Poetry~Prolixities

The Art of Loss

Side B

The Put-together

Grandad was a one-man band

Used to be he worked some land

Till the bankers closed him down

Hit the road right outta town.

Hell, on that farm he made guitars

From boxes used to hold cigars,

Wire, broomsticks, mason lids

Played 'em for winos, played 'em for kids.

Chorus:

Ain't nuthin' new boy,

That's fo' sure,

You borry from his

And add to yours

Got you a put-together,

Put-together, son,

That's just how this

Ol' life goes on.

He started buskin, streets and bars

Got some lumps, and them there scars,

Soakin' up them tales and ditties

All them trains, all them cities.

He could match 'em note fer note

But couldn't patch that sad-ass coat

Till just before the Golden Gate

He fell in love with Ellen Kate.

She was widder'd rich and shrewd

But Pop's serenades got her all unglued

Got her heart, her hardware store

Burned his coat, bought some more.

Musings:

Nine Wedding Guests Offer Their Blessings

For Ali and Gabe

September 6, 2003

Clio: history

May all his pix: a boy geared up against

The alien threat

And each her photo: eco-warrior

Defending Earth

Be album-mingled: love’s fond

New once-upon-a-time

Euterpe: lyric poetry

May all her startled reveries mid-page

His gaze to find

And each his cyber searches, craving

To take her hand

Confirm that all love’s phrases

Are published everywhere

Thalia: comedy

May all his Chaplinesque cavorting

To lift her lows

And each her karaoke croaking

His blues to chase

Affirm that fools for loving

All laugh at Fortune’s ruse

Melpomene: tragedy

May all her vexed and bitter moments

Find soothing balm

And each his near and dire reversal

Be held at bay

That in love’s window garden

These two may share heartsease

Terpsichore: dance

May all his kitchen genuflections

To blot a spill

And each her entryway processions

For the parcels

Seem ever-dear expressions

Of love’s long pas de deux

Erato: love poetry

May all her scribbled grocery stanzas

X-O X-O

And each his post-it note cadenzas—

Same billet doux—

Comprise the firstling verses

Of love songs oft refined

Polyhymnia: serious music

May all his solemn orchestrations

Setting table

And each her studied undulation

Folding laundry

Bespeak the sympathetic strings

Of love’s sweet harmony

Urania: astronomy

May all her heart-proclaiming cell calls

From down the street

And each his heart-enfolding emails

From overseas

Assure them: of the several spheres

Love makes a single sky

Calliope: epic poetry

May all his soul-clenched city crossings

With horns ablare

And each her scraping braking train ride

Dark underground

Resolve to love’s bright siren song

That calls each other home

Beauty Betrayed

I read somewhere

That Fred Astaire

Was nimble pushing eighty.

He’d dash each day

Across the way

To see the newstand lady.

When just a lad

Such fears I had

Bullied, became a cringer,

A real shut-in.

Then saw Fred spin—

I wanted to be Ginger.

I lived to dance

At every chance

Trained, performed with aching limb.

Posters of Fred

Over my bed,

Longed to catch a glimpse of him.

Then that one time,

But in his prime,

Impossibly! See, he’s there!

Smitten I swoon

Down flights and ruin

My chance to partner Astaire.

Rap of the Ancient Mariner

Rhyming is fine

Most of the time.

But there’s a thin line

Between the sublime

And a metrical crime.

(With apologies…as recorded by RUN STC)

I’ll tell you what,

Mariner’s hot

to talk a lot

to each he caught:

Left kirk and cot

with southbound plot,

when bird he shot

his fate he wrought

and crewmates bought

into his lot

because they thought

the ‘tross was fraught

with fog which naught

could pierce with aught.

Boy, it got hot!

A distant dot

grew to a yacht

steered by a hot

Vamp and Deathpot.

They cast their lots:

the winning dots

were the harlot’s.

