Archive for category Poems

The Archeologist’s Lament (from Isn’t That Gneiss)

And from the ancient chases
Where the masons’ marble grew,
They excavated places
Four-by-four and two-by-two.
They scraped and scrummed in bitumen
With ergonomic tools
But all they found was gristly ground
O yes, and fractured fools!
Here’s a piece of Dirty Tom,
And here’s his middle finger;
Here’s his wife, his sordid life:
Dear God, man, why’d you linger?
Your house, your frame, your thoughts undone,
Your craft is obsolete;
But we’ll be here another year
Until your corpse is complete.

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Falling Sky Hill

Up Falling Sky Hill
Where the dreams of the many
Are the dreams that can kill.
Where nothing is open
On the Fourth of July
And nobody knows
How to bake apple pie
That’s where I’m living
In the place where I lie
An old little town
Called Falling Sky

Up Falling Sky Hill
Where Love and Affection
Can be cured with a pill
Where the houses are empty
Except for our pride
And truth is revealed
By the smoke in our eyes
That’s where we’re living
In this place where we lie
An old little town
Called Falling Sky

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For Want of Interest, the Robot Contemplates Life and Death (from Ichor)

For ev’ry sun receded from the sky
There grows another lunatic to spy
And O, there springs an apple of mine eye
As sweet as autumn lingers in a pie.
But lo, the moon, she wanders down to dawn
And fades her silver bones beneath the lawn
And winter takes what summer makes:
A bed of blindness yielded with a yawn.

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Flies (from The Bird Inside)

The world is awash with beautiful things
so graciously out of your reach.
The tables are set with silver and china,
the pepper comes out of a crystal endeavor.
The gravy is gold and the turkey is dripping
with the sweat of its labor’s life.
The biscuits are melting, the butter is soft,
and the peas are warm and inviting.
The talk of the table is business and hope,
there’s a game in every word.
And every hand is a winning hand
and every laugh is a charming laugh
and every smile is a white surprise
and every lip is a waiting purse
and every tear is yours.
The story is yours, but the credit is not,
the money is theirs and the rabbit’s been shot.
And that’s why your feet won’t work, my dear child,
and that’s why your mouth’s filled with dirt.
And that’s why your cries are stifled with flies
and the living go off to their work.

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Johnse’s Sonnet (from Hatfield & McCoy)

I am not, as you suppose,
A voice of Reason: none of those
Have ever made a Lemon sweet
Or taken pleasure from a Rose.
Nor am I a Poet’s feet
Whose dainty steps you follow fleet
To lofty Heights and airy Thoughts
But never take you down the Street.
No, nor am I the Solace sought
In hermits Harbor, bravely bought
In God We Trust, Faith’s currency -
I’ve never had a Holy thought.
     No, I am Love, strange, small and weak,
     Whose Imperfections Hope you seek.

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The Archer’s Lament (from The Attempters)

How swift the Arrow flies when fate is marked!
No Doom can intercept nor sightless Dark
Deter it from its tender course; while we,
Poor failures in our Tendencies
Are left to wonder how the perfect Shaft
Intended from its draw the perfect Line
And rent the Target at its epi-core.
And we, bewildered, fletching our Envy,
Aim our crooked Hopes at a stolen Heart.

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I Walk Where the Rain Doesn’t Fall (from Canathus)

I walk where the rain doesn’t fall
I eat when the shadows are tall
I sleep in the hay
Make love when I may
And drink till I can’t think at all

I’ve worked out a regimen day
Practice makes perfect they say
I wrestle with fairies
And sing to the berries
Then Dance till I fall where I lay

I’ve acquired a craving for Cherries
A man can eat all that he carries
The red juice goes down
And tickles the crown
Of my King of Imaginaries

Though the soles of my feet have turned brown
And my dingier soul grows renowned
My nose became redder
My orange tastes better
Since I’ve ditched the responsible town

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