What’s In A Name

How dare they name it “The Preserves”;

Their tacky little neighborhood

Full of plastic McMansions

Standing there in stately rows

On their vast 2 acre lots

Like so many well marked graves

On land that’s been a family farm

Since the Sixteen Sixties?

~

I suppose some urbanites

Accustomed to the chaos

Of their hurly-burly cities

May regard this rigid mess

Of restrictive covenants,

Invasive fruitless pear trees,

And precisely sculpted lawns

As an earthly paradise.

~

And I suppose, on second thought,

The name Preserves may be correct

In so far as plastic jars

Of Strawberry flavored Jam

Can be said to be preserves

Of the many luscious bowls

Full of plump, fresh picked, fruit

Served along with Clotted Cream

And Grandma’s pound cake sliced, still warm,

From her ancient oven.

Gabba’s Grove

Beside a small pond

hidden in a cedar grove,

a homely shed stands,

indifferently attended,

not for lack of love

but for aching old bodies,

children too busy,

and grandchildren far too young

or moved just too far away.

An Inconstant Measure

Quartz cannot command

time’s irregular advance;

it passing us by

in subjective intervals

dependent on attention.

In the Mirror

His grey-white, old man, whiskers

Resemble, superficially,

The peach fuzz down of his youth,

So often touched and marked upon

By the Thai when he was young.

Alas, that’s where, illusions end!

Gone the smooth as butter skin

Free of blemish, scar, and crease.

Gone the silky velvet feel

Replaced with bristles sharp and stiff

Gone the monks who’d cross the street

To stroke his face and offer blessings.

Perhaps this is the way of things

As one grows old and reminisces.

Anodyne Applied

Dawn’s fury displaced

by a walk among the blooms.

Harmony restored.

Today, We Vote!

Today we hold the middle ground

Lest we make a prophesy

Of Yeats’ “Second Coming”-

“The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst

Are full of passionate intensity.”

Questions of Heroes and Saints

Do heroes have to be perfect

in order to earn our respect?

Must they be free from all blemish?

Is that what we’ve come to expect?

How much stain, how much tarnish,

how much of a character blemish

can be glossed over by splashing

on coats of whitewash and varnish

before the seething and gnashing

of the oppressed leads to the trashing

of monument to those held dear

in eruptions of violent clashing?

The answers, my friends, are clear.

Let’s open our ears and try to hear

the history of brutal oppression

that cause so many to live in fear.

Since if we can’t learn this lesson

we’ll lose more than an election!

Folks, it’s high time to reject

this notion that every hero warrants beatification!

He and His Glasses Case!

Look! Possessive Squirrel!

Dragging his bed place to place.

Material contagion.

Oh God, what hath humans wrought?

An Unplanned Siesta

Again, I find myself

Standing at a crossroads,

Pondering directions.

Unsure which path to take.

Should I? Could I? Perhaps?

~

The sun is overhead.

At the roadside, flowers.

Birdsong lilts from afar.

Wheat heads rustle nearer.

~

It’s been a long journey,

Full of rush and bother,

That led me to this place.

~

Beside these thoroughfares

I shall pause, breathe, relax.

~

There’s time for a siesta.

His Master’s Voice?

They must think us dogs

salivating to their bells

doing tricks for tiny treats!

~

And how can they not

when we drool at every cue

playing games they tell us to?

~

Is there any choice?

After all, they hold the cards

and set the rules we must regard.

~

Why must we regard

their arbitrary edicts

when their only care

is their self-serving interests?

Bite the hands that feed, I say!

Ignore their strident bellows!

Exercise our every freedom!

Let us run across the meadows!

A Matins Prayer

Must there be drama

to christen every morning?

Can’t we vow and endeavor

to enjoy a silent dawn?

Dawning Awareness

By sunrise first rays

Treetop branchlets a glisten

While upon the forest floor

We remain deep in shadow

Expected Voids

November’s slipping

Quickly into history,

Leaving, in its wake,

A predictable absence

In the forest canopy

The Morning After

When cheers subside

And mournful sobbing ceases,

All that remain is more mess.