In Adam's Autumn

 

Where we first sinned was probably upstairs

And not for long; but now the color changes,

The detriment of summer. I shall miss

All of the sounds that naturally make

Our natures sweet. And bitter were the days

Succeeding, red and orange, perhaps, but not

How we had planned our progeny. We went

Our solitary way, best by ourselves.

We’d hoped for Nod or Canaan, but we found

Naked trees and a furred rapacity

Of gathering and storing, and a scent

Like Nuits d’Hiver was everywhere at once.

What did we have? What did we have to lose?

Those were our final steppes. We took them all.

Rex Anglorum, Private Eye

 

1.

First the canary died, and then the light.

There was no heat, but it was June, okay?

He didn't need hot water any day,

but Mrs Hornet fetched the severed head

UPS had delivered overnight:

Then Rex believe coincidence was dead;

and he thought deeply and went back to bed.

When he was roused, he put that scum away,

In theory. Still, he knew just who had done it.

He took some DNA and made them run it.

The lights resumed. The boiler flamed. (The bird,

Too bad.) He thought that he might buy a hound

To save the villeins who had gone to ground,

Who’d share his common cause without a word.

2.

The type was set in Baskerville, the hair

A blonde’s – Cinnamon Smoke. He knew his stuff.

The ash a Turkish pre-war brand of snuff,

Now unobtainable, from God knows where.

His trenchcoat buckled, Rex went out to share

Info with the outwitted perp. Enough.

Dim Sum, the sign. So many are undone,

So few for whom a sleuth will do the trick.

Some muscle, maybe, or some patter, slick

As Wildroot Cream Oil. Never, though, the one,

The permanent moll, the sempiternal pick.

Rex pats his pocket; there the trusty gun

Mollifies the most strident of the senses--

A picayune per diem. Plus expenses.

Sad Stories/Death of Kings

 

Let us not decorate the doom of kings

Whose bubbes forecast for them great events.

They mostly whined about the dearth of gold,

Misplaced dominions, and the gaucheries

Of bathrobes. Celebrate the concubines,

Whose cheeks, at least, were pink at either end.

A woman camped outside the coffee shop,

Atop a mountain of her own debris,

Swears she was once the Queen of Shangri-La.

No need to disagree. She crossed her heart,

Whispering to her phone, pennons at dawn

Creased by a zephyr, yaks upon the green

Below the castle wall, some blend of blue.

She's got a swatch she'll show you, the same shade.

The Vulgar From The Streets

        for HC

Such hieroglyphs are easy. This one says,
CATES IN THE MORNING and that swirly one,
NO PAIN, NO PAIN, today the practical
Feast-day of St Bartokomous, who wrote
God is most perfect, this His indigence,
And gaped in satisfaction, doubtlessly.
Over the air conditioner man hath sprayed,
HARM TO A WISE MAN IN HIS BROTHER’S FIELD.
Prefects prefer straight-shooters, schooled in plain
Annunciation, all lean and clean in tone.
The pink one pricked above the mansard reads,
DRAGONS FORGET THEIR EGGS. Who claims they don’t?
They disbelieve in swords, even in dark
And ribald festivals of patriots.
St Evelyn said, This ghetto is my stage
And squashed his inner pupa. He was mad,
This wight who wrote beside the padlocked door,
THE WORLD IS COMING TO THIS STAGE. STAY TUNED.

The Girl In The Red Honda

Knights fell a lot.  And there they lay,

Lumps on the grass or in the mud,
Their armor like a suit of clay,
Rescuing maidens, giving blood.
The dragons chuckled, and the maidens
Planted cherries in their gardens.

Cherries ripe, but very wrong
For knights encased. Whenas they ride,
They sing, but every note of song
Is lost to echoes deep inside.
The ladies listen, if they can
Desist from planting pits for man.

We leave our dragons in their caves.
We watch the maidens drive away.
The knights are cool, but agile thieves
Thrive in the distance. Dawns the day,
And knights are bold and old and gone,
Cherries ripe in the subtle dawn.