Mole

Burrowing in greenest dell

Tunneling the hillocks’ swell

Wherein sleeps the gnome

In the dark, dig dirt and stone

Are these emeralds or men’s bones?

Sightless, cannot tell.

Through earth’s corridors I roam

Underground I keep my home

With the roots I dwell.

Evergreen

I am the tree in the corner, waiting.

Bedecked with gold, I’m hesitating.

Tonight is Christmas Eve, I know—

I’ve seen the holly and the snow.

 

I hide behind

My sparkling lights

This night is not

Like other nights.

 

My tinsel trembles,

Needles shake

When all else sleep,

I’ll be awake.

 

I’ll see the angels

Drifting down

To kiss the star

Upon my crown.

 

I’ll smile at our nativity—

Then do not tremble,

Christmas tree!

Cat

Cat

Gently she comes on ink stained paws

with stars like minnows in her jaws.

She lands like a whisper on my back;

her eyes are black, her tail is black.

She purrs around my feet and head

then curls beside me in my bed.

She yawns and swallows up the light:

She calls me warmth—I call her night.

Yours for Now

“Yours for now, but not forever.”

Nothing, really, mine or yours;

Except the marbles and the crackers,

But they’re all crumbs now, pigeon food.

So toss them on the water, gently,

It’s getting darker faster now.

You squint to see your ragged sneakers.

You pluck a feather from the mud.

It’s colder now, but where’s your jacket?

You must’ve left it in the car.

Listen, you hear them distant, softly

Voices of a couple walking.

The stars are out, as sharp as staples

On the dark pool of the sky,

The moon is crooked, bright, and little

A chilling breeze catches your hair.

Around the gravel at your feet

The wavelets lap like freezing tongues.

Let's Paint My Ostrich

Let’s paint my ostrich.

Yes, let’s paint him blue.

We can paint your ostrich too.

How cliché, if he wasn’t blue!

How boring, black and white!

Why, he’d resemble Oreos,

Or fields of snow at night.

Travelers

Travelers

'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Reflecting light's last rays, they're golden swirled
Which, full of wet kelp dot the sheer black cliffs.

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
We'll trade for steady breezes with our crowns
Minerva-blessed, we'll whisk across the miles.

Though much is taken, much abides; and though
Another generation burns and builds,
The world holds many haunts and fields— we'll go
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

And so I'll be content—when I can cry
Of all the western stars, until I die.

 Based on "Ulysses" by Alfred Lord Tennyson

Isaiah 6

Isaiah 6

I saw the Lord sit high upon a throne.

A seraphim with six wings, twain and twain

Cried: "Holy is the Lord!" His glory— shone.

The doorposts moved; the house was filled with smoke.

Then said I: "Wo is me, Of unclean lips!"

An angel with a live coal flew and spoke:

"Thy sin is purged, Lo, this has touched thy lips."

"Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?"

Said God. Then I said: "Here am I; send me."

He said, "They will not understand, or see

Make their hearts fat." Then said I: "Lord, how long?"

"Until the cities desolate wastes be;

And shall be eaten, as a linden tree.

They cast their leaves; so holy seed shall be."

Piddling Bantams

Piddling Bantams
 

Small things, rustling and fluttering,

Twitching and skittering,

Pattering and pittering,

Humming, thrumming muttering.

Mouse and sparrow,

Cricket, creeper,

Squirrel, sleeper

Clamoring through spaces narrow,

Hiding in the weeds and yarrow.

Whist! and you may hear them scuttle,

Hear them shift and hear them stir;

In the boughs of bush and fir;

Clicking beetle, prodding turtle,

Teaming undergrowth they prattle.

Sweets

Sweets
To Kimler and Nash-- this is their child

I think that I shall never eat
A poem as lovely as a treat.
Ideed, the paper often tastes
Like pencil shavings or stale paste.
Sweets always live up to their name,
Poems taste like books from which they came.
And books are not the biggest treat;
They're rather bland, and not too sweet
Unless they're syrup drenched, but then
You're liable to bite a pen
Some moron left between the pages--
And flossing after that takes ages.
Only fools make poems to eat,
But Willie Wonka makes the sweets.

