Friday, June 29, 2012

THE POET, A FABLE


In many ways, he became like everyone else.
After all, a poet cannot eat his words.
Often, he hid behind the curtains in his room, shuttered in the dark.

One night he dreamt of a bird, a starling I suppose,
gliding on long black wings.
He longed to follow that bird

so he stretched out his arms as he lay in his bed,
and drifted up into the sky.
At first he was afraid as he looked at the world below

until he realized there was no power left on earth
to pull him down, that gravity didn't exist in dreams.
That it would be impossible to fall.




Monday, June 18, 2012

WALTER CRONKITE DEAD AT 92

His hair turned a shade of gray
even before the assassination of JFK.
He told us the president was dead
between ads for Nescafe

and Wonder bread.
He pronounced Vietnam an unwinnable war.
Some say he was the original talking head
but he was so much more.

We hear the chorus and are about to sing:
'Stop the killing, put an end to war.'
But we haven't learned a goddamn thing.

We hear the chorus and are about to sing:
'Stop the killing, put an end to war.'
But we haven't learned a goddamn thing.


Tuesday, June 12, 2012

WE HAVE NO HYMNS TO GIVE HIM

He feeds on straw in the dark
chambers of his heart.
There are no nail holes in his hands.
He leaves no bread
crumbs for us follow. He is no Savior.
We have no hymns to give him.

He is ordinary.
He makes mistakes.
He is no icon guiding us on a snowy night
out of the frigid darkness into the light.
He knows how to fail.
He is one of us.





Thursday, June 7, 2012

THE RIDERS OF THE NIGHT


Envoys have been sent out into the night,
rider to rider, with no end in sight.

They turn one to the other,
brother to brother, the riders of the night.

They come from a land of war,
a land of poverty and blight.

With no instruments to guide them,
they fly by lunar light.

In a field of ghosts, they close their eyes.
But find no rest amid the cries.

And so they move on further into the night,
rider to rider, with no end in sight.






Tuesday, June 5, 2012

QUAY WINSTON CHURCHILL


A fish hovers near the surface
of the river
and then turns and waves its tail
while I try to focus on the depths.
But the Marne is dark and green.

Late each night,
I warn my brother
to look out for knifes
and volatile lovers.
But the Marne is dark and green.

And like a ghost
on a departing train,
you wave and walk away
while I try to say goodbye.
But the Marne is dark and green.




I CANNOT TAKE IT FROM THEM


Outside children are laughing in the dark.
While amongst them a woman is dancing

(almost floating),
so beautiful, dressed in white.

Still I wish they would go,
so I could get some sleep.

But they won't. This is there night.
I cannot take it from them.

It’s too late for that now.
They won’t be coming back anyhow.





THE TROUBADOUR

for Townes Van Zandt

The hounds had the scent, but no one said a word
So, he went on out into that wilderness alone
And found a herd
Of wild horses and made a home

Later he tumbled while riding in the dark
But even as he fell, he hummed
To the chorus of a lullaby
That he once learned by heart

Rumor has it that he’s gone upriver (far away from here)
While others say he’s orbiting
Above Houston, preparing to parachute in

I say he’s the guy with the grin
On his face, hovering just there
Floating on nothing but air






Monday, June 4, 2012

THE DRAG QUEEN


He puts on a padded bra and then carefully applies lipstick,
rouge and powder blue eye shadow to his face,

topping it all off
with a platinum blonde wig and a white bridal gown.

Veiled and ready now, he makes his way
to the stage and takes his final vows.


A GIRL CALLED HEAVEN


She spoke to me from out of the darkness,
a prompter whispering from off stage.

She cued me to my longing.
I confessed I was trapped in a kind of cage.

She said her name was Heaven.
There was magic in what she said.

She spoke to me from out of the darkness
as I walked beneath the shadows of the dead.