made his kingdom bleed.
Nebuchadnezzar, when he heard the news,
he must have shook his head. Then sacked the city.
Walls seem to want to fall. Ah, more's the pity.

In countervailing common wisdom,
it's what you don't know that can hurt you,
so best stop trying to appease them,
those making ignorance a virtue,
and satisfy your thirst for knowledge.
Do not be proud of knowing little.
No, knowledge doesn't mean a college
that aims to make you safe but brittle.
Try to maintain your sense of wonder.
be neither technophile nor luddite,
and no, the world's not going under
but status quo is not a birthright.
When something's wrong, it is amiss.
Stop thinking ignorance is bliss.

Some forms politely follow function,
perhaps a step or two behind.
Some lay in wait at every junction
to prey on others of their kind.
Still others baffled to discover
that while they follow, rivals hover,
and mirror function step by step
while sparing neither fuss or prep.
But on occasion, there's a factor
that simply makes you say aha,
what you might call je ne sais quoi
if you were labeling an actor,
and those lead function by the nose.
I think I'll have me one of those.

The bitter nature of our devils,
so few that you would label sweet.
Try search inferno's many levels,
a search that wouldn't be complete
without encountering the sinners,
from amateurs and rank beginners
to veterans for whom the smell
is but a feature of their hell.
So rare to smile but quick to grimace,
a scowl that surely will erase
all joy and pleasure from your face,
their snout like nose turned up and simous.
and so, discounting faith or creed,
they are a bitter brood indeed.

When fireflies light up the forest,
the scent of deer musk tempts the doe,
her bleating joining in the chorus.
All manner creature, high and low,
is searching for a kindred spirit
and longing, craving to be near it:
will it succeed, will it be asked
to share its destiny at last?
As summer fades, the rut is over,
the fireflies' pulsating strobe
falls silent all around the globe
and fields will yield to phlox and clover
while rivers thirst for sating rains --
their lustrous afterglow remains.

To kill a mockingbird is easy
if scared compliance is your goal,
Though it might leave you rather queasy,
at least you'll feel you're in control,
and at the last you'll have some quiet.
Don't bother argue or deny it:
you'd rather occupy your throne
without the constant mocking tone
of stubborn, dogged opposition
that's questioning your every move
as though you have a thing to prove,
or merit any competition.
But you're forgetting, as you rule,
that every king still needs his fool.

For those who write to grind their axes:
try use an essay for a form.
A sonnet praising death and taxes
will surely violate the norm.
Resist the urge to drone and lecture.
This may be only a conjecture
but if you lack a comic gift,
a limerick about grift
will surely send your readers screeching,
in search of consonants and vowels.
Your movement's better left for bowels,
so let me join their voice, beseeching:
Enough with it's not me, it's you.
You want to write? Say something new.

Our fervent hopes and utmost of desires,
coins scattered in the fountains of our youth,
to rust, until each finally acquires
patina of decay, no longer smooth.
Turned green with bitter envy and regret,
abandoned, left for worthless with their kind,
forgetmenots one's destined to forget,
and childhood dreams that once were top of mind,
but having long since lost their shiny luster.
Quick, toss those well worn flipflops off your feet --
assemble any courage you can muster,
and wade into that fountain, leave the street
for water that is cold enough to burn.
Now grab yourself some coins, feel hope return.