December Poems

The Procedure

I admire the surgical skill with which

You performed the amputation

I see no foreseeable risk

Of a subsequent infection.

Pet names have been euthanized

The quarantine on memories seems sealed

If some erupt I will certainly, as advised, cauterize

With red hot steel.

The symptoms will persist, that I foresee
Insomnia, loss of appetite, walking in a daze

No concentration, apathy…
Time will heal more fish in the sea, and other clichés.

No pharmacy balm to numb this. Alcohol!

There's the rub, antiseptic, that burns as it cleans.

Damn the side effects to hell.

Let the flames begin.

For Marc

When Bolan made to play,

In a forest hushed,

Breathing elementals sat

In leafy beds,

Gentle, curious,

In still evening air.

No enemy scent and so they settle in

Relax in warm comfort and wait.

The mists conspire a while

And glow, anticipate.

Then in time they hear: chooga chooga chooga

Cat Black and Beltane Walk

The sky was sleek and indigo

A fine grain field of blinking stars

Some sweet smell

Of jasmine or thyme

A tiny waterfall

Is in the know

Cool moss crickets chirp and buzz in the breeze
Giggling water burps

Leaves spin round between wet moonlit stones

Barefoot girls in white dresses look for

Tadpoles in the pools

Shadows of the knotty trees

What is this place called? I ask

The Imp just holds her breathe, puffs out her cheeks

Blows me a raspberry and runs away.

“The devil!” I say, as she looks back, wanting to be chased on a spree.

I stroke my white beard, and see Mischief, that nimble lad, will oblige.

I light my pipe and reminisce, in smoky reverie.

Sweet Soft Death

They tempt us, O Thanatos, with Mayan calendars and Y2K

I’ll bang you as they whimper ‘God Save Us!’, and march a fool’s parade

Before I’d have to descend into the catacombs where they store the fruit of skulls

A library that is, with shelves of tomes, the world, my oyster rotting in its shell

Worm-eaten smell of must, gouged out holes and rust.

But now, I just “Wiki” it, and avoid the dust.

I call your name born in hushed deliverance, shallow and breathy like on a 
    dying man’s bed:

Come to me, when are you coming O Angel, Sweet Soft Death.

No? I’m passed by, stood up at the Gate? It’s not my time? I thought you were a friend.

You broke our date, how must I live? Here we go. Here we go again.

Opus minimus

It begins in joy, but ends in tragedy, a minor opera you might enjoy:

Born in mirth but transgressed and he fell. Oh, he fell to earth.

Apprentice to a dying art, then master of a dead one, he played the part:

Adept of the ego, schooled in a dark market, commerce, deceived by shadows

So fell a bit more.

A dim light, persistent, grew, spoke -

            “It’s all a vacuum and a void. God may be Great but I am bored. I walk this world in weary wonder at its folly and wish to strike it with my sword. When I light the match it is my life that I light. And do wear the mark of Cain. Die brother, die.”

Spend your days laughing at these spinning orbs I suggest.

Asymmetric wobbly things aren’t they?

Do I give up the game when I see now two? Go forth Gaianeer. Pioneer.

To Mars! There is Curiosity which is our eyes and Apollo which was our baby feet. But put

            away such childish things, and look out!

Because there is no ‘up’. Just…out.

I get my mail on planet three, in a backwater part of a plain galaxy.

And screwing up this wet dream of Jeannie as we proceed, oblivious to gravity.

The curtain soon falls, no Deus Ex, just velvet draperies.

The ETs we await like angels shrug their alien shoulders and move on at intergalactic

speeds

Not all experiments succeed. 

Peppermint Moon

The moon is a dinner mint on a platter of sky

The sun? What a flamer, but we like his energy and Oh! he cooks so well.

I’d like something basilly in a thin rue,

Steamed clams, scallopini,

Or gnocchi au vino delicieux?

The lemon zesty afternoon

And the tides that break bread

And laughter in the hollows where the bumble bees go in.

These are just some random treasures

Small trinkets to give to a girl.

And the moon is serving, well, by moonlight

From a shiny silver platter. On another world.