Lyrista

The split in the walls of Time
Widens, and you walk through
Corridors, eons, new…
Why can’t I come with you?

Up towering heights you climb
Seeking infinity
Far, in a sky-black sea…
Left here on Earth is me.

And you hear the centuries’ chime
Caroling, one by one,
Tolling our Time’s now done:
Hope that is left…is none.

For now that you’ve vanished

M, I’m
Pining in this bleak place,
Dreaming about your face
Lost—untraced—in space.
1981

Post-Operative Report

Can you scalpel the soul with the knives of your science
Separate sin with your blade—
And dissect human psyches with all your reliance
Placed in experiments made?
Empirical evidence augurs for “yes”—
Instinct suggests “maybe not”—
And there’s gore on the table. The wound is a mess.
Wisdom less knowledge you’ve got.

1983

Wing-Song Macabre

Ghost-bird flapping loud,
Like a rustled shroud
Strikes your misted window-pane,
Cawing your last name.

Like the legend said,
Death wings overhead
Shudder like a knelling drum
When your hour has come.
1982

Evaporation

I’m dreaming your face
In the silvery dawn:
An opaline image of white.

Evanescently faint,
Like a hand-painted saint,
Piously pale in the light.

I worshipfully wait for
The sharpening lines
To clarify features of you.

But planes in your face are
Are dissolving in space,
And another dull day starts anew.
1982

Day Death

Sun drips down,
Hardens, brown
On the land:
Bloodied sand.

Sunset burns,
Daylight turns
Into dark:
Sputtered spark.

Gods of day,
Dying, say
“Night has willed
We be killed.”
1982

Dead Rainbow

The color of rage is gory red,
The color of love is gold,
The shade of indifference is lead,
The grey of love grown cold.

The color of hate is ebony,
The tone of faith is white,
The color of your disdain for me
Is black as loveless night.
1982

Immortal Mansion Macabre

The white house on the hillside
Bright as ivory,
Entombs lost generations,
Coffined lovingly.

The mausoleum glimmers,
Glinting skull-white pale
A marble paradise where
Ancestors prevail.
Hearken! Hear them wail!
1995

Golgothan Solace

The wooden frame to which you’re nailed
(Roman penalty)
With outspread wrists and spikes impaled
Transcends mere agony.

Between your brother thief and you
Upon His wooden span,
Sags a Shape soon raised anew,
Reprieving faith-filled man.
09-05-95

Phototropism

I.

The grave is the adolescent goal,
Death s the teenage cult,
Byronic, the melodramatic role,
With suicide, oft the result.

II.

Transcending malaise is the urgent task,
Evading those marble tombs;
Your soul in Sonlight beams must bask,
Defying Death s crypt-like gloom.
10-28-94

Bay of Pigs Encore

The Cuban migration commences
Refugees floating ashore;
Floridians mount their defenses,
With weapons unweilded before.

Radiation transmitters are mustered
Incinerate Castro the goal!
Too many times has he blustered,
His ashes now swirl, as waves roll.

SunMart parking lot, Silver Spring Blvd.
Ocala, Florida, 3:00 a.m., 09-03-94

The Death of August Derleth: July 4, 1971

The summer air hangs still.
Hawk and whippoorwill
Wing mournful down the graying skies,
Hearken to their cries!

And then the faintest breeze
Murmurs in the trees,
And at the Lonesome Place
Spirits sigh in space.
04-20-94

Women Need Words

Good morning, dear, how are you? The breakfast tastes so good,
I ll call you from my lunch break, the way I said I would.
And I ve got one word for you that s in my vocabulary,Army, mother
And that word s forever and it s in your dictionary!

The Army wrote your mother With the deepest of regret,
And the police told your sister, We ain t found your little brother yet,
And the preacher gets the final words, upon the wind-swept hill,
But I just said I love you, and I know I always will.

Women need words, yes they do,
Women need words, sincere and true,
Women need words such as I love you.

Wedding ceremony, and somebody says I do,
And later he says, I m sorry, and the lawyers say its through,
Women need words but they don t always get the ones they need,
They get separation and visitation and liberation. Indeed!

Women need words in the morning,
And they need them in the afternoon,
Women need words at the crack of midnight, underneath the moon.
1993

Chill-Charred Winterlude

December warmth is frozen hell,
Icicles stab your psyche through;
Frigid furnace emberswell
Frosted flames ignite in you.
12-13-93

Anonymous Inquisitors

Do you hear gratings creak
Upon the cellar bricks?
Just autumn winds that wreak
Deceptive, noisy tricks.

And did you hear the knell
Of bells from long ago?
The belfry long since fell
In ruins, this I know.

Who calls your name aloud
Outside your bolted door?
I sleep. No one s allowed
To rouse me while I snore.

Excuse us, please forgive
Our frivolous remarks
You ve moments left to live
Our claws will leave red marks!
06-14-93

Crosswalk Encounter

I saw the old Death Angel
Walking cross the street,
Disguised as a pedestrian,
Visage coy and sweet.

I rolled up my window,
‘Didn’t pause to wait
I drove right past the lady
“Can’t we have a date…?”
“No time to talk…I’m late…”
03-05-93

Song of the Stellar Assassins

Can you hear the blades revolving
Within the crystal sphere?
Hear them descend rotate and rend
Your scalp and half your ear!

