POSH POEMS AND TONEY TOMES

Choices

I’d fancy an eye

to see the sky.

Of course a nose

to smell the rose.

And an ear—

your voice to hear.

And some hands

to sift the sands.

I’d rather my hair

grew better there.

(Though I prefer

a skin of fur.)

Or a tail.

Or wings to sail!

Or some claws

and toothy jaws.

I would fly or swim,

all on a whim.

Why, in the sea

a fish I’d be!

Under earth—

an earthworm’s girth.

In the air,

a bee so fair.

I would come alone

or come along.

I’d come to stay

not far away.

I’d go round

in all I found.

Not find ways

for other days.

Armistice By The Sea

In the wider course of men,

long-ploughed fields and lands

raked by centuries of metal and bone

fall beneath the sky’s dimming light—

their course is now sought

in rows of golden mirrors.

But it’s to the sea we must turn now,

with its unpredictable waves,

for the sea shows us where we’re bound.

It's waters reveal 
the long ages of our being.

Salt-flecked foam is laid 
like gifts along the sand,

like strings of pearls

for gill-lost creatures.

So that we'll remember the waves.

And recall them, 
even as we pace along that shore,

even as our ways are culled,

again and again, 
by the ever-changing sea.

Carbon Feet  
It was seen as Future’s retreat,  
And really—no meaner a feat! 
For a rock, it might have been neat.
(Baby’s out with the bathwater.)

Now science is mostly right there.

(Of course, it is mostly laid bare.)

Out of the lab, should we still care?

There is nothing left on offer.

So next comes the jeopardy spin,

To see who will finally win.

With indulgences there for sin,

Cold fingers hold onto our slips.

Oh! We had parceled out it all!

Like gamblers not heeding the call.

And we did what we could to stall,

Then we ran to cash-in our chips.

We relied on the past for truth.

But we gave that task to our youth.

Oh, we’d handed to them our noose,

Our foreheads starting to glisten.

In the end, neither fortune nor fame.

In the end, we’d only declaim.

In the end, we’d call out each name.

But no one was left to listen.

Moment

A milky sky,

pale in a deep

winter’s evening.

Over distant black trees

it’s snowing swirls

of icy sugar snow.

And your breath comes

in puffs of soft vapour

that hang in the air

a moment

Was That My Inside Voice?

Let’s microwave the little tots!

No more nappies or training pots.

And nail their flesh upon the door.

Let Angel Death come here for more.

Scald old women in boiling clay.

Eat their pantries bare today.

Throw old men from hilltops high.

Steal their robes from where they lie.

Poison water for the sick.

Add powered glass, a final trick!

Treat the weak to sharp axe blows.

Let them die in winter snows.

…...

Become strongest of the strong

and pretend to get along.

Then claw and bite and crush your way.

And live to live another day!

Father Doesn’t Know Best,

Anymore

From cardigans and pipes

on to home-school and wipes,

Father doesn’t know best, anymore.

From king of the castle

to home-maker hassle.

(“I can’t wait till they open the door!”)

From Leave it to Beaver.

(Ah, sexy June Cleaver!)

You’re on-call now 24/7.

From a God-given role,

the house dice have been stole.

(Now that sweet spot’s found just in heaven.)

And with moms on the make,

they’ll soon pick up that rake!

“Oh, well. How was your day today, dear?”

And your children commend

your new stylin’ apron.

You are finding it all a bit queer.

For what Father once said,

to the clan that he led,

was written down and carved into stone.

But you wake now from dreams

Of a world filled with screams,

And of dying in the dark alone.

.....

Such reminders are clear,

for the time—it draws near,

and too soon we’ll be moving along.

And those things that were true,

all those things meant for you,

mean you’ll never be sung of in song.

The Lonely Pube

Dark and tightly curled

like Oswald nowhere near the grassy knoll.

...

Rifle down.

Your cited comrades

long gone.

You stand exposed

along the white rim of the world.

Your time is over.

Your days of humid leisure

are over.

The compact between bodies has expired.

And the heated exchanges of the past

give way to a colder war.

……

Commissions found you acted alone.

You battle time and loneliness alone.

Fair pleasures give way to darker rites—

You remember you once belonged 
to thousands.

You had a role and a purpose.

