Terraculture

 The mulch is ready. Earth contains

All earth requires, the blood and brains

Of trees and flowers, to make with weeds

The soil that terraculture needs

For moly. On the primal tree

Hung harbinger and history,

Both fast asleep in yeoman mud.

The mulch is making bark of blood.

ABC

 

In Sumer love kept lovers warm;

And from a distance cuneiform
Sufficed to substitute for flesh.
It was the same in Marrakech,
Where swirls and loops conveyed the sense
Of sworn and forsworn innocence.
It was the same where love idyllic
Begged to change in Old Cyrillic
Blush for a satiated sigh.
Even in rebus, with this eye
I name what I hope soon to see,
Writ in a language new to me,
The legend of the Holy Grail,
Spelled out for touch, composed in braille.

A Dream of Fair Women

 

Come winter, we shall learn the ways

Of women, young and wanton, run

Amok in books, which we shall praise

For literary merit. We

Shall substitute them for the sun

And make believe they’re history.

Juliet is not much like school,

Nor Guinevere like Mrs Beale,

Who is not golden, nor a fool

For chivalry. The cold and snow,

Unlike Isolde, is not real.

And where did all the Helens go?

Not to our school. Not then. Not yet.

I looked and then returned to read

Where princesses glittered jade and jet.

The janitor died of smoke and flame

Down in the boiler room. I need,

But cannot quite recall, his name.

A Christmas Colloquy

 

Shepherd Lad: I bring to you my oaten flute,

A pile of dried and winter fruit,

A lock of my beloved’s hair,

And videos of Fred Astaire.

Me: Thank you, but I already gave.

I don’t believe the gods will save

Me, if I let you pave my roof

Or flush my pipes with 90-proof

Corn-founded hogwash. Be you gone

Before you’re fired by the dawn.

SL: You have mistaken me. I’m not

Some Adventist whom time forgot.

I’m not the ghost of yokel past.

Here at the end men love me last.

Me: Because nostalgie pour la flock

Replaces your initial stock?

I think not. With the wolf you go

To see the hayrick hung with snow

And blood a part of being fed

On chines of the unrisen dead.

SL: And me on Ginger’s treasure chest.

Me: A stock show.

SL: And a Winter Fest.

Me: It is not so. I cannot be

A man before color TV,

The laurel garland on his brow,

But every tense the here and now.

SL: Your loss. No gain. I pray you, sing

Of ewes beside some purling thing

(As well as Ginger). Be you eld,

And time will slow and measures meld.

Me: Only in dreams, and I awake.

Now here’s a twenty. Please, Sir, take

Yourself away to Grecian shores

Where acorns taste like melted ‘smores,

And all the cattle dance in line.

You are a dream, Sir, but not mine.

Arabica Nights

 

Scheherazade called last night, with a tale

Of buffalo and bitcoin. I hung up.

Her name is Scam; her voice is far away

From Rocky Mountain vowels, her face as pure

As real-life happenstance, as blank as pie.

Next time she calls I’ll ask her, Have you more?

More rocs, more executions, warranties,

Or current offers? I am Old King Cole

And full of expectations unfulfilled;

But I can see the chambers where you toil,

A studio walled in silk, and those are pearls,

And these are bread and swine, Scheherazade.

Meet the Beetles

 

When I was young, there was abundant time,

The local trees insatiable, the bugs

Bigger than classmates. I remember names

Were things, as permanent as furniture.

Now I am not. Sequoias come and go,

And monuments are jittery. I see

What I have seen. I tell a bug, I knew

Your family. I made a Science Fair.

He is not much impressed, and he is dead

Or playing dead. And April's grass is green.