Powerful poems pack profundity
In few agitated words,
Honoring minimalists
Whose thin wisps move minds.
Denotation disappears,
Puffed connotation cries,
While we, warily, anticipate
Explosions of silence.
(2/20/12)
For D.F. & A.C.F.
Her arm around his back,
Affectionate, but firm—
She murmured in his ear:
“OK?” “Absolutely!”
She flashed a universal sign
(Three fingers and an O).
Which one, I wondered, called the play,
And which one just obeyed?
(2/19/12)
Daily, down at the paddle tennis courts,
Our Gino, famously, appears to coach.
He helps newbie men, but, mostly, cavorts
With gorgeous women—teaches them the poach,
The backhand slice, and mighty overhead.
Among that coterie shines Isabel—
Heart-breaking bod, rich style, long legs, well read—
Her merry, flashing eyes cast healing spells.
And furthermore, this Isabel plays well,
Her game a match for Gino’s any day.
Though in her forties, it is hard to tell
The age her beauty fiercely keeps at bay.
A CFP, she roams the world to find
Investments that her clients’ wealth enshrine.
Her robust flesh, that jailer of our sense?
Faint symbol of profound intelligence.
(2/16/12)
My wife’s friend, Caroline, must love her dogs.
She must, or why would she embrace all three?
Two goldens and an aging dachshund—cogs
That turn her home’s complex machinery.
But harried hist’ry mocks and whirls, disdains
Serenity, allowed her to agree,
Show love once more—that love that never wanes.
Thus, rescued Rosie joined the other three.
Alas, some dogs are plain persnickety.
And Rosie’s snarls reserved the couch for her.
Her mistress purchased fav’rite toys for each,
The rubber Kong that Rosie most preferred.
But “fair” means nothing! Rosie’s alpha paws
Quite soon possessed those rubber Kongs, all four!
Though—unregenerate—her acts appall;
Her greed’s the hist’ry of the world, writ small.
2/16/12
What I’d said that morning was the truest kind of lie, I guess,
containing fear at its heart . .
Barbara Kingsolver, Animal Dreams (1991)
Fear, after all, is multi-faceted—
Prismed glass pretending to be diamond—
Generating lies primed to cleanse the past,
Protect the present, serve as future’s pawn.
Those frantic childhood squeals—“it wasn’t me!”
Responses to hormonal dreams—“I have
To wash my hair.” “I didn’t ax that tree.”
Such lies a pharmaceutical, a salve.
The politicians’ scaffolding—those lies—
Because malignant truth would bring them down.
Those lies, a lover’s poetry—his sighs
A stratagem—“Strip off your clinging gown.”
Imagine, if you can, a world all true—
Would it be happier, or scarred by rue?
(2/14/12)
Face it! The advertising industry
Runs the world, and this week’s hype proves my point.
Eight of each thirty minutes on TV
Demands that you succumb, consume, anoint
This candidate, that drug or charity,
However spurious, however lame.
Erectile dysfunction caused by LowT?
No problem! Man up, eat pills, avoid blame.
This Superbowl! Our nation’s holiday,
The epic struggle of two massive teams.
It’s coming soon—those advertisers say.
The networks chatter, teasing viewers’ dreams—
A hundred million folks will watch that game
They’ll eat and bet and drink, get all enflamed.
Yet networks do not hype athletic lads—
They show previews of coming game-time ads.
(1/31/12)
