For C.F. and S.S. [Sing this to the blues melody of your choice]
You asked me to a party despite my eighty years.
You asked me to a party despite my eighty years.
You jabbed beneath my skin until I burst in tears.
What’s there to do at parties but eat and drink and leer.
What’s there to do at parties but eat and drink and leer.
What’s there to do when hungers disappear?
Those fancy foods don’t tempt me, since now they taste like fur;
And alcohol’s no option when meds can interfere;
As for that lovely lady, what would I do with her?
The nights are so much darker,
It’s difficult to drive.
No matter what is offered,
I neither thrive nor strive.
I’ll pass on all those parties, and read myself to sleep—
Give thanks for pain-free ev’nings that fail to make me weep—
Content within my skin ‘til they thrust me six-feet deep.
(9/4/10)
With apologies to Emily Dickinson
I’ll tell you what the News is
A headline at a time—
The Emmys lead the day’s events—
Pimp TV shows that shine.
But page one features some gray news—
The beaches are begrimed;
Remember! Just five years ago
A hurricane arrived.
You have to wait until page five
Where seven troops are slain.
Hildalgo’s mayor (where druggies thrive)
Is shot for honest pains.
And Russian skinheads maim a crowd—
And Chinese mourn their dead—
While most is taken with a proud
Morgan Chase Bank ad.
(8/30/10)
A Book Report for David St. John
The Book of Gilgamesh, four thousand years
Ago, launched written poetry. Since then
Myriad forms—dramatic, lyric—seared
Raw hearts and ripened souls with passion penned,
With music, taut wit, and acrobatic
Ambiguity that caressed the mind,
Brought to our nostrils the aromatic
Scents that season and sustain all mankind.
But modern verse adopts nouvelle cuisine
Rejects millennia of recipes—
Serves up unsavory stews, flavorless,
Unrhymed melange, undecipherable
By anyone who’s not its chef. Okay!
Experiment! But (jeezus!) don’t annul
Four thousand years of tasty, rich entrees
With one debasing word: Conventional.
(8/28/10)
With apologies to Aristotle
Some people live lickety-split
And strike us as persnickety.
Others, cautious, are so amazed
By peril, they act as if dazed.
Cowardice, rashness—both vices—
Can be tempered by sound advice.
Find your way out of that damned maze—
Seek virtue! But first pause, think twice!
(8/24/10)
Build a better mousetrap and the world will beat a path to your door.
Attributed to Ralph Waldo Emerson
Since we’ve built a better mousetrap,
The world takes note and beats a path
To our door, while we, enraged, slap
Those migrants back, nurture such wrath,
Such flaming discontent, our souls
Shrivel to ash—humanity,
Displaced by hate, and love by shoals
Designed to wreck without pity.
“Get lost!” we shout, “you tired, poor,
Huddled wretched refuse, homeless.
Invent your own damn mousetrap; stress,
When the world beats at your damned door.”
(8/14/10)
I
Gigantic ideas
Shrink, shrivel while journeying
From mind to paper.
II
The glow in my head
Darkens as clumsy fingers
Cannot grasp the words.
III
My passionate dreams,
Impotent, cannot swim through
Moats surrounding them.
IV
I cannot convey
The spirit driving my soul;
Too gassy for flesh!
V
Glorious aura,
So bright, swims within the mind—
But drowns in dark ink.
VI
That numinous world,
Sieved through sensory prisms—
Bland leftover stew.
VII
Words contaminate—
Deadly pathogens poison
Crisp thoughts, infect minds.
(8/8/10)
