Moonglow

Moonglow

Under a full moon’s wrestling beams through cobby grey clouds

The village is ghostly

and mostly blue, like my mood.

Not so much eerie, as weird is the moonglow at 4 a.m. in January.

Standstill.

The world has stopped:

A short reprieve from distracting views

And news of who’s screwing who

and other non-truths.

The moonglow is happy-sad and peacefully disturbing.

Even dog-barks end in echoless stop.

Like everything in January at 4 a.m.

Under the moonglow.

Frozen.

In time, everything ends.

So the full moon is timely

The blue snow sublimely

Whispering the great unspoken truth.

Oak

Oak

How patient must I be to be

as patient as the tree ‘fore me.

He stands and stares and doesn’t care

(it seems) that I must move and it behooves me to say

his patience is trying mine.

Fine.

I’ll stand here too and sometimes bend a little

Or thrash about or out and out scream at passersby,

But no, it’s not the same for me, tree.

I cannot spend one hundred years like you

To do nothing but defend myself,

Avenge myself, sleep and wake and never delve

Into other occupations;

I haven’t the patience or inclinations

Or subtle consternations as you.

Yet you’re magnificent and I am not

And ought to be so much more for my troubles.

I saw an elderly couple (almost as old as you)

Stop beneath your belly to admire your magnificence.

I desire of it,

Sit and stare and tire of it,

For I can’t ever hope to be

As great as ever you, old tree.

Not So Funny

Not so Funny

In great distress you tell me that the planets aren’t aligned

So I tell you that the problem is Uranus

And I laugh

But you don’t

So I moon you but you don’t get it

So I explain and you tell me I’m an ass

Which I think is funny but you’re mad

Because you said a joke without wanting to.

Funny how things have changed.

Finally

Finally

He keeps his regrets trapped in an old tin cigarette case

Which lies under a pile of worn-out socks in a dresser drawer

That sticks.

He coughs up blood and guts and spits smutty curses at Polaroids

He took of sluts who posed stoned sucking bottles of Wild Irish Rose

And pricks.

His breath reeks of lies and contempt and unkempt morals

Which wheeze over blackened teeth and dribble down his chin

Into a rat’s nest beard where his tongue reaches down

And licks the stains left by never-healing wounds.

 He curses his memories,

Rehearses his future and butchers his past

Then, for lasting effect: pulls the trigger.

Poet

I’m not rich: I’m a poet.

I’m not famous: I’m a poet.

Haven’t you heard? I can take a word

And find another that sounds just like it

(except for right there maybe),

But baby I’m cool

Don’t fool yourself

And stop drooling at the size of my words

Oh yes! My words are small at the start

But I know the art of benevolent wordplay

And dare say display sizeable lexicality

And I’m a cunning linguist.

Just when you think I’m saying one thing,

I’ll tell you that I won things

At the fair as I whacked the mole

(if you know what I mean)

There. I did it again.

I’m not feared: I’m a poet.

I’m hardly revered: I’m a poet.

But not a know-it-all

with the where-with-all

to build a big life and not blow it.

I build rhythm and rhyme

And might sound quite sublime

But all my wordly possessions

don’t amount to much

Which is fine, for I’m a poet.

I’m a poet. How do I know it?

Well you might see delinquent youth

but I will see the naked truth

Where you hear thunder in the sky

I hear a tortured you and I

Two old people holding hands?

Enthalpic powered wedding bands

I feel the sound of broken hearts

Where beauty lies in two-bit tarts

And see in nature desperate pleas

For us to drop down on our knees and pray.

When you taste sour

I find you sweet

I taste my food and you just eat

And eating away at me is the darkness on this earth

The constant darkness

that no-one seems to give a shit about

and they roll in that shit and come over

and put their shit on me

and stink up my life

and they leave their shit behind when they go.

I’m a poet

because plants are alive

And diving stock markets make no difference to them

Or to the sun or to the stars

or to the way I feel when I see you in deep thought

when I feel I ought to help you

but chose instead to hide and watch because you’re mesmerizing.

I’m a poet

Because love doesn’t die, it just changes,

Because emotions have endless ranges

And the danger of loving is losing

And a poet lives the bruising;

Loves the bruising

I am not unscarred: I’m a poet.

I am on guard: I’m a poet.
Spread the word: I’m a poet.

No Thanks

This Thanksgiving weekend offered us the perfect day: 10/10/10....3 tens, and tension mounts as I count the days since a truly perfect day. 

Again and away through the bibulous tide of the village rules by which I must abide I'm tense to ride it out, and shout "FOR FUCK'S SAKES!!!" at nothing in particular and only in my mind, for out loud I shroud my disdain by calmly asking for the gravy to be passed.

This Thanksgiving weekend I am the turkey.  Stuffed and baked and torn at and fought over and I offer only a wishbone.

Alone.

So others may fight with their might to o'erpower the other, their brother perhaps, and I lapse into the disgrace that is the race in this village, to lose.