INVITED
It was no accident my coming here.
For they must had known long before
I wandered to their farmhouse near
that soon I’d knock upon their door
and wait until the storm would clear.
Call it more than a good neighbor’s sense
in snow to leave a porch lamp lighted.
Or post the sign upon the picket fence
for those in need are all invited.
Fate could find no better coincidence.
It was no accident my coming here.
For they must had known long before
I wandered to their farmhouse near
that soon I’d knock upon their door
and wait until the storm would clear.
Call it more than a good neighbor’s sense
in snow to leave a porch lamp lighted.
Or post the sign upon the picket fence
for those in need are all invited.
Fate could find no better coincidence.
FINE ART
It is more about tasting fine wines
while sitting and listening to local jazz,
or introducing well-dressed wives
who stand with fancy minks while posing
for the who’s who in well-to-do magazines,
or all the experts and critics discussing techniques
to docents, directors, and patrons disclosing
the latest collection of Chinese antiques
among the proud, the pomp, and the pizzazz.
Or dinner receptions with the latest book signing,
while not forgetting the customary handshake
when cutting the purple ribbon or slice of cake.
The call for juried art for art’s sake.
PLATO’S CAVE
Of course the rooms are filled with shadows
while laser lights and computers have proven
more cost effective than fires. Yet cardboard
cut-outs and the curtains have remained the same.
As well as those old lies that trees are real,
that the way out really goes somewhere,
that math leads more than circles,
and that the Wizard himself is behind the curtains
keeping the whole domino world from collapsing.
Yet only a few of them mostly poets dare climb
the arduous way out as most prefer
to sit and talk about food or sports
and have learned to love the rope
and accept some back door reality.
SYLVIA
I hear they have placed
a pretty blue plaque
high above your flat
so that tourists can find you
and say that this is the spot
where you killed yourself.
Lucky girl, you modern Sappho
to take the quantum leap
like a comet to take your place
among the darkest regions of empty space
with a brilliance that few can keep,
and even less the mind to know
where no dull planet can perturb you.
As fallen flowers have no faces.
FIRE FLIES
They glitter and glow like stars,
the fire flies we chase in summer sky.
When we catch them in our hand
there is much we cannot understand.
What power made them glow and why
the ones we catch and place in jars
will not shine as if they somehow refuse
until we open the jars and turn them loose.
But just like us whether a fly or kid
no light shines under glass or lid.
A COUNTRY MILE
Mixed with tobacco juice
and red summer clay
it came from the edge
of the cornfield.
The clout that soured
past the unplowed field
smashed into the red barn
scattering the cawing crows.
It is more about tasting fine wines
while sitting and listening to local jazz,
or introducing well-dressed wives
who stand with fancy minks while posing
for the who’s who in well-to-do magazines,
or all the experts and critics discussing techniques
to docents, directors, and patrons disclosing
the latest collection of Chinese antiques
among the proud, the pomp, and the pizzazz.
Or dinner receptions with the latest book signing,
while not forgetting the customary handshake
when cutting the purple ribbon or slice of cake.
The call for juried art for art’s sake.
PLATO’S CAVE
Of course the rooms are filled with shadows
while laser lights and computers have proven
more cost effective than fires. Yet cardboard
cut-outs and the curtains have remained the same.
As well as those old lies that trees are real,
that the way out really goes somewhere,
that math leads more than circles,
and that the Wizard himself is behind the curtains
keeping the whole domino world from collapsing.
Yet only a few of them mostly poets dare climb
the arduous way out as most prefer
to sit and talk about food or sports
and have learned to love the rope
and accept some back door reality.
SYLVIA
I hear they have placed
a pretty blue plaque
high above your flat
so that tourists can find you
and say that this is the spot
where you killed yourself.
Lucky girl, you modern Sappho
to take the quantum leap
like a comet to take your place
among the darkest regions of empty space
with a brilliance that few can keep,
and even less the mind to know
where no dull planet can perturb you.
As fallen flowers have no faces.
FIRE FLIES
They glitter and glow like stars,
the fire flies we chase in summer sky.
When we catch them in our hand
there is much we cannot understand.
What power made them glow and why
the ones we catch and place in jars
will not shine as if they somehow refuse
until we open the jars and turn them loose.
But just like us whether a fly or kid
no light shines under glass or lid.
A COUNTRY MILE
Mixed with tobacco juice
and red summer clay
it came from the edge
of the cornfield.
The clout that soured
past the unplowed field
smashed into the red barn
scattering the cawing crows.