Category Archives: Poems

Brother Cedric

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Something completely different. An homage to Ogden Nash.

How roly, how poly, how utterly holy
Was Cedric O’Brylan, the mad monk of Ireland
His greaves were all rusted, his courage untrusted
Yet onward he flung, though pelted with dung

Through jeers of derision, he ne’er rued his decision
To dive for the cellar, and brandy most stellar.
Though insults be piled up, and townspeople riled up,
With each loving quaff, more scorn would slough off.

Far above, the crowds jostle, increasingly hostile,
Below there is peace, no worries increase.
Deals, they may dazzle, and crowds, they may frazzle,
But Cedric downstairs has banished his cares.

In winter days toward twilight

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In winter days toward twilight
Supper looming and the long call
Of parental care avoided
Like spoonfuls of castor oil

We’d set off on grand adventures
Down the alleyways
Championed by dogs, evaded by cats,
Amid the fine scent of burning garbage

Hunting urban treasures:
Radio parts, discarded syringes,
A cache of vacuum tubes,
Ground glass whiskey tops,

And once, an entire television
Bereft of its fine cabinet,
Emptied of all diversion,
And cast forlornly, contemptuously, aside.

Snow, again

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Unbidden, it comes all the same
Without malice, unaware and uninterested
In our dreams or desires

Without even innocence
Its promise of sweet seclusion
Sequestered beneath the pale sameness

Dissolving in the salty mired streets
White and gray in a death spiral
A love embrace unlike any

Seen since the last snowfall
What may be, what could be
Belong to the feckless air

Oh, I can dream, all right
But only until recalled
By bickering gulls

Geese barking orders,
Or the shrill outrage of the
Woodpecker’s call

A field mouse trips nervously
Across an ice dam
Vultures patrol the freeway

Food from top to bottom
Interested only in replication
The slaughter of millions

But a byproduct of procreation
So long as enough survive to breed
Or not, and even then,

Some beast waits anxiously in the wings
For just enough change
Just enough opportunity

And still, falls the snow.

Pro forma

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It was an ordinary assassination,
A letting of blood only,
The high drama of philosophy
Utterly lacking

The way a believer
Will kill another, or an infidel,
While complaining of a shortage
Of votive candles.

Still, the sky opened as usual,
The souls of the dead collected
At the bottleneck of dogma,
The tedium of paradise

Only now becoming clear:
Muslims to the left,
Jews to the right,
Christians take a number

No waiting for atheists,
The difference between Heaven and Hell
Consisting of a single syllable,
A matter of interpretation

What I got, what I lack

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I got my book of riffs,
My bebop hat
Stuffed on my head
What I lack is bread

I got the skinny pants
I drive my Mini past
The twilight boulevard
What I lack is gas, man

What I lack is class, man
The mojo ain’t workin’
The jerky aint jerkin’

What I lack is a clue