Like crossbow shots

the farm they bought—

my mates—but not

before they caught

my eye with aught

of love allot.

The ship did rot.

I tried, Mein Gott,

to pray, but not

a sound I got:

the dead did blot

each one I thought.

The sea a pot

aboil with clots

of snakes—such flots-

am, am I not?

I blessed the lot.

Then slipped the knot

of bird cravat.

The rain turned tod

to Camelot.

The Seraphs taught

the dead they ought

to pull lines taut,

then from that spot

raised epiglot

in song a lot.

Like a dreadnought

with Aeroflot

the ship was brought

at full speed knot.

A.M. will not

escape so scot

free, the upshot:

“A lifetime fraught

with penance ought

to fix this snot,

or call me not

the Polar Gott.”

The speed onslaught

made A.M. blott-

o, dreams were brought

like from ergot,

of Moon and what

the sea has wrought.

He woke and caught

his crewmates’ haught-

y stares which got

him quite besot

with guilt. But not

for long. Long sought

grace was soon brought

with breezes not

on any jot

but him. Then spot-

ted he his cot

across a blot

of moon-lit wat-

er. Like ingot

glowed the whole lot.

Sprites stood on, not

in the crew, caught

the glow, he thought

of beacons sought.

Up rowed Pilot

and Pilot’s tot

and Hermit sought

to shrive the blot

of guilt he’d got.

The seraph lot

amazed Pilot

et al. but Prot.

enough, they fought

their fears and brought

him on the spot

aid when like shot

this argonaut

sank with spigot

whirlpool which got

boy of Pilot

to row zealot-

like, till land not

sea was their lot.

“Shrive me, do not

reclaim your grot

and leave me knot-

ted here with scot

of guilt for what

I’ve done.” “I wot

about you squat.

tell me all, what

manner of aught

mankind I’ve got

before me.” Wrought

by pangs he bought

freedom with what

he told, but not

fore’er; he’s got

to tell the plot

to each he spots,

like it or not.

And when he got

to tale’s last mot

who could gavotte?

Sure, bless each jot,

but don’t dare blot

the bride’s eclat.

Town Meeting

I’d like to see more

water, greenlands, clustering

moratoriums

in California

we capped tax at one per cent—

you reap what you sow

sure, buy up farmland

but with farms all udders up

who’s gonna farm them?

larger building lots

mean fewer new problem kids

in my darling’s class

as your postmistress

I ‘d like a town square with shops

and a new post office

five-acre lots steal

my nest egg—only twenty

at one-fifty thou

I’ve got twenty farms

damn how these developments

spoil my country view

Suppose quarts of milk

Cost one-fifty—houses, hell,

Replace ‘em with cows

what do five acres

mean to the poor slob making

twenty thou a year?

broken gas pipes—sure

this onslaught of gravel trucks

plagues the wee dark hours

greywater flowing

in the streets—so why not buy

the old railroad beds?

she called for troopers

three times before joy-riders

drove through the building

well, I almost died

last year when no one showed to

drive the ambulance

all these things are facts

you’re taxed high for one reason:

the teachers’ union

new guys don’t know shit:

homeowner calls the county—

how’ll I fill my well?

Ruby Yachts

now the garden monarch

in his fickle progress

alights with folded wings

so like cathedral glass

catch the plastic trash bag

snagged on a winter limb

fluttering fluttering

then cawing too aloft

old mill's been long for rent

a radio's left on

sounds like Schumann

soothes vermin fools vandals

Chores

After raking leaves

into equidistant piles

I could not go on

Take out the garbage—

Oh so categorical!

Some trash, yes, but all?

I did try to dust

but books fluttered open

on every shelf

Push the cold iron—

such good practice for dealing

with bureaucracy

Sidewalk snow melted

long before I could shovel--

grass is trickier

The best time to prune

is when you’ve hardened your heart

to gardening’s gore

Paint it if you must

but reflect, Every dull coat

was semi-gloss once