Poems

"If you can keep it", the man said.
His face is on the Benjamin
and "Words, not Deeds", the first who led.
Well, and since then, what have we seen?

The giants came and went. They do.
Such is their given role, it seems.
Most of the others? Much ado.
And our republic, and our dreams?

We lose it, gain it, give it back.
It's squirmy and combatant.
So far, it's weathered all attacks,
some insolent, some patent.

Our bill of rights is always due
and never paid in full,
as challengers line up in queue
to celebrate "self-rule".

"If you can keep it", the man said.
The question is, for what?
Let not desire to be led
make you forget all that.

as they left the dock
the Captain's "All Hands On Deck"
felt pretty silly

My prison lacks a rusty cage,
the retched smells of sheer despair.
I need not fear the guard's raw rage.
The torturer prepares his chair,
but not for me, that's not my fate.
For me are banquets and affairs,
though not, of course, affairs of state.
A life of leisure and few cares.

Red velvet drapes are on my walls,
and satin sheets are on my bed,
Fine princesses attend my balls.
No urgency for me to wed --
my uncle says: "do take your time",
still hoping to produce an heir.
I share that hope. Then I could climb
the distant mountains, taste their air.

Or sail into the blue abyss
that beckons out the window sill.
Join desert caravans, and kiss
without a thought to state or will.
I would be free to spend my days
and leave this gilded cage behind.
I'd see it all -- all worth a gaze
and put this castle out of mind.

But he seems sterile, the old goat,
can he perform the needed act?
No soldiers swim across the moat,
the servants whisper, lack of tact.
So what's to be? Idea forms.
Unorthodox, but let it be.
They're not for us, societal norms,
they are for thee, and not for me.

So I will bed his latest wife,
bed her until her belly's full,
and then at last I'll have a life
and he can be the doting fool.
A well laid plan, she's comely, too
and anxious for a proper fit.
And now, it's time to say adieu.
My guard is calling me to eat.

remember our love's steamy past?
when either of us couldn't last
a day without a gentle touch,
a sudden breath; when want was such
that nothing could come in between...
and now? I long just to be seen

All the worst impulses of Man:
his laziness, his greed,
his envy, want, the worst he can
and will do to succeed.

All those are given, there's no use
pretending otherwise.
Not a throw up your hands excuse:
a word, though, to the wise

Design a government that will
align, not with a wish
but with reality. The swill,
always a tasty dish.

Incentivize to common sense
and pay for it, hard cash.
The dollar -- it's made up of cents,
and always...clean the trash.

what use a voice that stands alone
cold winter winds blow in its face.
what use a cry meant to atone
when others labor to erase
all that is precious and is good.
what use to be misunderstood
what use are shoulda woulda could
what use a voice that stands alone
how can I know, my heart is stone

Autumn, swirling its late comers, just the few that are remaining.
Transfer station, weird, uncanny, some get on, some are deplaning.
Wind, nostalgic, barely blowing, gently melting on our faces.
See you soon, dear friends, we're going, flying to far away places.

Anxious, full of expectations, we await the coming changes,
Past betrayals healed by stations as the road both curves and ranges
Snowy crosses barely remnant on a kerchief of blue spaces
Leaving what I am, and am not, flying to far away places

Were we but to stop, one wishes, look around ourselves and gather.
We keep spinning like the dishes of a restless homing radar.
Dressed a fox, the Fall does call us, and a blue sky that embraces
and our fates fall in all colors, flying to far away places

Where is he, the winged devil, body of an alligator
What a pity times are evil, could we have been born, but later
May the snow keep falling, falling, without melting on our faces
May we find a dream, enthralling, flying to far away places

Author notes: http://www.bards.ru/archives/part.php?id=15767

the phone needs charge
much needed pit stop
a latte, large
parking lot backdrop
but time to jot down a few notes
tentative title: My Wild Oats

A Hallmark holiday, as if one needs
a staunch reminder of the role he played.
He is long gone, but memories, like weeds,
invade the well kempt garden that I've made
of my adulthood. Where would I be now
if not for poems that he taught me as a child?
Would freedom mean as much without the how?
I grew up free. Free of the loathed, reviled
regime that stole his youth, a Gulag camp.
How can one thank for every sunny day,
for a blue passport with a precious stamp,
a title that reads, simply, U.S.A.
For children that grew up without a fear.
A happy day for me. I shed a tear.

for those that do sell -- is it ever enough?
just how can you tell if you've got enough stuff?
it's easy, and no need to tease it:
when you've gotten nothing to sneeze at

Mothers weep for Ukraine. Tank threads deepen their grooves.
Fathers strain to explain, as the the dictator proves
human -- doesn't mean kind. Man will do unto man
and pay suffering no mind. All according to plan.

nascent, the crescent
stands ready to spill
buckets of moonlight
the forest is still
pine trees, coronas aglow
happily put on a show