Some rage against the dying of the light.
Some rage at the neon glow through their window,
catching them in the eye after midnight,
slowing time’s movement to a viscous flow.
Some rage about the sassy, sloppy youth.
Others rage that the old can’t understand.
Some rage when strangers sit down in their booth.
Others rage when things don’t go as planned.
Some rage about how time moves too quickly.
Others rage that we’re all stuck in the past.
Some rage until they’re tired and sickly.
Some rage they missed out by saving best for last.
You wonder why the lack of deathbed rage?
Let’s call it the wisdom of the end-stage.
I had a patio into 4th dimensional space.
It was in a shape I couldn’t imagine,
I painted it a color that doesn’t exist.
Sometimes it warped into a torus,
it popped in & out of existence without warning
on more than one occasion.
But it was a fine place to watch the sun come in at the end of a long eternity.
“Poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese.” — G.K. Chesterton
Ah, Mister Chesterton, I must concur.
The Camembert love is lacking, Monsieur!
If there’s a way to make bacon better,
surely it’s smothering it in Cheddar.
On bread and water prisoners endure,
but brie with bread is the height of grandeur.
What, say you, is more addictive than crack?
Just a cracker topped with Monterey Jack.
Yes, poets obsess on love and death,
but you can smell the Roquefort on their breath.
[OK, there’s no budget for Roquefort,
truth is, it’s a canned cheese of some sort.]
What bird or bat drives my fright?
I heard a bump just last night,
for the third night in a row.
Then a word, as from Poe’s crow,
the word I heard was evermore.
Yes, evermore. Not NEVERMORE!
Was this bird optimistic,
or eternally sadistic?
chirps & clicks,
throaty frog croaks
just past dusk
bats take to balconies
glow of nebula
ghosts in color
dawn colors ever on
deep north winter
light a distant flare
in Stygian eons
on a sandy sea floor sit stones —
once a city
who will find them?
what a pity,
someone dragged those stones into place,
nudging them into the shape of a temple,
a temple where fish now seek shade.
A man is of two minds.
One mind craves novelty.
The other seeks familiarity.
Woe the one who reserves the latter for reality,
letting the former fall only on virtual ground.
the carcass of an ancient inn
rests in a valley green
weary voyagers would long trudge
by the time it was seen
through a pass and round a bend
shaded by stark snow-caps
caravans moved by sight and coots
without a guide or maps
I heard the Buddha from the banks
of a river gently flowing.
Long before throngs swelled his ranks,
in the days of heaven knowing.
I sought the ferryman to cross,
to hear more than a faint mumble.
I felt missed words as a great loss,
and was made both mild and humble.
But, having missed that wise sermon,
my own truth I must determine.
On a moonlit midnight —
between the bands of rain —
stretched a mile of murder.
Marched through the night
to keep day roads clear for troops,
Fascists sought to free themselves
of the ugly evidence of their crimes.
But sweeping the weary and woebegone
under the rug is not a rapid task,
and so a mile of murder
mass migrated towards the morn.