Prayer of the Single Female

Prayer of the Single Female

Don’t let him meet Perfection, Lord,

I’ve heard she’s very pretty.

Please hide him in Kazakhstan,

And her in New York City.
 

Don’t let him meet Perfection, Lord,

She’ll get him in a flash.

She’ll have him writing mushy poems

And spending all his cash.

 
Don’t let him meet Perfection, Lord,

Her voice is soft and sweet.

Her hair’s so nice (she brushes it);

She doesn’t have big feet.

Don’t let him meet Perfection, Lord,

She always gets good grades,

And lead roles in the musical

(But never playing jades).
 

Don’t let him meet Perfection, Lord,

It’s certain she can swim;

Play sports and never sweat a drop;

Eat burgers and stay slim.
 

Don’t let him meet Perfection, Lord,

What if she’s always kind?

And always patient, always true,

And always on his mind?
 

Don’t let him meet Perfection, Lord,

She’s always good, I’m sure.

Her words are always loving,

And her thoughts are always pure.
 

Don’t let him meet Perfection, Lord,

I might scream if he did!

What if he likes Perfection—

What if they have a kid?!?
 

And if he meets Perfection, Lord,

(Remember, if’s the key)

Please let Perfection wear him out

Till he settles for me!

A Letter

A Letter

 

My mum is in love with the postman.

Well, not really.

Sometimes, though, I daydream that she is

(Yes, I know it’s wicked, but

You’ve got to admit, he

Looks like a spy or something—a

Good spy, mind you)

And that some morning my brother will wake up

And he’ll wake me up

And we’ll walk into the kitchen

To find a note which says:

Dear Children,

I have run off with the postman,

Who was secretly

An Australian ambassador

(He owns a sheep ranch!),

But don’t fret.

I will write every day and

I will be back in three months

With presents for all of you.

We will buy the house across the street—

The one between the Hanson’s and Don’s

[The postman is very wealthy]—

And have a maid.

Tell your father I regret any inconvenience,

And remind him that David has a doctor’s appointment Thursday.

Love,

Mum

[Except she would sign “Mom.”]

It is an odd daydream—

The whole affair is ridiculous, I know.

Still, I have named the postman Alan.

I Recant

I Recant

Anything nice
Ever said about ice,
Or anything sweet about snow--
Don't ask me why
I wrote it, I
Was deluded and really don't know.
And every kind word I wrote of snowflakes
(Please don't shun or demean me, we all make mistakes)
Every one of those lies I will now gladly take
And stuff what I wrote down my throat.
I don't like it, I don't love it;
I just pummel, shovel, shove it;
While I wish for better boots and warmer coat.

The Ides of March in a Nutshell

The Ides of March in a Nutshell

The sky, to be cliché, is blue

While the cliché grass is green

But we, I believe, are more concerned

With Caesar, who was between

The grass, that in cliché, is green

And the cliché sky that’s blue;

And since, I believe, he was also involved,

We’re concerned with Brutus too.

The night, to be cliché, is black

While the cliché day is bright

Caesar wore a fancy toga

Which was purple hem on white.

The day, to be cliché, is bright

While the cliché night is black

Good old Brutus got so jealous

He stabbed Caesar in the back.

Reflected Soul

Reflected Soul

I almost touched Broadway. We passed it on the bus,

But then we turned the wrong way and it danced away from us.

I traced it through the window, streaks of longing on the glass;

But someone honked, the light was green, our driver hit the gas.

I almost cried out, “Wait!” but I bit my tongue in time,

They can take away the music but they couldn’t take my rhyme.

Love Poem to a Cabbage

Love Poem to a Cabbage

 

Speak, pale-green tight-leafed solid,

Fatherless cousin of lettuce,

Tell me you love like a misanthrope

Fear like a Spartan

And feel nothing.

Tell me you give yourself only to rabbits.

Tell me you don’t want to hear it- you’re not corn-

And you never want to see me again (you’re not potatoes)

You, whose bed is a salad bowl,

And whose grave is a compost heap--

Go on, break my heart.

I hope you rot.

Haiku to a Moose

Haiku to a Moose

Why are you always

Shown in water to your knees?

You a swamp creature?