Secular Poems
PhilologyOnce upon a caveman time,
There lived a man named Roget. And cozily in his cozy cave, He'd sing and sip his O.J. It was a time of dinosaurs, They roamed through heat and blizzard. And if you took one as a pet, It meant you loved a lizard. All dinosaurs were not alike, Most you could not sweeten. And making friends with some of them, Could easily get you eaten. The Brontosaurus was not smart, The Stegosaurus, petty. Tyrannosaurus' teeth were cruel, And shred you like confetti! But only one could be a friend, It never made a fuss. Roget had caught it near his cave, It was the The-sau-rus. It was polite as it could be, On walks he'd dance before us, As children shouted out with glee, "Here comes Roget's Thesaurus." Most dinosaurs were loud and coarse, And grunts they'd just out-pour. But all agreed that Roget's pet, Was a different dinosaur. It loved to laugh, it loved to joke, It acted on it's whims. At times it chose to speak in rhymes, At times in synonyms. A synonym is just a word, Replacing just some other, Like mommy, mom, or ma or ma'am, Or maybe simply mother. This marvel of the reptile world, Spoke synonyms while grinning. And happened by in cave man time, When language was beginning. |
For up till then when cave men spoke,
There wasn't much selection. They had a word for being "sick", But not one for "infection." They had a word for "turning tricks," But none said, "acrobatic". They could say, "water" when it rained, But no one knew "aquatic." There was a need, they shook their heads, Agreeing with velocity. That with new words they could create A thing they'd call "verbosity." The cave men now approached Roget, They offered cakes and sherry. And begged him to agree to write A new type dictionary. To this he said he would agree, And promised not to bore us. Provided that all honor go, To him and his Thesaurus. They scratched the words on walls and floors So none would be forgotten. They rewrote books and also songs Improved by polyglotten. The language grew by leaps and bounds So everyone was merry. And all the cave men bragged about Their huge vocabulary. And so today we honor them For service meritorious. For they enabled us to be, Loquacious, glib, and glorious. |
Winter DreamsWithout, a froth of ice blue lights
Lay mute upon the panther back of night. The frozen strawberry branches, Click tic tocking the winter clock, Unwind the season. The crackling fire beckons dreams of ease. Entwined, the lovers sleep. Dreaming a winter dream. With to frozen crystal ponds Where winter fish of burnished cloisonne, Swim lazily through swaying reeds of jade. They float aloft, where hazy unicorns From alabaster cups sip milk, And striding Pegasus, the white snow queen, Enwrapped in silver fleece, Flies up and round the ring around the moon. All sounds are velvet now. As silent silver light slide over silver sills, The lovers, silently in silver shadows sleep. |
Art LessonEnglish sparrows perched on high wires
phoning south for weather reports, current flight patterns, chattering about russet leaves, the unbearable beauty of light, the low lying angle of an orange sun. "See how all things are translucent, improvisational, my little one," she chirps. "Not unlike that French painter, another sparrow remarks, "You know...the one who taught them to see the light — Was it Pissarro or Monet? I forget." |
The Saga of Count Dribben Drobben Von StrombomCount Dribben Drobben von Strombom
Sat in his castle, Fussing with boredom and Fretting with hassle. Biting his fingers and Feeling quite blue, And searching his brain For something to do. Now you might have guessed From looks rather grim, That a serious something Had happened to him. "It just isn't fair!" He said with a huff, "That all of my friends Find adventures enough. While I must depend on What's seen and what's heard, Simply because I cannot read a word." Yes that is the truth Though you'll think it absurd, But Dribben Drobben von Strombom Could not read a word. Now it's not that he's blind And he isn't a dunderhead, And he isn't a dope And he isn't a blunderhead. But when he was little He thought it was fine, To let the T.V. Take up most of his time. And since he was wealthy And ruled in the castle, No one could stop him For all were his vassal. He did what he wanted Day in and day out, And learning to read He could easily flout. But now that he's grown Only he is to blame, For this sad, sad, sad, man Cannot read his own name. He was thinking of this As he opened the door, And the sight of his room, Pained him more than before. There were books all around Books were piled high on books, Volumes crowded on shelves And they huddled in nooks. He had purchased them all Thinking people for ages, Would come to believe That he could read all those pages. But the truth finds the truth And a lie never mixtures, And the truth was the Count Looked at only the pictures. So the Count would tell stories None dared call his bluff, But he soon learned that pictures Didn't tell him enough. For a good illustration Shows tears and shows laughter, But none ever shows What's before or what's after. And that was the problem Which caused him chagrinnings, For he never knew endings, Or even beginnings. How he yearned to know stories From pictures accruing, Instead of the fragments He got just