Remember the Maine

 

(My) lovers might last longer

I say to the dog, a philosopher of sorts himself,

were they more like Teddy Roosevelt

or even Alice. 

They'd look killing

in stiff collars

of khaki

or Irish lace.

Things are never the same

as they appear in the catolog.

Lovers are never as nice

when they want you to do crazy, perverse, upsetting things

like leaving the house.

That innocent carton

knows its milk will go bad, but won't say so.

It still wants to talk about forever,

especially at 3 a.m.

I always recommend blaming the Spanish

for any little thing that may happen to blow up.

You have such honest eyes,

such lovely hands when you take mine.

"Talk to me," you say,

in a voice as warm as Havana Harbor.

"Remember the Maine!" is what I say as you get up to pack,

but Teddy would have grinned

and Alice would have understood.

---------

Image: "Woman Standing In Doorway" by Albert de Belleroche (1864-1944)

The Park

 

The cement company shows up at the city's largest park and goes to work.

First, a cement river full of cement goldfish and cement turtles;

Some mistake the river for a sidewalk and drown.

Next, cement pigeons and other birds...

Branches fall everywhere--

Lines are down.

Across the city, cement birds fly out of telephones and crash heavily into framed landscapes which fall from the wall.

At the park, work continues.

Cement children appear, presenting cement bouquets.

Cement adults are charmed.

The sun, also cement now, shines down, strangely cheerful.

Look at the city we have made, say the workmen.

Come and live with us

Among the statues.

-----------

For dverse poetics.  A--ahem--"concrete" poem I wrote in 1980. I realize a new poem was expected, but i just couldn't resist. Sorry not sorry. :-P

Note: from what I understand, the difference between cement and concrete is that concrete has stones and stuff in it. You can pave your walk with either, but avoid using abstract. Still not sorry.

Penance

I am a ghost looking for spirits; steam searching for smoke. 

I wear my long duster, and carry a kerosene sun.

I am a nun praying my penance; a singer struck by stroke.

I am your grave digger; you, better loved than anyone.

I wear my long duster, and carry a kerosene sun.

I am found by dire-light, turning scripture to palimpsest. 

I am never done, though my diet is the slenderest.

I am a nun paying my penance; a singer struck by stroke.

Collecting throats in my pockets, renaming them all night.

I have choked back every longing, and paled your name with white.

I am your grave digger; you,  better loved than anyone.

My all-and-none, my crossroads queen awoke,

I am a ghost looking for spirits; light transformed to smoke.

________

This is a trimeric, for Sunday Muse #184.  

Wild Tuxedo

Wild tuxedo

giving me that give-a-shit look

careful as a politician

cold as a chain link fence in November

eyes gorgeous as turquoise earrings.

Wild Tuxedo

mother to the one that lived

Is he lazing in someone's home?

Is he by the road and nothing but bones?

There is hunger and then there is hunger.

The set-out bowl is always empty

in the morning 

when the traffic hums.

Wild Tuxedo

distrustful as a third wife

hardy as a weed

I wake up worrying about you sometimes

because

There is hunger and there is hunger.

There is the moon,

the refrigerator kicking on

the clock ticking

and offered love you spurn without a thought.

_______

Good-Girl Dandy

It gave her pain

to part with anything

as if piss were wine

and pennies perfect

tears from Jesus' eyes;

as if fun were debit and deduction

from the piggy bank of Good-Girl Dandy.

It gave her pain

not to ledger the world

and if nails were dear

and the wood too fine

she would purse her lips

at the Sufferer on the tower, and

serve Him vinegar and year-old candy.

_______

for dverse poetics "Halloweeny Humans."

To An Admirer

 "It's like being mailed into space" --Sylvia Plath

There are children

and a magnifying glass,

an ant

a sidewalk

and the summer sun, 92 million miles away.

The Prometheus ant will shortly know glory

and the eagle.

The children are its doctors

with their laser.

A poem on one's heart

is a volcano in a paper bag.

An old romantic

is an ant in a Hiroshima body.

You'll see me magnified, aflame,

for writing this poem about

happy children

in the summer sun.

________

for Sunday Muse #183.

Ash

Ash is blind and boneless, but flies.

Colored flames flare the leaf that dies.

For a moment, the madman lucid.

Sweet milk in the sun turns putrid.

The bonfire kills the thing it lights.

Ash is blind and boneless, but flies.

You may find that devils may care

To catch and keep you with them there.

The young may sigh, slow, and sicken

to find their tongues gray and thickened.

Ash is blind and boneless, but flies.

A snare denies its bird the skies.

Don't be so proud, sure and boasting.

See the rooster, plucked and roasting.

The grave may loose the one who dies.

Ash is blind and boneless, but flies. 

_______

for Sunday Muse #182. This is a quatern. Thanks to LiJade.