Can you hear the pilots chorus
Their extra-earthly tongue?
A stately hymn your requiem
The space-sprites now have sung.
02-25-93

Retort to Time

The crispness of your knife goes snick!
Cutting up my dreams like celery,
To make hors d’oeuvres that you, Time, pick
And gobble till you’ve swallowed me.

But while you cut, your blade will knick
Hard upon my iron bone;
It trims me to the very quick
But still, my skull will dull its hone.
1992

Jungian Serendipity

The telephone rings and the voice you hear
Repeats the thought in your brain:
Just synchronicity, loud and clear,
Links you on some esoteric plane.

It s not telepathy, mind-to-mind,
But incalculably doubtful odds,
Defying coincidence, like a blind
Toss of the dice by the gambling gods.
199

Somewhere, Under the Rainbow

The ghost of Judy Garland
Is visible at night:
Amphetamine-white phantom
Floats through the moon-mist light.

The Emerald City’s toppled,
The yellow bricks are dust,
And Dorothy’s dead in Kansas;
Tin Woodman s gone to rust.

The ghost of Judy Garland is audible as well
New York, New York’s her kind of town
Manhattan-angel’s hell.
10-92

Hester Prynne

The whiteness of her virtue
Bleeds red with scarlet sin;
Her crimson cheeks alert you
To guilt concealed within.

Like sapphires set in ivory,
Or roses wet with snow,
Once-pallid flesh turns fiery:
Her shame for all to know.
10-21-92

The Gallery of Gothic Princesses

I.

On the right is Emily Bronte,
Bard of Yorkshire moor
Her talented, tormented family
Wrote novels which still endure.

II.

On the left s Christina Rossetti,
Who chastely did refuse
The goblin s fruit of ecstasy;
Pre-Raphaelite recluse.

III.

In the center s a filmy mirror,
Dusty-looking glass;
You rub it till it s clearer
And see a skull-faced lass
Yourself& at Requiem Mass.
09-28-92

Night Songs

Night songs on the radio,
Disc jockey popping pills,
Accepting payola from Satan
Blood, on the turn-table, spills.
04-14-92

Rendezvous With the Reaper

I can t remember the date of my death
For the life of me.
I scribbled it down on a fragment of brown
Paper bag. Now where can it be?

For I d hate to miss out on that vital event;
I have to be there,
With everyone dressed in their ebony best
Else they’ll think I had nothing to wear!

04-13-92

Marriage is Forever

The voice in the attic clamors,
As you ascend the stairs--
The sound subsides and stammers
Just wind. There s no one there.

Old jewelry and dresses,
Your late wife s finery,
Her wigs and braided tresses&
You turn too late you see
She s coffin less, and free.
03-06-92

Prehistoric Precision

I.

Stonehenge wrought of bluestone
Each massive megalith
Positioned by shamans (date unknown)
For timing the heavens with.

II.
Cheops awesome pyramid
Aligned with compass care,
Demarking distance, map-like grid,
Emplaced, finitely, there.

III.

Star-clocks and calendars,
Astronomic gauges,
Immortal instruments, sighting stars,
For scientists and mages.
03-03-92

A Family Visit

Your prison is a tomb,
A vaulted, marble room
Where your wan spirit lives,
Denied the peace death gives.

And now your spirit goes
In shrouded coffin clothes
Across the headstones for
Your brother s portal door.

His new wife sees you clear
And screams. He s here, he s here!
Your former wife was her
And he, your murderer.
02-20-92

The Woman s Victory

From the ivory height of Heaven
I am catapulted down
To the bottom side of Nothing,
Where envy gilds my crown
Separation, subjugation,
Force my frantic frown.

1991 (see 1989 Plummet)

Archeological Reverence

The golden chair of opulence
Seats a stately emperor,
Enrobed in royal purple hue
Of lichen moss that shrouds his bones from view.

And yet he holds you in his thrall,
Millennia since he has lived,
You bow before his exhumed throne,
And kiss, in fealty, his toe of bone.
11-16-91

Illiteracy

Children never learn today
Where the meadow-fairies play,
Where the elves bask in the sun
Where their inch-high horses run.
11-02-91

From a 23rd Century Text

The gates of Time yawned back,qq
And let the Western seas attack,
Hurling tidal waves
That turned the towns to graves.

Atlantis sank before
And then the California shore
Settled out of view
Below Pacific blue.
11-01-91

Galactic

(For Columbus and Armstrong)

I.

Old sailors pine for salt and spars,
New vessels sliding down the slips,
Valiant skippers holding by the helms…

II.

Young sailors dream of reaching stars,
Midshipmen berthed in rocket ships
Trajected far to planetary realms.
09-28-91

The Lens of the Future

I.
From three-power up to nine
Telescope tunnels through space
Galileo scanned God’s vast design:
Thirty-power soon found its place.

Then Jupiter s moons loomed in view.
Heresy! Earth wasn t right
In the midst of Creation a new
Insight suffused its strong light.

Could people traverse what lay there?
Hypothetical pioneers far
Ascending the galaxies stair
Ladder-like, star after star.

II.

