Tag Archives: NaPoWriMo

A Toast to Anacreon

Come, pour me a glass of that wonderful stuff
that once is begun is not ever enough;
and under whose influence we learn to bluff,
imagining ourselves immortal and tough.

Come, pour me a round of ambrosial brew
and join me in raising a glassful or two.
For soon comes the morning, when payment comes due,
with bitter bright sunlight that pierces the dew.

Come, pour me a quick one as I seek the door!
My limit’s approaching, I can stand no more.
Yes, the pounding of my blood is building to roar;
soon, my only comfort will be the cold floor.

Come, pour me a drink! One is never enough!
While the wine is flowing, it’s wonderful stuff
that gives to us courage, all bluster and rough,
to watch as our dreams turn to mere dust and fluff.

11 APR 2014

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Absolvo-Meal: an advertising jingle

Your hair is gray and thinning, Jack!
Your prime is gone and won’t come back.
The cure for everything you lack?
Absolvo-Meal, the perfect snack!

Young whippersnappers run the show,
and no one cares how much you know.
When your past actions plague you so,
Absolvo-Meal’s the way to go!

Who needs responsibility?
Who wants the blame? Not you or me!
Besides, no work can make you free;
Absolvo-Meal’s the trick, you see.

It matters not how cruel or wrong
you’ve been so far, to get along,
to rise above the mindless throng;
Absolvo-Meal! The winner’s song!

So, try it now! It’s not too late!
Remove the trouble from your plate!
Don’t weakly give in to your fate;
Absolvo-Meal, the dish that sates.

Your ethics, politics and such:
who needs them? You and I? Not much!
Compassion, empathy? A crutch!
Absolvo-Meal, great in a clutch!

Forget your faults! Don’t make amends,
just have a quick glass now and then.
A clean slate every time, no end:
Absolvo-Meal, your new best friend!

So, is your soul in trouble, Jack?
Do sin and sorrow hold you back?
Just take a slug and then, relax!
Absolvo-Meal, the perfect snack!

10 APR 2014

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Little Girl Lost: a random playlist poem

It took a while, but
I got fed up
with your pretentious act:
imagining each night to be
some midnight runaway,
a tender soul
destined to be
a vagabond of the western world.

Did you want me to
hold back the night
so all your vain, precocious dreams
had time to
bloom and feed you
their narcissistic nectar?

You were more than a
little trouble, girl;
and certainly not worth
the time I wasted
before waking up.

09 APR 2014

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A Song

My ears already hear the morning lark.
Listening far beyond my sight I have begun.
So we absorb what we seem to not touch;
it vibrates us, even from a distance –

and fills us, even if we do not know it,
with something live, which, until sensing it,
we never are; the music moves us on
answering our own song…
but what we hear is the breath of the whole world.

After A Walk by Rainer Maria Rilke

8 APR 2014

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The Old Guitar: a love song

They say you are inanimate,
but I believe they lie.
The world is made of tiny stuff
that never quite stands still;
and as your presence here suggests,
this world is where you’re from.

They say you have no feelings,
but just who are they to know?
Each sound creates endless vibrations
that may never end;
and as they reach you, you may change
despite no outward sign.

They say you are an object,
without soul, but they are wrong.
Because a thing eludes detection
doesn’t prove it gone;
and anyone who hears your voice,
and listens, understands.

They say you once were living,
but are now dead. They are fools!
For life is one long single thread,
split up by space and time;
we may be separate for now,
but only for a while.

They say you are inanimate,
and do not breathe! For shame!
Without you there is no inhale
or exhale. You are the air;
together, we create the songs
that fuel the universe.

07 APR 2014

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Out Back: an observation

The short grass under the spreading live oak
is mostly dead – a dappled green
stretch of dirt that seems to soak up
the shadows cast from the tree limbs
just starting to burst with new growth
this spring.

In this shade, gray squirrels and red-winged blackbirds,
bluejays and golden finches, too,
flit quickly to and fro between the feeders:
high on the black electric lines
one minute, then down into
the still dewy morning lawn the next,
grasping a brown seed or two in their black shiny
beaks, as their partners
and lovers
and children
sing merrily out from above,
“Come here, come quick! There’s food!”

06 APR 2014

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It Matters: a golden shovel

If thinking a thing made it so,
what’s real or not don’t matter much;
and what you get solely depends
on what you tend to dwell upon.

Why think in black and white, and small? In case a
jealous god might find your dream, see red
and underneath a too cruel wheel
crush and throw big ideas in a waste barrow,
like shards of broken pottery, glazed
and beautiful, but too small to fool with,
thrown out in the torrential rain
to be buried under mud and water?

Don’t worry, I’m beside
you; no crazy gods inhabit the
world that can turn a brave heart white.
No one here but us chickens.

After William Carlos Williams’ “A Red Wheeelbarrow”

5 APR 2014

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