Invaders to your land,
they mock the helping hand.
They ‘go’ to Germany,
where homes and food are free,
where Merkel gives dictates
to all the weaker states.
Part guinea pig, part cow,
she could teach Hitler how.
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(After a Black & White Photograph by Jared Carter)
seventy years ago? A familyof WASPS set in their ways? The leafless treein front was just a sapling then. Despairdid not weigh heavy on the owner’s brow,a man who paid his taxes, loved his wife,and who in ‘44 gave up his lifefor freedom. Who today cares or knows how?And now the house is boarded up,…
Good night, Marcus. Blow out the light
the stars’ alarm now fills the night.Heaven speaks to us in tongues,a barbarian’s fear-stricken shriekyour Latin cannot understand.Eternal terror, dark and bleak,reigns over our frail mortal land.You hear the babble of waterfalls.Relentless elements will drownyour letters until the world’s four wallscollapse and then come tumbling down.What can we do? Shake in the air,blow in the…
No creatures are as fine as cats,
in the wake of more curtain tears.The gifts they bring: toads, sparrows, rats!And how they know the shingled roof,the long arms of an ancient elm,with lives that never overwhelm.Perhaps that’s why they’re so aloof.Immortalized by Rilke, Blake,companion to old cranks and spinsters,to janitors and prime ministers,they’re there to greet you when you wake.
This is the last goodbye, the final salute.
the ensign is assisted down the chuteso neither flank nor limb can catch a snag.Then at last his sunken eyes see light,and he sets foot into the promised land.Effulgent plankton there redeems his sight,Elysium of bright seaweed and sand.How glorious his underwater grave,even though above, the stone-faced captainsees a guilty spectre in each wave,and dejection…
This God-gifted dawn,
and dew-dampened clover—wakes the drowsy senses,telling them to proclaimjoy and adoration.But the mind sees beetlesslain along a path,and wishes for more clarity.
At the onset of grey time, gathering like storm
coal-black birds circle the chalcedony of the sky,looking for mercy where Gabriel would have greeted them.And, in the conjured waves worshipping the other shore,the shaman of secrets looks into his burnished stone,cast down again by the gentle sword of his own death—for the apocalyptic horses are ever neighing.Seven years old, I see him weeping in…