Pinto Bean Moon Number Whatever
If I had apologized enough in advance
For not apologizing earlier, and had
Groveled sufficiently, some circumstance
Might have made someone glad
To the detriment of value, the accumulation
Of shame, deception, greedy falsity,
And all the rest that come with that situation,
But I kept my mouth shut for once, fortunately,
And voted with my feet, a one-man landslide,
And, like Walt Whitman, I headed for the door
And ended up staring at the foolish moon outside.
Where did it leave its ass, and what for?
It doesnâ€™t matter, and I no longer care,
But, seeming to be here, Iâ€™m still sometimes there.
Best Friend of Good Hope
The doglike starvation for sympathy persists
Even when the beckoning Muse makes clear
That only in isolated silence she assists
The weaver of code and charm to persevere.
So, with dangling tongue and twitching ears,
One focuses mightily in silent attention
To the music one fitfully, faithfully hears
Until the final, echoing note is done.
And then if there is no deluge of news,
No ringing phone or friendly congratulations,
Pats on the head, and no glowing reviews
Or smiles, and no interesting invitations,
We dogs still live in hope for the best,
Lying alone waiting, we listen and rest.
Photons for an Epicurean
Lucretius of Facebook, your numerous friends
Acknowledge your philosophy in incredulous awe,
Sighing desperately as your work defends
Both law of love and loveliness of law.
Right. That, and some major heart attacks
Would do much to purge their daily distractions
And force them to stop at last in their tracks
And reflect upon the sense of their actions.
Youâ€™re that way yourself, for Nature hides
Itself away from your complacency,
And if you find the place where it resides
It soon escapes your dreamy lethargy.
Let go those gliding atoms and molecules,
And join the wiser silence of tongue-tied fools.
Cold River in Waste Land
A river of images, so deeply laid in stone
That it flows remote from the hot land it gashes,
Winds restlessly along remote canyons unknown,
A living source where cool sustenance splashes.
Somewhere a highway must cross this distant stream,
Offering up a glimpse of it far below,
Where oblivious trout glide and dream,
Untouchable in that cold, transparent flow.
Once I hitched the roads, escaping salvation
While meeting the public, believe it or not,
Filling a leaky canteen with inspiration
Before heading home with everything Iâ€™d got.
I never reached that river, but, curiously,
Memory sometimes, now, makes it find me.