from viewing. He studied for hours Each scene, each event, And wondered just what Each one of them meant. To know why a white whale Would challenge a boat, Sent chills down his spine And a lump to his throat. Or why such a beauty And child in distress, Would wear a red letter Upon her grey dress? Or why a proud soldier With bronze shield and spear, Would order a large Wooden horse to appear? And why would a princess In water remote, Rescue a child From a basket afloat? These questions he'd ask, But answers came none, So he stayed in his castle Alone and undone. But the problem was worse When he went on the street, For he'd constantly ask The people he'd meet For some sign or directions In voice filled with pain, But he could not read if He arrived when he came. And driving was out For it led to arrest, The moment the judge saw He couldn't read his test. He never saw movies Or shows vis a vis, Simply because He couldn't read the marquee. But the saddest of times And the most problematic, Were those when his offspring Would ask him emphatic For aid in their homework Or a written excuse But that's when the Count Would become a recluse. And pretend he was busy Or pretend he was mad, Which left all his children Bewildered and sad. For he was embarrassed As you well might guess, And he just could not bring Himself to confess To his wife or his children Or even a friend, That he could not decode Let alone comprehend. Yes, he ached in his heart And the pain wouldn't subside, But the thing that ached most Was a thing called his pride. And what good is pride? You surely can't eat it, Though it can eat you Unless you can beat it. Still he thought it was foolish To ruin a whole life, By avoiding his children His friends and his wife. So he looked in the mirror And stuck out his chest Tucked in his shirt And boldly confessed To the world and himself That he had been a fool, And could change his whole life If he went back to school. The idea was good But the one school in town, Was on the next street And he started to frown. For he thought that the townsfolk Might giggle with glee, When they saw him at nine And a quarter past three. And how would his children Respond to his quest? And could they withstand any Cruel, hateful jest? And would all his classmates View him as a creature When they saw that a student Was taller than teacher? He started to think Then he started to fear, And he knew that such thoughts He had to forswear. For when people start thinking What life might soon bring, They can scare themselves silly And not do a thing. Such thinking was thought And it came to his head, He could choose not to fear What was whispered or said. And that's what he chose And before his salvation, He had to obtain Some school information. So he walked down the street With slight hint of dread, That someone might read What went on in his head. No one turned; no one looked And there wasn't one blinker, For people can't know What goes on in your thinker. And once that was realized It gave him an inkling, That he was too old For such magical thinkling. The school office faced him He pushed down a feeling, And found that the teacher That morning was dealing Out smiles and a welcome And no hint or sneer, So the Count fully knew He had nothing to fear. "And how may I help you?" Her voice sweet and mild, "Are you here for yourself, Or here for your child?" "I am here for myself I wish to return, To the school of my youth I've decided to learn How to read and to write How to ease my distress, In very few words, How to be a success." "You've made the right choice We have classes for grownups, Now please follow me To the group of atone-ups." He entered to class Some turned with a jerk, First they stared; then they smiled, Then went on with their work. The Count was perplexed And he thought to withdraw, But after a moment He finally saw That by hiding so long From his own human race, None of the townsfolk Remembered his face. He was pleased, so he stayed All that day and that night, And he didn't leave school Till the world had turned bright. But when he came out He was free to proclaim, That Dribben Drobben von Strombom Could read his own name. He was glad, he was proud He had wings on his feet, And he practically danced Down the bright busy street. He looked at all signs They did not seem absurd, For now he could make out A letter; a word. But he came to his house With more joy than before, When he read his own name Upon his own door. He was starting to learn, He had taken a stride, But the thing he learned most, Was that proud beats out pride. And he thought of his books And he thought of his wife, And he thought of his children And he thought of his life. And he thought of himself And he had to concede, That if you keep trying, You're sure to succeed. |
Greening Down"Come and green down the garden,"