The moon was the goal to reach,
Johannes Kepler briskly agreed
Like Columbus toward Salvador s beach,
Borne at incredible speed.
09-21 & 22-91

Rejection Slip to Editors

I cannot sing to the wax-eared deaf,
Nor paint for the color-blind,
So flunk my verse with the grade of F
Sheer praise of the highest kind.
09-08-91

Shelley

(The Birth of Science Fiction)

I.
Young Shelley at Eton imbibed the mystique
Of science romanticized into extremes:
He gave his poor tutor a shock and a shriek
Electric jolt! eliciting screams.

II.
Explosives and fire-balloons were his joy,
Chemicals tainting his fingers and arms,
Steam engine blew-up (another mere toy).
Mad Shelley continually causing alarms

III.
His tutor named Walker is wholly forgot
Blueprint for someone whose name we ve all read
Frankenstein s prototype, likely as not,
Mixed up with Shelley in wife Mary s head.
9-23-91

Inscrutable (2)

You prowl in the weeds in search of a sliver
Of timber from logs where her cabin once stood.
But the structure is gone from the Little Pigeon River,
Its remnants embedded in a mansion in Brentwood.

You hearken for echoes on the hollowed old speaker
At Studio B where the tourists now gape,
Where Joshua Jolene and the poor, sinful Seeker
Were captured by Porter on RCA tape.

You pause at the quick-mart for a tabloid injection
Just how many wigs can one woman own?
And how many escapades dodge our detection?
Three-fourths of her story will never be known.
07-13-91

Blood Harvest'

Hay is threshed by the rotor blades,
Hay along with the arms,
Legs, and heads of the milking maids,
Down on the carrion farms.

Farmer Misogynist reaps his yield
Satan nurtured the crop
Psychopathology wet the field
Whing! Now the rotor blade lops!
07-10-91

Bareback Rider

Out on the heath hies a lady in white,
Riding a giant toad;
Who is that woman, luminescently bright,
Spurring her steed on the road?

West Country witch whom, legends recount,
Transformed her man with a spell:
Cuckolding lover, she made him her mount
Unclad, she straddles him well.

Reptile croaking along on the path;
Lady, equestrienne witch,
Whacking his scaly skin with a lath,
Hopping each brook and broad ditch.
07-01-91

A Little Bit Deeper Than Usual

This time you put the knife in a little bit deeper than usual,
You twisted the blade a time or two, too much,
This time my thoughts run a little bit deeper than usual,
I ve lost my sensitivity to your touch.

This time the wishing well seems a little bit deeper than usual,
The old oaken bucket comes up, without a dream inside,
This time the river of tears runs a little bit deeper than usual,
And I don t think I m going to make it to the other side.

This time my memories run a little bit deeper than usual,
I think about al the crazy stuff we did,
We ran hand in hand right through the green meadow,
Picking wildflowers like a couple of lovesick kids.

This time the talk ran a little bit deeper than usual,
A couple of lawyers going to send us both a bill,
And the children s nightmares run a little bit deeper than usual,
And that old flame. I wonder, does she love me still?
Does she love me still?
6-8-91

In Vain Pursuit

Limpid nymph amid the leaves
Furtive, as the twilight weaves
Shadow raiments round her limbs;
Naked as the sunshine dims.

Mauvish-tinted pigments drape
Twilight on her supple shape;
Down the forest trails she ll dart
Drawing me, with racing heart!
05-31-91

September s Showers

Summer weeps and grieves,
Rain-tears moisten leaves,
Grey replaces blue
Autumn cries anew.
1990

Ballad uf A Reincarnate

I.

Lady with a lyre,
A female troubadour
Was staked and set afire
At Castle Montsegur,
The year? Twelve Forty-four.

II.

Transmigrated soul,
Reborn to stum anew
Where Appalachian coal
Blends dust with mountain dew,
She sings for me and you.

The Grand Ole Opry stage
Becomes her home at last;
But memories from an age
Immemorially past
At times leave her aghast.
1990

Reverie (2)

Far over the mountains and lands away
Expands a voluptuous scene:
Lush valleys of dewy, silver-green
Where frivolous fairies play.

In meadows of velveteen moss and grass
The unicorns graze and browse,
While over the crimson-colored cows
Pterodactyls slowly pass.

So track the meandering, winding trail
That wends through your restive mind
Relaxing your weary eyelids, find
Your path to the dappled dale.
12-26-90

Reunion (2)

December winds moan,
As tomb-gratings groan,
With Lorna bestirred from her sleep;
She slides back the stone
Committed to vows she must keep.

You cuckold! you ve nailed
Her coffin, but failed
To fasten the wooden lid tight.
So Lorna, unjailed
Returns to set certain wrongs right.

The castle dogs smell
The odors that tell
Them something putrescent is near
No, Lorna! you yell
(Of you, that s the last your dogs hear).
12-26-90

A Plea

Evanescently blurred, half beyond recall,
Her voice down a midnight hall
Or her visage in oils once glimpsed on sale,
Remote, and feminine-pale.

Whoever was she? Forget, forget
Her classical silhouette:
Let her image diffuse in a twilight haze
Of vapored blues and greys&
12-20-90

Yellow Rider

Now the villagers are waking from the dreams inside their heads,
They're locking doors and windows, and they're hiding in their beds;
It's a yellow rainy morning with a mist across the sun--
You hear the hoofbeats coming, terrifying everyone.

It's a legend sprung to life and it's a horror story true,
You listen in the silence and you know you hear it too,
And the sound is getting closer till it's beating in your bones,
It's hammering and clattering upon the cobblestones.

