Poems

For God, there is no stone too hard to lift --
omnipotence, it brings its own rewards --
but He can make one, it's his special gift.
A paradox worth putting into words.

They fascinate us so, those paradoxes,
and taunt us from the corners of our minds,
won't fit into no neatly packaged boxes.
A paradox perplexes and reminds

that there's a limit to our understanding,
a point where reasoning and logic fails,
and rigid rules require subtle bending.
Yet all the while our logic, fights, assails,

demanding that there be a resolution.
But just in case, we ask for absolution.

Cut into granite, holding bow and arrow
"Look at my works, ye mighty, and despair."
Whatever else you'd say about this pharaoh,
you must admit the fellow had a pair.

They stare at us through history, the giants --
can't make them like we used to, we all say --
Their lips still curled in the marquee defiance
of those you are expected to obey.

And were they wrong? Do we have works to rival?
No shortage, in our age, of living gods.
We shout and trumpet, herald their arrival,
in videos squeezed in between the ads.

The Old Ones took it with them in their wisdom.
The new ones? Must work harder to appease them.

Leap off the canvas, will you? Come to me.
Embrace me as you would a jealous lover.
Protest, claim that you're innocent, and free,
that there is nothing, nothing to discover,

and I'll believe you, old fool that I am.
I long for but a moment in your glory,
and persevere, all consequence be damned,
to be more than a footnote in this story.

Your heartless stare, slight curling of the lip,
so captured in your drawing room, idyllic.
A grail I dare not touch, no, dare not sip.
Defeated, conquered. Tempera and acrylic.

If only I could draw you as my own.
The paint is drying, and I'm all alone.

A rooster's life's much harder than you think.
To satisfy his hens in pecking order,
and jealously defend his rights and border,
the cockerel can hardly grab a blink.

Then, of a sudden, news about T-Rex,
apparently a cousin on his cock side,
(genetic test, with ethylene based oxide),
thinks all he needs to do is strut and flex,

and feels no need to crow, or call, or hustle,
since after all his nature should suffice.
He thinks himself the terror of the coop,
though truth be told, has more white meat than muscle.
That said, the owners thought about it twice
but in the end, they wanted chicken soup.

her kisses are hisses, she's speaking in tongues
our marital bliss is a scream of my lungs
her scales on my skin, tattooed by her squeeze
her irises tinted with scandalous ease

seduced and enslaved, lacking reason or will
I cannot be saved, filled with terror and zeal
and know of no other, no break or escape
no thing I would rather, I worship her shape

forbidden desires mix pleasure with pain
the ritual fires can't make me abstain
each sinuous curve demands my attention
I live but to serve -- serve what? I can't mention

she draws out her hooks I am chilled to the bone
and yet, as she looks I'm, as always, to stone

how often have you
rushed passed the cherry blossoms
in fruitless searches

Author notes: image from bostonherald.com

Leap off the canvas -- will you? Come to me.
Embrace me in your gentle, loving arms.
If only you were as I wish you'd be,
more than the sum of innocence and charms,
and if you could return a fraction of
the feelings that well up, and guide my brush;
My folly, the absurd attraction of,
the thoughts that even now do make me blush...
Why do you look as if you'd rather leave,
the corner of your lips a subtle frown,
as if you somehow can't even believe
that you wound in up in this, my part of town.

If only I could draw you as my own.
The paint is drying, and I'm all alone.

The truth may yet come from the mouth of babes,
especially if truth is goo goo gaga,
but let us not pretend that truth behaves
the way it is portrayed in ancient sagas.

"Oh look, babe speaks the truth, is that too cute??",
it works so well in fairy tales, the reader
might be excused for thinking that she should
bring truth and nothing but to fearless leader.

An emperor stripped naked by the truth?
More likely the truthsayer drawn and quartered,
while sycophants work feverishly to sooth.
The truth is never what the doctor ordered.

In truth we learn the emperor is splendid.
Around him, best leave disbelief suspended.

debating how many will fit on a pin
the boffins consider all angles
the sharp, the obtuse, and the rest in between
in rooms once lit only by candles
but now in the glow of warm, natural lights
provided by new LEDs
attempt to uncover unearthly delights --
well, somebody has to, and these
are certainly issues of utmost import...
regretfully, there's nothing new to report

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun.
Dark, brooding wells of ravenous desire;
one look and all is lost, too late to run.
Too late when she consumes me whole, entire.

No, nothing like the sun, more a black hole.
and I'm a comet, hopelessly in orbit,
to strut my tail and prostitute my soul,
in secret hopes the goddess will absorb it.

Though like the sun she singes with her stare
she's nothing like, no warmness in her lashes,
and just as angry when her nostrils flare
reducing me to cinder dust and ashes.

No, mistress, she is nothing like the sun.
The sun's one star of many. She is one.

Umbrellas mushroom as the drizzle
accelerates from drip to drop.
Splish splash, the raindrops hiss and sizzle,
the melting street a cooking top.

The air, infused with noxious vapors,
expels the acid from its veins,
but long before the downpour tapers,
debris and flotsam clog the drains.

This deluge, can it break my fever?
I'm drenched, rain mixing in with sweat.
Can water finally deliver
relief of any kind? Not yet.

The rainbow colors stick together
and wait, like me, for better weather.

"'magination", says my daughter,
"easy peasy, just add water".
"is that so?", I ask her, "pet,
won't you get your noggin wet?"
and she giggles, baby's four.
"Daad! It's just a metaphor."

Author notes: image from freepik.com