20191130.0430

There are times I would do as the ostrich is famed to do
Unjustly and inaccurately
But burying my head in the sand only leaves my ass up in the air
And flabby and pale though it is
With pimples upon it where the hair is worn away
From too mush sitting
Something is sure to come on by
And bite it

20191129.0430

The name of the day is darkened
And with good reason
Insofar as any reason can be good
(I have been told that thinking through things
Only leads to sadness
While trust brings joy
Though I have found often
That trust leads to loss
And thinking through expends nothing but time
That ever flies away
Whatever is done)
For on this day more than most
A base urge shows
And grows
And in its throes
Many people go out and reveal how shallow the veneer is
Under which they often hide
And demand that others do the same

20191128.0430

They sing
The horn of plenty
Is bursting at the seams
But no true horn is seamed
Made of pieces joined together by glue
Or stitched together from cloth no longer whole
And if it is full on such days as this
The cornucopia
It is only so because of hands that labor
But cannot carry to the mouths that feed them
The fruits their labor yields
And that ram's crown or bull's
Bethought stuffed with all goodness
Is a strange centerpiece for those who know whence it came

20191127.0430

Sometimes I've lingered long in places I have loved
Expending effort to remain there in earnest
Paying a price for my presence therein
Pearlescent pieces from the purse kept by my thigh
Not gold but given gladly to whomever would receive them

20191126.0430

Who can be blamed for looking upon the hills
And the bushes that grow in valleys
And wanting to be lost among them?

20191125.0430

It's not her heart alone I'd clasp
But also where the storied asp
Made Cleopatra her own past

20191124.0430

The bag is packed in dim light
One lamp lit against the morning not yet come
And it is sent out into the naked day
Where it travels longer than was spent filling it
Why do we marvel that one who opens it and looks
Finds within it things the packer did not realize
Or might object to having shown?

2019123.0430

The golden rule calls for each
To act toward others as they'd have done
And the way people act reveals
There are many masochists

20191122.0430

The smaller brazen sentinel stands, too,
And when I look on it, I perforce rue
That I lack skill that will cause it to do
That task for which it long ago was cast.
Better hands than mine worked in its past,
Conducing to a glory now long passed.
For blunter tasks my hands are clearly made,
And blunter than those in my chosen trade,
Which I leave off, since it me has betrayed
If there is loyalty when none is sworn.
The smaller sentinel looks on, forlorn,
And waits for one who has perhaps been born
Who it might take up and tend as befits--
For now, however, it often merely sits.

20191121.0430

The bigger brazen sentinel still stands
And stares at me and silently demands
I take it in my mouth and in my hands
To tongue it and to blow until it sounds
A deep-voiced call that oftentimes resounds
Until the echo me entire surrounds
And takes me back into my younger days
When I still thought I might earn myself praise
For acting so upon a public dais.
It was the father of my father it once knew,
And he, so far as I know, first it blew,
Though putting lips upon it, I must do
Now that he long since gave up drawing breath.
My work of hand and mouth belies his death.

20191120.0430

I remain a man of no faith
Not one who cannot be trusted to do what he says he will do
For which reason I do not say often that I will do a thing
Or not as often as might be hoped
But one irreligious or areligous
And wondering wherein the difference lies between the two
Or atheist
A word many find hateful
And a label applied to many who are less than pleasant
Though the same is true for
"Professing devout belief"
As many know who have been where I have been
And am

20191119.0430

There is a coat that I have had since I was very young
I have grown
It has not grown with me
And it was comfortable for a long time
But now
It binds across the shoulders and my belly
And while I might well try to lose some weight
The coat will never fit again
I might pass it along to another
But nobody should wear such a thing
The cut is bad
The material worse
And it stinks with years of use
For I am not the first to wear it
Or, now, to cast it aside

20191118.0430

It has been written that
We tell the tales of heroes
To remind ourselves that
We, too, can be great
But we tell tales of villains, too
And the world shows us well enough
That we can be so depraved
That we cannot need the reminder

20191117.0430

It not only in the graves of the offended
That bones turn over
But also in merrier places
Where friends have gathered to tell stories together
The bones rolled giving life

20191116.0430

There are no few who sing hymns to the Stupid God
Not in unison, but not at all in harmony
And not so much sung as shouted with all force
Hoping to by a gale extinguish the flickering flame of lamplight
But it does not seldom happen that even a small fire is fanned to inferno
By the passing of so much hot air
Or winds that break from canyons between hills
And the deep pits within them
That might as well be taking in as putting out
For there is no distinction in the sound
And little in the smell
That either way provides

20191115.0430

Held as exemplars of manliness

Muscles bulging under sweaty skin

Straining fabric gathered tightly

As they squat in their lines

Legs spread wide

While one reaches between another's legs

And others make ready to receive

That oblong thing hands will guide to them

While others still seek to pile on

Until a cloth will wipe the mess away

20191114.0430

They weep and wail that some will seek to scrub the orange stain away
The putrid citrus leavings of Stupid God working in the world
Raising cries of costs incurred and distraction from and disruption of
Good things being done in their names
Yet for all the time they spend bewailing the cleaning efforts
Their own work to flush away one in white water
And many things after for a generation and more
And which still prompts a common refrain these years later
Cost more and may well do less
For some stains persist despite all the scrubbing
And there is little sense in washing walls that are about to be knocked down

