River Island Blues
And justice for all
and misery for none—
we’re headed straight
to hell in a hand basket
a pretty one
picnic packed
with braided handles
entwined with bull thistles
shamrocks and
needle-work pine,
but lunch on the banks
of the River Styx
offers too much brandy and
too little wine.
Gloria Patri
Is there somewhere we can talk?
About life and the universe
the big stuff I mean
hand over your heart
red, white and blue
and all that—
walk over my grave
spit in his eye sort of
chit-chat.
Hills and Valleys
Let your hearts not be troubled!
-John 14:1
And coming upon a hill like a mountain,
its wooded fingers knotted and gnarled
in too much darkness for this time of day,
don’t despair
or throw your life away.
In coming down into the rain drenched valley
huddled down in the mud and mire,
dragging your feet to another, inevitable, uphill climb
don’t wait
don’t get stuck in the grit and grime.
There’s a far green country
I swear
where the sea meets the stars
and the familiar voices that greet your ears
have no more troubles to bear.
So persevere, one foot brings the other—
raise your eyes to the heights of the sky dome,
all blue and black and grey,
remember your prayers and the old wives’ tales:
home is not so far away.
Just say something nice about her hair
To the ends of the earth
she’d follow that man
and damned if he doesn’t know it.
When the power to lift
the spirits of one
can be done in under a minute
with one kind word,
one gentle touch
how much will be forgiven?
We’d crucify a selfish creature
holding back an elixir
so easily imparted, but he—
we’d say his heart wasn’t in it
we’d blame his mother
we’d tell her to seek solace
in the arms of another
but why should we?
Said the Sun
The rain-heavy clouds
all tinged with colors of
rotten green apples,
white barnacles, blue bonnets
and plenty of grey,
just plain
all reminiscent of the
underwater kingdom
from which they came,
spider crawled
across the floor of the sky
as if this were their home now,
not mine.
I need a broom, she said
to wipe away these cobwebs
and a mop to wash up
the water on the floor
and a better lock
affixed to my door.
How She Prayed
In habit. As a maid whose penance lay
in past lives (how she forged a doom-some chain!)
like Jacob Marley’s shackles on the stairs
or attic portraits aged beyond repair.
That’s how she prayed.
The Nerve of Some People
Subtext heavy doesn’t sell—
not well, anyway
but when one critic out of three,
waves his hands erratically
and says “got it, ma’am!”
that tastes like success to me.
They come and go,
the wicked flee in the face
of a firm handshake and
a warm embrace.
Comes down now,
the end of things
begins at the first portrait sitting
where they force a smile
and cut your widespread wings.
Happy Thanksgiving
Plum pudding—a throwback reference
peach cobbler—to a Caucasian shoe maker
apple pie—insulted ‘Merica, the bold and the beautiful
orange marmalade—said who invited you to the party?
lemon meringue—stood on the high peaks of tradition
coconut rum—don’t mind if I do
an aged red wine—I’ll take some of you too.
Can’t Fool Me
There’s a market for
many hands, light work,
and office supply salesmen
knock at the door
every Wednesday
with a satisfied grin
and a firm handshake
but everyone
has an afternoon side,
long shadows cast
under cloak-and-dagger light,
monsters in the closet,
blood magic in the sky
and he’s no different—
no better than I.
