What mysteries lie behind
That old green wooden door:
Carved elaborately
In bygone days?
On a street that features only sights
Both newer and more decrepit,
It stands out as a grand entrance
That begs something special
Beyond.
I’d hate to think it’s just
Old paint cans —
Half empty and congealed
Beyond usefulness.
I doubt it’s a brothel or speakeasy —
Too silent…
But a vault of lost masterpieces,
Inhabited by a hairy-legged spider,
Might not be too much to ask.
Ancient temple carved with features:
Beasts, men, gods and mythic creatures.
Imagine my surprise when I
Came face-to-face with this lil’ guy.
The lizard did his level best
To stay stock still with puffed-out chest.
To pass for a chiseled dragon,
But couldn’t keep its tail from waggin’.
Life contracts and death is expected,
As in a season of autumn.
The soldier falls.
He does not become a three-days personage,
Imposing his separation,
Calling for pomp.
Death is absolute and without memorial,
As in a season of autumn,
When the wind stops,
When the wind stops and, over the heavens,
The clouds go, nevertheless,
In their direction.
trunk splits to branches
that stretch to the edge
of oxygen’s crossing.
The Soul has Bandaged moments -
When too appalled to stir -
She feels some ghastly Fright come up
And stop to look at her -
Salute her, with long fingers -
Caress her freezing hair -
Sip, Goblin, from the very lips
The Lover - hovered - o'er -
Unworthy, that a thought so mean
Accost a Theme - so - fair -
The soul has moments of escape -
When bursting all the doors -
She dances like a Bomb, abroad,
And swings opon the Hours,
As do the Bee - delirious borne -
Long Dungeoned from his Rose -
Touch Liberty - then know no more -
But Noon, and Paradise
The Soul's retaken moments -
When, Felon led along,
With shackles on the plumed feet,
And staples, in the song,
The Horror welcomes her, again,
These, are not brayed of Tongue -
understory thrives:
light plants & shadow plants
each finds its place.
Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind.
Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky
And the affrighted steed ran on alone,
Do not weep.
War is kind.
Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment,
Little souls who thirst for fight,
These men were born to drill and die.
The unexplained glory flies above them,
Great is the battle-god, great, and his kingdom—
A field where a thousand corpses lie.
Do not weep, babe, for war is kind.
Because your father tumbled in the yellow trenches,
Raged at his breast, gulped and died,
Do not weep.
War is kind.
Swift, blazing flag of the regiment,
Eagle with crest of red and gold,
These men were born to drill and die.
Point for them the virtue of slaughter,
Make plain to them the excellence of killing
And a field where a thousand corpses lie.
Mother whose heart hung humble as a button
On the bright splendid shroud of your son,
Do not weep.
War is kind.
This poem opens War Is Kind and Other Lines (1899.)
I have a piece in this new collection, out today (May 30, 2025) in the Indian market and later in the year for international markets.
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pavement glistens;
yellow leaves sodden:
nothing moves... but drips.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 