Yellow Rider coming
Through the early light of day,
Hear the hoofbeats drumming--
Too late for you to pray.

And the Rider's coming closer, still you stay inside your room,
You're looking at his stallion. and his giant hat and plume,
You cannot see his face because it's hidden by the brim--
You recognize his saddle so you know it must be him.

It's silver-mounted leather from a Gypsy caravan,
His uniform is yellow silk imported from Japan,
His sword is Spanish-crafted, and his pistol made in France--
There's nobody escaping, everybody's had his chance.

Yellow Rider coming
Like a bandit through the town,
Hear the hoofbeats drumming--
All your hopes fall down.

Now the Rider is departing just as swiftly as he came,
He's taking someone with him and I will not tell his name,
It's either you or me or maybe someone else we know--
The Yellow Rider's leaving as the sun begins to show.

And the people are appearing at their windows and their doors,
The merchants all are opening their markets and their stores,
And the villagers will make believe he never came at all--
But 'way out on the high-road you can hear his mournful call….

Yellow Rider going,
And he's taking someone new,
Someone we're both knowing,
Is it me or you?
Is it me or you?
12-12-1990

Lamia

The lady bade me linger for awhile
Beside the cypress in the burying-yard.
She fetched me to a graveside with her smile
And set me on a marker cold and hard.
She smiled. It all comes down to this, you know,
That kings and merchants, each the same,
Will sleep as brothers is a marble row
Till mosses blanket over each proud name.
I shivered mid-November air breathed chill
And I looked down at my watch. The hour was late.
I said, However much I d like to listen still,
My appointment scheduled in the village cannot wait.
She smiled and begged my pocket-knife from me,
Then carved my name upon the cypress tree.
12-10-90 (04-18-80 Lamia)

Bandit s Bull s Eye

I curse the brigands as they ride
Off with the peasants hog,
And a sack of corn from the peasants crib,
With a sword through the peasants dog.

The thieves curse me as I track them down,
Archers at my command,
Encircling them with their bow-strings taut,
Aimed at the outlaw band
Suddenly, I bring down my hand!
05-21-90

You Music

(for Anne)

There s music today, and the melody s you,
Progression of chords is new
But exquisitely right, and the rhythm is tight,
And the lyric s so magically true:
Written in laughter, written in pain
But it s you, and the echoes remain.
1989

The Defrauding of the Worms

The ashes of the years diffuse in dust,
Their motes exuding mauvish glow
That alters grey to black. But I ve no trust
In Time, that cut-purse thief, who robs us so.
For, graveward borne, my gathered decades shorn
From off my limbs, my soul but cuts adrift
And cheats the maggotry of Death. Forlorn
And cheated, Satan rues my flight! Christ s gift
Of sweet perpetuation foils those worms of Earth
Who rend my flesh when nothing live, lives there.
My human husk decays& to wait rebirth.
Ethereal, my soul s exultant, where
Abide infinities of angels& white
And efflorescent& beaming lucent light.
1989 (rev. 92)

Progress

Modernity has ravaged golden thrones,
The Kings are toppled, ornate crowns displaced,
That roll and ring upon the palace stones:
Decapitated, those heads the crowns once graced;
And severed, all the links of language with the past.
Dumb, unlettered beasts, we grunt and snort
Among the vine-choked, fluted pillars. No words last.
Antiquity s philosophies abort
Inside the wordless womb of Now. We swine
Have overthrown the ruined emperies,
Boar-tusk crude, we rove--barbaric and bovine.
The parchments all are shredded. Smashed, each frieze
Of carved Hellenic majesty. We root
Amongst the marble rubble where weeds shoot.
1989

The Woman’s Victory

From the ivory height of Heaven
I am catapulted down
To the bottom side of Nothing,
Where envy gilds my tarnished crown—
separation, subjugation,
force my frantic frown.
1989

I Don t Know Why I Love You

(for Anne)

I don t know why I love you,
I don t know why I care;
If love required a reason,
Then love would not be there.

I don t know why I love you,
I only know I do.
Some things you never question,
Your heart knows what is true.
1989

Welcome Home, Sister

She wears a metal bracelet, oh, so proudly,
With a POW s name upon her arm.
She earns her living working in an office,
Typing letters and filing all those forms.

The girls down at work, they tend to gossip,
They talk about her, but not in an unkind way.
But all the same, sometimes it gets too personal&
On the coffee-break, you ought to hear what the girls say.

Welcome home, sister, tell us about Vietnam,
Welcome home, sister, tell us all about it, if you can

Now what possessed a girl like you to go over there?
Were you running from yourself? that s what we heard.
Did you go for the thrills, did you go for the men, did you like those uniforms?
To carry it on this long, it seems absurd.

Yes, I played Country music for the G.I. s,
I made that USO club tour scene.
And I rode with body bags in the helicopters&
And I saw a night-club blown to smithereens.

And yes, I go to D.C. on vacation,
I spend a lot of time beside that cold, black wall.
I recognize some names upon the surface&
Sometimes it feels just like I know them all.
11-03-89

Springdale Confederate Cemetery, Chattanooga

Sacred grounds. Please don t trespass legend on bronze tablet

Secluded cemetery flaunts a flag
Unflown much now on Southern land,
Where wooden markers once proclaimed
Lost names and ranks from Bragg s Command.