You shared a common project.

Now? You’re shunned.

Out of place.

Looked at askance.

No one is sure (not even you)

just where it is you belong.

The trust you took for granted

has turned as cool as porcelain.

The engendering fountain you adorned

is beyond your reach.

.....

The sun rises and the moon sets.

Stars wink in and out of existence.

It is time to ask:

Do you stop to think

of all the others like you

come before and those

who will come after?

And do you really think you’re alone?

Do you only see your future

in your past?

Or are you able to imagine

something completely different?

A Dangerous Gravity 

A child walks where a man falls. 

A cry reveals a city. 

Tears wash away empires.  

There’s no one left to pity. 

The air licks a candle's flame

Where two lovers breathe at night.

But someone waits in darkness

who is jealous for a fight.

A man reaches for a blade

to carve lines in history.
A woman reaches for the same
to answer a mystery.

Children laid upon a stone

in lands soon torn asunder.

A child’s blood is cast upon
the earth; it shakes in thunder.

Great ships cross divining skies.

Now old patterns will not hold.

Old charts crumble into dust,

in a tale too often told:

Worlds held above all others,

in filigreed skies of stars.

Thrones are placed upon the land
that make what is dearest far.
.....

Round about lay entropy,

And the calling of the cards.
(What's left is for the dealer
as he sends away his guards.)

Alpine Poetry

Write to the top, always keeping

the summit in sight.

Rest only as long as you have to.

Pay no mind to the other climbers.

(Ignore their flags and ribbons

and blowing pages.)

Keep looking at the top.

See where it touches the sky.

Write to that.

Climb past all the camps with their lighted tents 
and comforts—

You have only your own way to go.

And when you finally reach the peak,

having used up the last of your rope,

look back from where you’ve come,

then look to where it is you have to go.

Remember, mountains have

more than one side

and you’ll need

to write your way

down, as well.

Turkey Dinner

With All the Trimmings

Like a vampire full of blood

or some angel 
down on her wings;

or like a king weary of his subjects--

you lay in the puddle

of gravy and meat bits

that was your plate,

grateful for having consumed

more calories

than a boatload of refugees.

Life is good.

Death is better.

Who knew?

WHEELHOUSES                 

He was in his wheelhouse   

as quiet as a mouse.  

Day broke—it was no joke!

Just like a thousand china plates.

She was in her cellar,

kissing with her feller.   

Thunder clapped; the walls rapped! 

In time for supper with The Fates.

Captain once was able,

setting all the tables.

‘Till cups chipped, napkins ripped.

(So much for sailing to the moon.)

Is that ever-after

laughing to the rafters?

Devil’s sup? Captain’s cup?

But still the goose will cook too soon.

……….

Raining’s pitter-patter,

wetting all the matter.

Flowers bloomed! Rockets zoomed!

What are we serving at the wake?

Lastly, bits of laughter,

taunting what comes after.

Who's begot? I forgot.

Don't leave the latch up by mistake.

Here's another load of poems I found dumped by the side of the road last night. I don't know who keeps litter-bugging my house; I wish they would stop. It's very frustrating to find old poems fluttering around your property. And embarrassing.  Papers and word bits find their way to the front door. Some try to slide their way through cracks and crevices and chinks in the wall's mortar joints. They gad about, catching on the window sills and shutters, shamelessly draping themselves over the front bushes and stuffing my mailbox. They make such a mess! They're worse than toilet-rolling your Grade Five teacher's house at Halloween! What am I supposed to do with them? I have no choice other than to (shamelessly) pass them on to you, dear reader. Sorry about that! So I'll get my rake out and put this pile onto your doorstep. Read 'em or add 'em to your compost bin. 

They're all oldies except WHEELHOUSES. I did some editing, and I find myself comfortable with them--they're like an old pair of slippers (if I wore slippers) that keep my tootsies warm and cozy. If they do anything like that for you, I'm glad. 

I won't talk too much about them. They're pretty straight forward. TURKEY DINNER still gives me gas. WHEELHOUSES took a while to write. ALPINE gives me airs. And for those who are waay too young--FATHER DOESN'T is based on a TV show of the late 1950s-early 60s called "Father Knows Best" Ahh! The good old days! That's why they're old days, I guess....

Cheers,
Jake