Fox

     For A.C.F on the occasion of the great depression of 2009

Face it!
Foxes have endured bad reps
From Aesop on.
(Unattainable?
Screw it—
Along with all those other
Sour grapes.)

Although we’re told
Hen houses
Should not be guarded
By foxes,
I often wonder why.
Vulpes vulpes,
After all,
Is shrewd!
He’d husband those hens.

And, though it took twelve centuries
(A.D., of course)
For wily Reynard to emerge,
That trickster spent his time
Frustrating the hypocrites
He found himself among.
Not a bad legacy!

And if I were a woman,
I’d arch my back
To earn that sobriquet
Foxy!

Which brings us to Alan Fox,
Fox of foxes!
If he’s sometimes crazy,
He is, of course,
Crazy like a fox!

When I lamented economic blight,
Whimpered at diminishment,
Whined at darkness falling,
Sleeplessness,
That wise Fox reminded me

“We’ve been through this before”—
With mild barks,
Explained that wealth (however grand),
Is not human.
One dozen words
Healed all my raucous ills:
“It’s a nice day out—take a walk, meditate,
Write a poem.”
                (5/17/09)

Posted in Affluence, Animals, Friends

Fashion

     Dedicated to the great recession of 2009

Here’s a conundrum: how did fashion start?
Think back: the bearded, shaggy ancestors
From whom we sprung exhausted all their smarts
Hunting mere warmth, thin sustenance to wrest

Their lives from chill starvation’s dark abyss.
If fortune smiled, they wove a rag of leaves,
Or, better, killed for meat and fur (true bliss!)—
They never fretted over cuffs or pleats.

So how, tell me, did fashion come about?
We don white shoes in May, discrete new gauds—
Loose last year, but tight just now—prayed (devout
Homage) to illustrated mags—stern gods!

Alas, the bottom’s gone. All our passion
Focussed on food—debt’s the death of fashion!
                                   (5/7/09)

Posted in Affluence

Compromised Virtue

What, when two folks can’t agree, must they do?
Easy! Negotiate a compromise.
Each party gives up a bit—thus they woo
Settlement—solomonically wise.

When stubborn ‘hoods, cities, regions, nations
Not only can’t agree, but also arm—
Commit to carnage, spill rich oblations
To all the deities of war—much harm

Ensues. Antagonists burn, pillage, kill—
Pursuing justice (and, perhaps, some loot)—
Until—bloodied, drained, ruined—they find the will
To compromise (morality grows mute).

But how does virtue spring from compromise?
What justice in morality’s demise?
                             (5/5/09)

Posted in Politics

Last Poem

     For R.A.: Problem solver

One day I’ll write a verse, oblivious,
While inertia’s mortal pendulum blasts
Through its deadly arc—grim lascivious
Instrument—and that verse will be my last.

Face it—last things weigh more. Goethe, dying,
Called out “More light! More light!” Did failing sight
Provoke that anguished cry? Or mad vying—
Desperate for bright words to cure dark blight?

It rankles, though. What if my final lines
Pronounce thin whimpers, trifling, foolish stuff—
Splintered music struck from tuning fork tines
Ruined by age—discordant lyrics, all bluff?

A friend opined: “Your fears could be contained;
Work up a serious verse—use your head,
Craft it, polish ‘til it shines, flares your brain;
Then, to insure it’s last, shoot yourself dead!”
                               (4/25/09)

Posted in Death, Friends

Playwords

A tongue, like jaguars’ teeth, can bite—
And those who bleed “take umbrage.”
But if we “take,” what does he “give”—
That shadow-casting scum?

Some words, it seems, are purposed for
The crossword puzzler’s sort—
For where else have you ever seen
Those “newts” and “efts” and “orts”?

Some puzzlers use great athletes’ fame—
Their legacies, their scores—
To fill deficient columns, rows,
With Otts and Howes and Orrs.

And, finally, what can it mean
When one’s insulted elf—
Rage-born—glibly asserts (with fire),
“I was beside myself!”?
           (4/14/09)

Posted in Words

Psychosomatics

          I
Last Tuesday,
Tripod,
Our voracious, runty, crippled, stinky cat,
Missed breakfast.
Simply disappeared.

Unprecedented!

Alert to frantic mews,
I toured the local alleys,
Anxious, desperate, teary.

Wednesday, my appetite,
Like Tripod, vanished,
While I searched
(Detritus of unforgiving wheels?),
Dreading what I’d find.

Well after dark,
He reappeared,
Staggered in,
Unhurt, but famished.

Astonishing!

Not only his miraculous return,
But my replenished appetite,
And dried eyes,
All in half a moment.

             II
One can, of course,
Avoid such psychic pain.

Find a modest room,
Windowless,
Painted pleasantly,
Equipped with water,
Toilet, small fridge,
Chair, table,
And a slot for food—
But no cats, birds, or dogs,
No phone or radio,
And certainly no TV.
There reside
(Immune to toxic moods
Anguish-spawned),
Serene.
              (4/13/09)

Posted in Animals, Pain