Hospitals disgorged this dead
One hundred fifty-five in all;
Today, anonymously one stone
Stands for stalwarts born to fall.
09-18-89
Burger King, Brainerd Rd.,
Chattanooga, TN

Pie-Supper Summer

Blueberry and cherry, and home-made apple pie,
Country girls bake them, the apple of your eye;
Each pie s got a number which one will you choose?
Look at all those country girls, looking right at you.

It s a Pie-Supper Summed, in Nineteen and Thirty-Eight,
Down at the school house you know you can t be late;
Lemonade and coffee, wash that pie right down;
Your friends and your neighbors, from the hills and from the town.

It s a Pie-Supper Summer, in the Ozark mountain hills,
Mighty big appetite--you know you re going to get your fill;
It s a Pie-Supper Summer in ht Ozark mountain hills:
You can shut your eyes& you can see that picture still.

Billy brings along his Gene Autry, Sears guitar,
He likes Tex Ritter, and those cowboy picture stars;
Bill buys a pie prepared by Becky Lou
Look at all those young folks& sneaking off two-by-two!

Becky. She says Now Billy, I think we d better get hitched soon
I can see Daddy s shotgun reflecting the Ozark moon!
So they get married down in Arkansas, late one Saturday
Billy s dropping out of school& now he s baling hay.

Pearl Harbor comes along in December of Forty-One
On an Okinawa Beach, Billy tests out his M-1 gun
His mama gets a Gold Star and he never got to know his kid,
And Becky, she don t say nothing& she keeps those feelings hid.

And you know that Time, Time, Time has a way of adjusting
All your dreams,
And the years, keep right on flowing
Like an Ozark mountain stream.

Becky lives in Springfield in a high-rise all alone,
And her son performs in Branson, in a theater all his own;
On Decoration Day she puts a wreath on a hero s grave,
And she shuts her eyes and looks at yesterday.

It s a Pie-Supper Summer, in the Ozark mountain hills,
Mighty big appetite, you know you re going to get your fill,
It s a Pie-Supper Summer, in the Ozark mountain hills
You can shut your eyes& you can see that picture still.

Blueberry and cherry, and home-made apple pie;
Country girls bake them, the apple of your eye;
Each pie s got a number which one will you chose?
Look at all those country girls, looking right at you.
09-07-89

The Sahara of My Soul

The gales of Hell, they gust my soul;
I shutter up in vain--
Cracked windows of my storm-rent brain,
Shuddering as wind-tides roll.
Rattling rhythms wrack my soul.

The wind-voice screeches out my name
With banshee-clarity and tone
Skirling, high-pitched, like a lone
Lover who slew herself in shame
Wind-wraith woman howls my name!

II.

The winds wax silent, shorn of sound,
A pall afflicts the land,
Breezeless, arid, bone-strewn sand
There my cerements are found
Rotting on the charnel ground.
7-28-89 and 8-9-89

Skeptic s Song

Marble philosophies
Quarried by slaves,
Hewn out by pedants,
Polished by knaves,
Worshiped by sycophants
Tower-like headstones!
Over Ideology s graves.
1-24-89

Onyx Beach

(for Gary William Crawford)

Gold ships
Ploughing through storms in your brain.
Gale rips
Canvas with ebony rain.
Black stars
Reaching with magnetic hands.
Gold spars
Strewn carelessly on black sands.
Dementia&
That none understands.
1988

History s Horse-Hooves

History s horse-hooves are clattering by,
Cobblestones ring with sound,
Dinning our frightened ears
Over the future s ground,
Signaling coming years.
But hooves trample you and me.
Damned history.
1988

Gold Songs

Dreams are coins you toss,
Sweet loss,
Gambled young or old,
Fool s gold.

Dreams are songs unheard,
Sounds blurred
Like fragile, tinkling chimes,
By times.
1988

Fort Phil. Kearney

Wyoming,1866

A cairn of rocks announces where
My bed is, in the soil,
Oblivious to earthly care
And worldly, aching toil.

One morning, birdless feathers sailed
On wooden shafts towards me,
And left this Easterner impaled
Then scalped beneath this tree.

1988

The Last Laugh

Love laughs at life,
Scorns the scourging whip of years,
Dulls life s sawing knife
And watersheds its tears.

Love smiles at death,
Soul withstanding soil,
Heaped upon the flesh whose breath
Expires. Love s Death s foil.
10-15-88

Bliss (2)

The kiss of Time corrodes
Bronze Venuses to flaking rust,
Time’s transitoriness erodes
Marble aphrodites down to dust.

But Love’s caress slays Time.
Eternities succumb to Love’s soft sigh.
And nuptial church bells ever chime:
God’s clarion echo heard on high.
09-29-88

The Muse At Four A. M.

The pre-dawn ennui of sleeplessness
Chafes raw the nerves of poetry,
As tensing cadences of song caress
The rain with mist-vague melody.

The mind becomes a frescoed wall,
Mad metaphors are muraled there:
Pastels and paling pigments sprawl
Tableauxed& translucent& brushed with air.
07-19-88

Ocean Victim

Regret in runnels flows
Downward to the sea
Of voided love. Emotion goes
Flotsam-like toward nullity.
We ve drowned in salt what cannot be.
07-19-88

How?

