THE
ONLY SEASON
THAT
WE’LL KNOW
With clammy airs and chill-spots,
and dervish winds
that prankster around corners,
this half-life of mud and sodden
grasses,
along with predictable patches
of flecked and crusted snows,
neither fully thawed nor frozen.
How odd, then, that this in-between,
sad-sack world of dog-fur-dirty drifts
and icy, grey mounds (duly discarded
piles
of weather against the side of the
house)
means Spring is here!
DOCTOR’S
ORDER
Some restraint
was applied
When removing
the eye
(with screams heard
down the hall.)
“It’s not for
the squeamish,”
said Doctor Sid
Beamish.
“It’s best we
all play ball.”
DRIFTING
Voices gather
in the street,
like fluff
in an old man’s
coat pocket.
MOMENTS
LIKE THESE
Waves upon the
seashore,
Sand dunes by
the sea.
Blue sky paints the
heavens,
White birds soaring
free.
WE NEED A SMALLER PLANET
One not needing
bedtime stories.
A world more
compact—editable.
More reasonable, one not given to reprobation,
or to fits of
teeth-chattering agues and colic.
Where there are
no sudden eruptions
of the skin, no
blemishes of unwanted youth,
no last-minute
trials or impertinent challenges.
We need a world
that’s staid and made up,
like an old
woman’s flat: laid out and orderly,
with preserves
in the pantry, soup ladle in bowl,
sensible placemats,
and a single cat.
A world that’s
clean and tidy, easily managed.
One that’s as warm
and cozy a place as can be had
in the time
remaining. Mercury, perhaps?
NEWS OF THE WORLD #1
“Now, Eight
would be great! So fill up my plate.
With Six as my
fate, it’s never too late.
But, while at
the daycare, won’t they all stare?
Oh, life's
so unfair!” (It’s done on a dare.)
Our Jeff is at
home, still feeding his jones;
at fifty-odd
stone, he really can’t roam.
While just down
the street lives Candy-Girl, sweet.
Her toffee-skin
treat he never will eat.
CROPLANDS ARE PLENTY (Many are empty.)
While space-age
gentry wave at re-entry.
When flown into
space, they strafe 'cross our race,
with each saving face like some Great War ace.
When microbes
and gas beat hot suns and glass,
we’ll all go to
mass and STAY OFF THE GRASS!
Praying for
angles (hopes there to dangle),
we must
untangle all that we mangle.
Those Ice cubes
in trays—are cold of a day
when all that
we say went the other way.
Soon, icebergs’
last mash no ropes can they lash,
while SATELLITES SMASH into space-yard trash.
UMBRELLAS IN SPACE (like rubbers in place)
may well shade
our face but won’t win the race.
For holes in
latex (please read the fine text),
like belts of Semtex, blow up what comes
next.
…..
BOUTIQUE WILD ZONES, remote-controlled death-drones.
Brave bombers
phone home. Soon eBay sells bones.
Long-distance
killing: A geek’s life, thrilling!
Heart’s blood
congealing. JACKALS ARE MILLING.
Car bombs and
bedlam. Bankers make mayhem.
Pandemic
medicine? All hopes are grim.
And landmines? Don’t cough! They tend to go off.
“Oh, don’t be a
toff!” The dead schoolboy scoffs.
Elephants
forget now. Whales beach, somehow.
Our children
have rows. (Their guns go Pow-Pow!)
Wrong-way
pigeons? Or a leopard’s skinnin'?
Default’s our sinnin'. And God’s not winnin'.
Black carbon
still leaks from mountain top peaks.
Leaders
still speak while caterpillars creak.
Will waters
retreat in Red Sea’s defeat
or cover us
neat, and not miss a beat?
…..
OUR OCEANS ARE BLUE. But is that still true?
Won’t skies now
eschew their claim to that hue?
All water, all air, and land that is fair
Need more than a prayer from those who
are there!
Dark Stone Light Stone
Gather
the deep, the dark, the hidden.
Gather
the old, the lame, unbidden.
Bring
these gifts to the seashore caves,
upon
the dawn and breaking waves.
Then
gather the tree, the flower, air;
gathering
such breaths, found everywhere!
Next, take
these o’er the rising tide.
On
golden ships you soon will ride.
And
sail bright waters to lands unknown
and build
bright castles with patterned stone.
Build new kingdoms upon new shores.
Build
new freedoms for evermore.
…..
And call the light to darkness.
And call on time's apprentice.
And call the land a heaven.
And call yourselves forgiven.
MEMORY: FULL
Store it on your hard dive
or on your memory stick.
Store it on a CD,
on some electric trick.
Store it on some paper,
across a yellowed page.
Store it in that notebook
you kept for such an age.
Store it in a temple.
Burn it on a pyre.
Gift it to a greater god
to store it that much higher.
.....
But store it all quick!
And store it up soon.
Beneath the bright sun
and the waxing moon.
THREADS
Sunlit spider’s weave—
just in time,
across the
darkened path.
REGRET REDUX
What will you
do
now at the end?
How might you
fix
that which must
mend?
 |
"I can make it rain over there. Why not here? WHY?" |
I HOPE TO BEG THE READER’S PARDON by including in this post a few brief poems that I’ve bagged over the years. Some are trophy-heads (if I may be so bold!) Others are adornments and nick-knacks. Which is which I leave, as always, for the reader’s discretion.
Cheers, Jake.
FREE JULIAN ASSANGE! FREE JULIAN ASSANGE! FREE JULIAN ASSANGE!
 | |||
| Homo faber (sigh...) | |