I said, laughing, my thoughts already on chartreuse leaves With orange veins fanning to their crispy umber extremities. "You shall sow a crop of winter vetch, While I mulch dead pepper stalks, Turning them under With my new red shovel." I waited for the incredulity in your eyes. "That is a space in which you rejoice, not I." I knew before I asked, but I will ever Love your eyes and the incredulity! The garden is my space, A space where opposites intermingle, And the mechanized underpinnings of Civilization, Are silenced by infinity. Here, I become creator and nurturer, Bent on improbable adventures Approaching wholeness with apprehension, Devising plans to outwit the cut worm and the white flies in their lairs. In this sacred space, I can dream the father king in me is roused from slumber, That the warrior in me has armed himself with dark desires, While mounting up for battle on a steady horse with good legs. But polarities also intrude into my garden And the paradoxes in me mock me and laugh and bump into one another, Challenging Life and Potential to be lived in a moment, As each offers to place its glory crown, Upon this golden child with golden hair. And I, like Paris and other would be heroes, Fearing to choose, Fearing that the warrior might not stir, That the wounded king will not heal, That I will stay desolate and broken And under the mercurial whim and wrathful gaze Of the goddess not chosen, Stand alone in my garden Again about to sow with seeds of ancient fear, Those shadowy recollections that haunt me and root me. So I soothe and compensate myself, By dreaming the spring into being, And another year Where I shall dare to truly love Through crop rotation and strivings, That will beat the vine bore at his game With diamatacious earth strategically placed. My garden is my way of being, And fills the emptiness. I, the provider, I, the purveyor, I, the partner in creation, Must quickly learn what can be learned From earth turned over And from seasons And from fallen leaves And from a new red shovel made of iron To insure myself another spring. "Excuse me, my dearest love, I have garden work to do." The BlizzardFlakes of snow
Barely perceptible, Delicate, seductive motives Suggesting only A coda Of white rage. Unsuspecting, We are lulled into ease With deceptive curtains of velvet and lace And a perfect silence. All is beauty, White on white, Snow flecks on brown branches, Cotton wisps on evergreens. Silent, frozen expositions On winter dreams, Hesitant themes From frost laden notes. And then the blaring confrontation- The blizzard snow. Suddenly, like trumpeting brass, Blasting mad triplets In arpeggios that cause the trees to tremble Following strains that wail, from a distant flute’s, Haunting, mysterious moans. Or, recapitulations, Like wildly beating curtains, Thrashing behind windows suddenly blown open. It is the wind that makes the difference. It is the wind that conducts The Master’s composition. From the Master’s podium. Toby's Song (Lyrics)
There's a silver moon that's rising,
On a snow bound silver hill, And the winter light makes crossroads, On the silver window sill. And I lie awake and wonder, As a chill sweeps up the stair, Will I wake up, and always find you there? Well you're sleeping now besides me, Looking every bit a queen, And to these sad eyes I'm seeing, How you looked at seventeen. And I wonder what you're dreaming, As I touch your auburn hair, Will I wake up, and always find you there? Let the only thing between us be our love, Hear it whisper in the silence of my longing, A perfect love that fits like fingers fit into a glove, A love that silently embraces you till morning. I'm a man who'll always want you, Though I haven't said it much, Still my eyes caress your softness, Can't you feel it from their touch? But the lord knows that I love you, Cause he's heard it in my prayer, Let me wake up, and always find her there. Please, let me wake up, and always find her there. Second Hand People (Lyrics)
For people who do not know how,
To east the pain of losing, now Reflect on time in quiet space, And feel the need for finding grace. A single lover reaching out, For moments that will turn about, The emptiness within the soul, That says to you come make me whole. Refrain: And we who need a place to fit, To prove we’re not inadequate, Seek second chances with a few, Whose second chance is also due, All second chancers seeking light, With silent prayers to get it right, And daily putting to the test, The truth that needs a place to rest. And those who comfort find in pain, Will seek out ones who are the same, And others will conclude the creed That opposite is what they need. And I will look within at “why?” And say, “no more for now,” and cry, Hoping that someone will see, The second chancing worth of me. Refrain: And we who need a place to fit, To prove we’re not inadequate, Seek second chances with a few, Whose second chance is also due, All second chancers seeking light, With silent prayers to get it right, And daily putting to the test, The truth that needs a place to rest. Lilacs
While pruning lilacs here in May,
I think, how sad that on this day, Across the world, some young man dies, Who in some foreign field now lies, That he shall never live to sing, While pruning lilacs in the spring. And generations, never born, Left desolate on this lovely morn, (Are souls awash with heaven’s grace, Yet never one shall bear his face,) With family, shall bring a bloom, To place upon his earthen tomb. His crimson blood, most like the blooms, Came seeping out of scarlet wounds, Into the sand where nothing grew, Till watered by vermillion dew. A hero whom I’ll never know, I pray from him some lilacs grow. SADIE'S REIGN
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