How staunch the flow of love s hot blood?
How check its ceaseless flood
Sucked by devil-leaches draining pale
A heart once healthy robust and hale& ?
07-10-88

Your Television Set Don t Love You, Darlin

You re wasting your weekends on electronic lovers,
They float by like ghosts on the screen,
You re kissing Clark Gable and you waltz Fred Astaire
In re-runs you ve already seen.

You re changing the stations you change your emotions
From channel to channel in vain.
The six o clock news man is laughing at you,
And the talk show believes you re insane.

Your television set don t love you, darlin
So how come you watch it from bed?
Your television set don t love you, darlin ,
So why don t you love me instead?

Down at the tavern my Budweiser loves me,
There s a TV set over the bar,
And the girl on the screen, she reminds me of you,
So I get up and go to my car.

I drive through the night and the windshield wipers
Remove all the rain from the glass
It s like a wide screen, and our show s off the air&
Our soap opera just didn t last&
1987

Tiana, I Will Always Love You

Sam Houston was governor of Tennessee,
When he went off to live with the Cherokee,
Kicked out of his bed by his wife so he went away&
Sat under a tree and he got drunk most every day.

Tiana was Scottish, she was Indian, too.
When she saw that big man, she knew just what to do
She kissed him, and she caressed him, and she tended his broken heart.
Sam Houston, he told her, Tiana, we ll never part.

Tiana, I will always love you, Tiana, I will always care.
Sam Houston loved Tiana, and you know she loved him&
Ah, but that was a long, long time ago&

Texas came calling, it pounded like a drum.
Sam Houston he answered, they knew he d come.
Remember the Alamo became his battle-cry&
Sam Houston and Texas, and the Lone Star was flying high.

The Cherokee were shoved right off their land
Four thousand of them died, I understand.
And General Sam Houston, he shared their pain;
(And the grave of Tiana was washed away with the rain& )

Tiana, I will always love you. Tiana, I will always care.
Sam Houston loved Tiana, and you know that she loved him&
Ah, but that was a long, long time ago&
1987

Myopie de la Mort

Death has a blood-laced eye,
Bleary from watching the world.
By Christ he is blinded from brightness on high:
Lasers of light at Death s eyes have been hurled.
1987

Life is A Western Movie

They say life is like a sit-com,
Honeymooners reruns play on down the years;
They say life is like a soap opera
You wash your dishes and then you dry your tears.

They say life is like a cop show
Big blue light follows you in close pursuit;
They say life is like a game show
You win a set of luggage from the man in the shiny suit.

But I say life is a Western movie,
On the Chisholm Trail you ride through the wind and rain;
Life is a Western movie,
Cause every now and then you ve got to face that high noon train.

Yes, life is a Western movie,
In the California gold rush you just might get rich;
Or down in Texas they might run off all your cattle,
So you might form a posse and string up the son-of-a-gun.

I tell you, life is a Western movie,
Cowgirls watch you when you make that rodeo ride;
But all you really need is one good cowgirl
To stand beside till you cross that Great Divide.

But I say life is a Western movie,
On the Chisholm Trail you ride through the wind and rain,
Life is Western movie,
Cause every now and then you ve got to face that high noon train,
And ride off in the distance just like Shane&
Just like Shane.p
1987

I Can See My Husband Riding

I can see my husband riding across Montana plains,
With his uniform of buckskin, and his hands upon the reins,
With his yellow hair a-flowing,
And his eyes like baby blue.
General George Custer, my husband, I love him true.

He s riding with the soldiers of the Seventh Calvary;
On that river known as Yellowstone, they ride courageously
They re searching for those Indians,
That tribe that s known as Sioux
General George Custer, he knows just what to do.

I can see my husband riding home, to see his loving wife,
He says he won the battle and the soldiers saved his life,
At the Little Big Horn River&
Now the Indian Wars are through
General George Custer, he knows I love him true.

And that was twenty years ago, it s part of history,
And I realized my dream was a widow s fantasy.
I put a wreath upon his grave, and I bid his soul adieu&
General George Custer, in heaven where dreams come true.
1987

He Stopped Song Writing Today

He said I ll song-write till I die.
They said You ll wise up in time.
But as the decades drifted by
His mind was filled with rhyme.

He kept his demos by the bed,
Back to 1972,
And the s--t the publishers said,
He d underline in blue.

Willie Nelson s picture on the wall.
He went half crazy now and then;
And his best friend, Alcohol,
It helped him guide his pen.

I went to see him just today.
First time I d seen him in years;
He d finally passed away
From fifteen thousand beers.

He stopped songwriting today.
They placed him on the funeral pyre.
And they threw his demos in,
And the flames grew higher and higher.

The publishers came by to see him one last time,
Just the way I knew they would,
They clapped their hands and clicked their heels
This time they re through with him for good
1987

Extermination

I stand indifferent to rat-nosed Time who gnaws,
I stride oblivious to Time s laws,
His ravenous, remorseless years assault.
The rat s teeth sink. Then halt.

My leg withstands, impervious to fangs of Time.
Acknowledging that rodent is a crime.
The vermin soon is mashed beneath my heel
To grease. There hearken to his squeal.
1987

Essential Persistence

The wisdom of the wind is motion,
Wandering ecstatic, yet sublime.
The charity of rain is laving lotion,
Cleansing residues of urban grime.
The genius of the sun is searing passion
Violent, erotic rampant fire.
But cooling clay and earth we wear in fashion
Finally, when our hot hearts expire.

