CEMETERY - First Robishover and Chelmer Graveyard, NJ

Places of rest and quiet
Places of death
Where the leaves of crowding trees fall;
Where the squirrel buries nuts,
But no new tree will grow;
Where a swarm of tiny flies in the last hot and shaded air
Live short lives
Before the year dies;
Where the grass lives to be mown
Where the bones rot beneath their polished headstones
Saying Chesner and Shaber are at rest
But the dead do not rest
For the dead cannot rest
For the dead no longer exist.

Published: Candelabrum, UK, April 2008

SOME FLING AWAY

Some fling away
Some stay and cling—
Each their own Way
To do their own thing.

Sacrifice meaning
For love of the rhyme;
Know that in dreaming
You make up the time.

Sacrifice meaning—
When thought becomes sight
Your soul from its mole-hole
Blinks into life-light.

Published: Metverse Muse, India, March 2008

THE BUDDHA DIED AT 80

The Buddha died at 80, and they say
That Lao Tzu reached 200, by the Way;
But Jesus, only 33, was stood
Arms out against the circus side-show wood:
His hands first, then his feet and side and heart
Pierced by the drunken dagger-thrower’s darts;
The crowd had lost a man, but, quite unbothered,
Named him a God, and went and killed each other.
And you and I and sanity lost out
With Christ’s name from Humanity crossed out.

Published: Rubies In The Darkness, UK, Winter 2005

THE MORAL AESTHETICS OF POLITICS

The sense of poetry pervades all life:
Intense sensation, far-abstracted math,
Calm observation, passion-fired strife,
The glorious rise, the decadent aftermath.

Forgive me, pitying gods, for loving all
When “all” includes the tortured, starving, mad.
Symphonic raptures round pride’s bugle call
Drown out the truths where glory would be sad.

The very movement of the people lives,
Starring a missionary, or clown, or thief;
The moral climate either steals or gives –
It faithfilled strives, or slumps in disbelief.

So, in these patchwork years of peace and war,
Detached to calm the passionate lies that lurk,
We love life’s good and ill, but, more and more,
Our sympathetic vision makes us work.

Published: The Penwood Review, US, Fall 2005
Awarded Editor’s Choice certificate

NOTHING'S YOURS ALWAYS

Nothing’s yours always, anyhow,
And Time shall lift from off your brow
Your troubles, wrinkles, hat and wig,
Leave you the basis for “long pig”.

Published: Metverse Muse, India, March 2008

DEATH WILL BE HARDER NOW

Death will be harder now, as, year by year,
We solve the clues of immortality:
Emotions sink to animality
As false hopes tighten screws of desperate fear.
Hormone control will make age disappear—
After false starts, most horrible to see—
But those already old must beg to be
Frozen for the genetic engineer.
While war, starvation, pipe Earth’s gruesome jigs,
Successful businessmen will fight to gain
Some dead teen’s body, to transplant their brain,
The already-old beg to be guinea-pigs.
Children, look back, hear our despairing cry:
We bred immortals, but we had to die!

Published: Ambit, UK, October 2007

FOR PETER, DRUGGED IN A MENTAL HOSPITAL

In the winter the Interior stops

The shops close
Clocks unwind
Clothes hang frozen on the line.

With the summer tourists gone
Birdsong is ended
The water is locked away in the hills
And the waterfall hangs suspended.

No one takes down the signs that read
“Entering tunnel, remove sunglasses”.
Stopped by the wind at the top of the passes
We look down
On some tiny, frozen, unmoving town,
Down on a land without seed.

The city, car-filled, cascading, bickering,
Seems so long, long ago.
Look down on the river trickling
Through the desert dusty with snow –
The tracks of coyote and deer
Echo the unseen in our own austerity.
Will Spring ever come, here?
In this desolate clarity?
With blossoming fruit trees and softening lakes?

It will, and the snow will be brushed from the sage
But until then the only life that we see
Is:
Giant snowflakes
Lily pads of ice
Flowing down the Fraser to the sea.

Published: Candelabrum, UK, April 2004

YOGIS

Though mystified why yogis walk
Across the burning coals,
We know they stand upon their heads
To elevate their soles.

Published: Metverse Muse, India, March 2008

AUNTIE'S MODEL NIECE

Auntie got her
Maid to knit a
Set of under-
Wear,

For my frozen
Sister Flo's end
That was posing
Bare;

Flo then wore 'em
With decorum
And she swore 'em
Grand,

Undismayed by
Undies made by
Auntie's maid by
Hand!

Published online: Snakeskin, UK, August 2008

TO MYSELF IN 50 YEARS TIME

Old fool! You really think yourself the same
As I who write to you, aged 22?
Ha! All we’ve got in common is my name:
I’ll wear it out, throw it away,
You’ll pick it up some other day....
But who are you?

My life’s before me; can you say the same?
I choose its how and why and when and who.
I’ll choose the rules by which we play the game;
I may choose wrong, it’s not denied,
But by my choice you must abide....
What choice have you?

If, bored, I think one day to see the world
I pack that day and fly out on the next.
My choice to wander, or to sit home-curled;
Each place has friends, good fun, good food,
But you sit toothless, silent, rude....
And undersexed!

Cares and regrets of loss can go to hell:
You sort them out with Reason’s time-worn tool.
Today’s superb; tomorrow looks as well:
The word “tomorrow” is a thrill,
I’ll make of mine just what I will....
What’s yours, old fool?

Published online: Snakeskin, UK, September 2008