20191113.0430

Again the discordant strains have sounded
That a composer "borrows" furtively
Makes a few swift changes
Thinking that one member of a chord can be changed and still be harmonious
And perhaps it can in simpler works
But when there are so many parts
A half-step change in the alto clarinet
Will stick out and irritate
And no audience can be blamed for being angry at such a performance

20191112.0430

My hands position the shaft against the string
The tight-stretched thong that strains under such tension
Hindering the further spread
I bring it up beside my mouth
Holding it firm before it slides away
The shaft will soon speed towards the waiting butt
Set up with its central target clearly marked
It will sink in deeply such that only the fletching shows outside
Feathers from the shaft's back end
And I will gladly find the bullseye again and again

20191111.0430

More than a hundred years have gone away
And none now live who fought then and there
Though a few still linger who fought there later
Their own struggles remembered but not honored
As their grandchildren's children wave the flags of their foes
If there is a place from which they look on
Moldering in the grave as the high hopes they voiced
An end to all war because they saw the end of war
Rot alongside them but leave not even bones
It cannot be a place of joy or peace
Would that they had been right

20191110.0430

February would seem to have been the lovingest month of the year for my family, as for many others, because we run long on November birthdays. My own was not long ago, and my father's is today. He is sixty.
Being so old, having done this as many times as he has, whether there is anything left to say about him or to him is an open question. So I'll confine myself here to the obvious and appropriate

Happy birthday, Pop!

and leave it at that.

20191109.0430

I flatter myself that my fingers fly
Pressing on points that perk up when I do so
Running on ridges and ribs to bring release
A peculiar pleasure from pounding away
But the traces that trickle out as I follow that tack
Speak less sensuality than solace in form
And intimacy inheres in other things
Than following a function a form might suggest

20191108.0430

There are some days
The well seems to run dry
The hose fed from it dangling
Flaccid and empty
But there are others
That see it turgid and full
Pumping out blast after blast
As hands struggle to hold it
Guide it to the place that needs spraying
Make it to enter through an opening door
And make steam where it finds heat

20191107.0430

Having the higher title
I find that my favorite part is giving
Returning in some small part to those
I am said to lead
What they give to me
And those who seek us
Is it a strange thing that I value it so?

20191106.0430

Shall I open the pages
Look closely at what appears between
Smell the smell of ink not quite dry upon them
Linger over the texture under my fingers
That is so smooth against them
Thrust my bookmark deep within
Lodging it where the pages part
Only to pull it out again
And put it in once more?

20191105.0430

I do not remember the fifth of November
I first had occasion to see;
I had just been born on the fourth of November
And it made no difference to me.
But now that I know the fifth of November
For gunpowder, treason, and plot,
I look all around on this fifth of November
And see many others forgot.
When I go to vote on this fifth of November
And in the election partake,
I hope those on the ballot will ever remember
They lie in the bed that they make.

20191104.0430

Today's my birthday, and I probably ought to take some time to reflect on growing older again. I've done it before, and more than once, as this webspace will attest. It's not inappropriate, as many might argue my poetry is (and the poems I've written recently have been fun to write for what many would call the wrong reasons). But it's also not to my taste at the moment as I sit in front of my computer right now and write. Instead, rather than looking back, I think I'll look forward for once--which is not something I often do, but something I probably ought to do more often.
I have things to which to look forward, certainly. I am in a pretty good job, and I have side-line income that is markedly helpful outside of that job. I get to do a fair bit of what I want to do for no more reason than that I want to do it (though some of it does help others in one way or another, which is good). I am in pretty consistent contact with a good bunch of people who support me, even if they've seen me only rarely in "real life," if they have seen me at all. (I still marvel that friendships that develop through physical correspondence are regarded as "real," while there is still disdain for those that develop through online correspondence. Is it a question of effort expended or material costs incurred? I still do not know--but I am happy to exchange letters, and I am generally quick about returning replies.) My family loves me--my wife and daughter, especially so.
That I recognize what I do have that is good does not mean I do not believe things can be better. I do, and they can. And I am in a position to be able to help make them so, if only in small, local ways. My job, of course, is one such thing; I work to help people with their substance use problems--and they are problems even when they involve substances that are legal or should be legal. And I've been working with students and with alumni to foster more of a sense of community than would otherwise have been the case. Too, I'm involved in school-support organizations that make things better for (other) students and teachers. And, when I can, I lift my voice in support of equity and right and against fascism and racism that still permeate too many places (I'm looking at you, medieval studies, that part of the country of academe where I had thought to settle and to which I still in some ways belong; get your shit together, tenured folks, and at least repudiate Nazis and Nazi-wannabes from your positions of protection--or get out and let those willing to do so succeed you). So I am doing what I can to improve things.
As I said, I ought to look forward more often.

20191103.0430

I died a little
Oysters' children garlanded
Price I gladly pay

20191102.0430

Spring flowers open
Spreading their pure pink petals
O, to be the bee!

20191101.0430

She clamors to go home
To wait for what she believes will come
And which I expect, as well
But I know that the call is but the first step
And that the road leads to echoing loneliness
I am familiar with it
Too much so
Summoned by it myself and made to do its bidding
I would have her spirit ring
With peals of laughter and joy
Not the fading retort of cracking solitude
It is a far finer melody
All told