Our flesh erodes. Our bones flake too.
But souls need neither& born, anew.
1987

Crazed Cavorting

I ve danced in a clowning jig,
Bells on my nimble toes,
Askew on my head, a wig,
Smile painted over my woes.

I ve clapped in a rhythm inane---
Jumped in my floppy clothes&
My grease-paint dissolved in rain&
While tear-drop insanity flows.
1987

Covert Cathedral

Your mental window s fashioned from
Panes of glinting bright stained glass,
And through them streaming sun rays come.
Your mind conducts its private Mass.
Soft hymns and Sacramental rite,
Holy water at the secret fount.
Communion hidden out of sight.
Inside your heart, an Olive Mount.
1987

By the Side of the Road

You pack up your dreams in a four-by-ten wagon,
It looks like a ship with a sail,
Your neighbors in old Pennsylvania are waving
Farewell& by the side of the trail.

You tell ev rybody There s land up in Oregon,
You ll find you a farm that don t fail,
You ll stop with your children each evening for supper,
And cook by the side of the trail.

But out in Nebraska there s late falling snow into April,
You wake up one morning& the frostbite took three of your toes;
Your children are sleeping so sweetly and so sadly so peaceful&
They ll sleep there together long after the wagon train goes.

You ll raise some new children when you re up in Oregon,
And you and your wife will prevail,
But some nights you ll dream of those little wood crosses
Back there& by the side of the road.
1987

Back Then They Called Us Rustlers

The gunfighters came up from Texas; they arrived on the railroad train;
The Cattlemen s Association was bound to control the range.

They had a sheet of paper, a list of names, of men they had to kill;
And they left some cowboy s bodies in the Wyoming April chill.

Back then they called us rustlers, cause we fought for our own piece of land,
Back then they called us rustlers, cause now and then we changed a brand.

They had the money, and they owned the Governor,
Back in the year of Ninety-Two, in the Johnson County War.

In a cold Wyoming November, we lost our three-year old boy,
And my woman she didn t say nothing, as she packed up for Illinois.

And you wouldn t believe it to see me now: I work for the biggest ranch in the state,
And the owner, he s my very best friend we overcame our range-war hate.

Back then he d have called me a rustler, cause I fought for my own piece of land,
Back then he d have called me a rustler now and then I changed one or his brands:
With a .44-40 in my hand&
1987

The Forest Gift

The tree was cut and roped by boys
Who brought it home to guard the toys
And treasures stacked up round its rootless base:
The pine has found an indoor resting place.

And underneath the tree are set
The gifts of Christmastide for yet
Another year and tree have come to mark
His birth, with fragrant needles, cones and bark.
12-25-87

Nashville Christmas& 1779

Scots-Irish borderers, devout, austere
With Anglo-Saxons made their rugged route
West from Watauga, in the chilliest year
Marked in history. Five hundred miles out
Across Kentucky , down to Tanase
They trekked with horses, cattle, sheep.
James Robertson led forth this odyssey
That halted opposite where bluffs of steep
And craggy cedar-guarded limestone, rose
Above the Cumberland& a river iced and white,
That Christmas Day when ever rivers froze.
And when the cliff-side landmark loomed in sight
The cavalcade traversed the water s frigid span.
Then, in their lean-to s. praised the Son of Man.
12-19-87

Dale Evans Is Riding Tonight

The young girl s pony is made from the stick of a broom,
With posters of rodeos thumb-tacked all over her room.
She heads off to school with her lunch in a metal lunch pail
With a picture of a cowgirl and the words HAPPY TRAILS!

Dale Evans is riding tonight, on the bright silver screen
In the midst of a young girl s dream;
Dale Evans is riding tonight
She s the Queen of the West, with her red leather vest&
Dale Evans is riding tonight.

The little girl grows up but she clings to her childhood games,
She looks for Roy Rogers but she always attracts Jesse James.
She takes a couple of falls in the rodeo called married life
Now she s back in the saddle Adios to those years as a wife.

Dale Evans is riding tonight, on the bright silver screen
In the midst of a young woman s dream;
Dale Evans is riding to night
She s the Queen of the West, she s got fringe on her dress&
Dale Evans is riding tonight.

She s home on the range with her friend the acoustic guitar;
It s state fairs and rodeos and too many years in the bars;
Tonight on the stage in Cheyenne she s raising her hand
The crowd, gives a roar she s married some guy in her band!

Dale Evans is riding tonight, on the bright silver screen
In the midst of a cowgirl s dream;
Dale Evans is riding tonight
She s the Queen of the West, in her cattle-brand vest&
Dale Evans is riding tonight.
8-17-87

The Pioneer Waltz

Now the wagons rolled out of Missouri,
Heading west on the Oregon Trail,
Through the blizzards and ice-covered mountains,
And the winds, and the rains, and the hail.

We crossed every river and desert,
And we never gave one backward glance,
And if we weren t too weary each evening,
We d take out the fiddle and dance.

We d dance to the Pioneer Waltz, in time,
And the mandolin played right along,
And the children, they clapped, and the old people napped,
And the Pioneer Waltz was our song.

