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| Dec 16 2008, 12:57 PM EST (current) | Dickpoet | 1 word added, 1 word deleted |
| Dec 13 2008, 12:30 PM EST | Dickpoet | 1 word added, 3 words deleted |
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Some more up to date work
Lepidoptera
The star-strewn night glimmers
a matrix of light;
a buckshot colander,
the sky-dome projects its dreams
to the eyes of those who imagine
the water carrier,
the aged crab,
that centaur with his drawn bow
and the scorpion
but who sees the butterfly?
Look and you might find
its wings spread over black:
a benediction, which is why
it is not counted.
The old gods were vengeful.
No place in their realm for a butterfly,
rather the ones that they condemned,
else blasted to the heavens.
The butterfly did nothing
but brighten the meadow,
cause poets to wonder,
lead the fool to stray
to find illusion;
a flashlight
in destiny's darkness.
The Shadow of the Bear
Take four paces, nod three times
and turn,
then repeat.
I do not need to see this, yet I do.
The awful fascination of a mind destroyed
draws like an execution
the hidden face of nothing.
four paces, nod three times
and turn.
Repeat
the end of a story
that had no beginning.
No more the great ice bear
but a bombed-out skull
that nods and turns,
nods and turns, never to know
the blues and violets of a white land
without land; a concrete grey routine
that day by day
provides food,
comfort
and still those four paces
and still the three nods;
just do it again
and do it again
forever.
Note: this poem is based on a polar bear I saw some time ago in a zoo compound.
The bear was repeating the same actions over and over again:
a process known as stereotyping. It is perhaps best if I do not name the zoo.
The Genesis of Language
Where words once flew wild
language was born.
It missed its target,
a misshapen bullet of verb
flew wide and failed,
ricocheted to nothing
and the world began.
The Green Man
Each spring he arrives with a smile
and a promise neverseldom kept;
hair flowered with fresh blossoms,
his lips parted in greeting.
Profligate summer's lecherous leer
distorts his face to a semblance of smile:
a mocking filigree of wheat sways
to his breath, his warmth the sun's.
Autumn sees him mellow, stern
to the approach of what must come, now toned
to russet and gold, eyes acute
to the slow advance of age
and now winter, bare-branched
root-entangled mop of bramble,
his rheumy eyes weak with memories
of fungus and halted growth.
Do not fear for him, he will be reborn.
Fear for him on his return with steady tread
and flaming eye. He is not dead,
he sleeps each insult to a dream
that on awakening he will repay.
Night Trip
We are between here and there.
The windows betray no sign;
it might be anywhere for all I know.
At night all places look the same,
just lights, streets of houses,
a few shops and stuff
too indistinct to call or name.
The mush of tyre, a glint of rail
and the moon's pale light
ghosts hedgerows, outlines trees
in white on black.
What time is it? It doesn't matter.
It could be any time or none at all;
a clutter of events,
a stream of headlights destined
for some other place. Heads droop,
ears numbed to recorded tunes
as the road rolls
and sleep will not come, just
lights lights lights,
the night passing against time,
destination's blank canvas
captured by a half dream,
imagined places
never seen.
Lepidoptera
The star-strewn night glimmers
a matrix of light;
a buckshot colander,
the sky-dome projects its dreams
to the eyes of those who imagine
the water carrier,
the aged crab,
that centaur with his drawn bow
and the scorpion
but who sees the butterfly?
Look and you might find
its wings spread over black:
a benediction, which is why
it is not counted.
The old gods were vengeful.
No place in their realm for a butterfly,
rather the ones that they condemned,
else blasted to the heavens.
The butterfly did nothing
but brighten the meadow,
cause poets to wonder,
lead the fool to stray
to find illusion;
a flashlight
in destiny's darkness.
The Shadow of the Bear
Take four paces, nod three times
and turn,
then repeat.
I do not need to see this, yet I do.
The awful fascination of a mind destroyed
draws like an execution
the hidden face of nothing.
four paces, nod three times
and turn.
Repeat
the end of a story
that had no beginning.
No more the great ice bear
but a bombed-out skull
that nods and turns,
nods and turns, never to know
the blues and violets of a white land
without land; a concrete grey routine
that day by day
provides food,
comfort
and still those four paces
and still the three nods;
just do it again
and do it again
forever.
Note: this poem is based on a polar bear I saw some time ago in a zoo compound.
The bear was repeating the same actions over and over again:
a process known as stereotyping. It is perhaps best if I do not name the zoo.
The Genesis of Language
Where words once flew wild
language was born.
It missed its target,
a misshapen bullet of verb
flew wide and failed,
ricocheted to nothing
and the world began.
The Green Man
Each spring he arrives with a smile
and a promise neverseldom kept;
hair flowered with fresh blossoms,
his lips parted in greeting.
Profligate summer's lecherous leer
distorts his face to a semblance of smile:
a mocking filigree of wheat sways
to his breath, his warmth the sun's.
Autumn sees him mellow, stern
to the approach of what must come, now toned
to russet and gold, eyes acute
to the slow advance of age
and now winter, bare-branched
root-entangled mop of bramble,
his rheumy eyes weak with memories
of fungus and halted growth.
Do not fear for him, he will be reborn.
Fear for him on his return with steady tread
and flaming eye. He is not dead,
he sleeps each insult to a dream
that on awakening he will repay.
Night Trip
We are between here and there.
The windows betray no sign;
it might be anywhere for all I know.
At night all places look the same,
just lights, streets of houses,
a few shops and stuff
too indistinct to call or name.
The mush of tyre, a glint of rail
and the moon's pale light
ghosts hedgerows, outlines trees
in white on black.
What time is it? It doesn't matter.
It could be any time or none at all;
a clutter of events,
a stream of headlights destined
for some other place. Heads droop,
ears numbed to recorded tunes
as the road rolls
and sleep will not come, just
lights lights lights,
the night passing against time,
destination's blank canvas
captured by a half dream,
imagined places
never seen.