When the heat or the cold overcame us,
Then we pioneers lightened our load,
And we left half our precious belongings
Cast away by the side of the road.

And we sometimes left little wood crosses,
The graves, they were sometimes quite small,
But we finally set foot up in Oregon,
And the music helped us through it all.

Now the years hurried by without warning,
And we pioneers built us a town,
But you can still hear that old fiddle
Now and then, when the sun has gone down.

We dance to the Pioneer Waltz, in time
And the mandolin plays right along,
The children, they clap, and the old people nap,
And the Pioneer Waltz is our song.
1986

J. Frank Dalton

(1842-1951)

He rode a twisted trail,
He lied a tortured, fact-faked tale
Of Jesse James and unexpected shames
Of Quantrill s carnage, powder-smoke and flames.

He wasn t who he said
He wasn t Jesse James, long dead
But something gaudier and grander yet
Imposter-champion none can forget.
1986

It s Never Too Late for Love

(for Anne)

It s never too late for love, no, it s never too late for love,
It s never too, never too, never too late for love.

Everybody says Slow down, don t you know what time it s getting to be?
I don t watch the clock, I just look in my heart, and it s time for you and me,

Stop! Wait a minute it s time for a time check&
It s half-past getting to know you, and it s a quarter-to-a midnight kiss!

Daylight savings time, getting close to you, on a long winter s night.
You re always in season, baby, I m writing your name on every calendar page, as brown hair turns to white.

It s never too late for love, no, it s never too late for love,
It s never too, never too, never too late for love.
1986

It s a Nineteen-Twenties Song

It s a Nineteen-Twenties tune
Forgive me, I was born too soon,
Going to fake it anyway,
And bring back yesterday.
Inka-dinka-do,
That old soft shoe
And I danced with Georgia Brown.
Muskrat rag
Can you spare me a fag?
And the stock market came dow-w-w-w-w-w-n!

It s A Nineteen-Twenties song,
The decade didn t last too long,
Nineteen-Thirties knocked it flat,
Like a Babe Ruth baseball bat.
Black-face minstrel on a white man s stage,
Girl smoking cigarettes, it s all the rage
And New York made that music move.
Bath-tub gin in your coffee cup
Home-town girl acting so grown up
Those East Coast boys, her Mama won t approve!

Scott Fitzgerald and his wayward wife,
She danced on the tables while he drank up his life
And only Billy Sunday told the truth:
They corrupted the nation s youth!
It s a Nineteen-Twenties dance
If you missed it once, here s another chance.
Charleston, if you can
Honey, swing that man.
It s a Nineteen-Twenties beat,
Hotel ball-room, move your feet.

Flapper with the short, short hair
Young folks, I declare!
Sweet, sweet Sue
Making eyes at you
And a gangster named Capone.
Razz-a-ma-tazz,
And that Dixie jazz
And that famous slide trombone&
It s a Nineteen-Twenties dream---
Make that sweet nostalgia gleam,
Press your ear to the radio
Will Rogers says Hello!
1986

Carpe Diem

Your life is like a brief
Elusive, wind-blown leaf
Upon the gales of March. So seize
And clutch it captive from Time s breeze.

But leaves are hard to hold
In autumn s coming cold;
Before they powder in your hand
(Right through your fingers, like fine sand)
Enwreathe them in a floral band.
12-29-86

Eternal Timber

The Cross is our crutch: we are lamed and maimed,
Crippling sin in our soul,
Defiled and scourged, our faith defamed,
Golgotha our gloried goal.

The Cross is a bludgeon for smiting down
Death in his sable gown.
It s Roman-hewn and Jesus-borne,
Encircled with blood-flecked thorn.
12-10-86

The Color of Your Goodbye

I love the purple of the mountain peaks at twilight,
Yes, and I love the same color in the wine glass after midnight,
And I love the silver on the ocean in the moonlight&
But you ve exposed me to something new:

It s the blue of your eye,
It s that bleak November sky,
Darling, you ve painted me the color of goodbye.

I love the music on the Southern country radio,
Yes, and I love those guitars on the back porch in the ghetto,
And I love Memphis music in a jazz club out in Frisco&
But you ve acquainted me with something new:

Darling, you ve painted me the color of goodbye.
11-03-86

Aspirations

Greatness & the goal of ermined kings,
Sainthood & nun and priest,
Fame & the troubadour who sings,
Mankind & the charnel worms who feast.
09-09-86

High-Wire Walk

The tight-rope of salvation
Is a straining, wire-taut strand
You inch along on foot-chafed trepidation
Defying Satan’s law of gravitation,
God’s balance-pole inside your hand.

Below, the audience is cheering,
Your equipoise of faith precludes all fearing
Your toes assert their knowing, nimble grasp.
The platform, once so far, now’s nearing.
Step upon it! Crowd gives out a gasp
Satan curses with a hoarse and rueful rasp.
06-24-86

You ve Taken Her for Granted

You call her without warning, late one Friday night,
She says Give me half-an hour& , and she leaves on the light.
Comes the morning after, eggs and bacon, coffee black
You ve taken her for granted, but she always takes you back.

She isn t quite as flashy as those others you prefer,
But like some lonesome boomerang, you return to her.
She s got old-fashioned compassion, that these Nineties ladies lack
You ve taken her for granted, but she always takes you back.

Could it be that she loves you?
Or else got nothing else to do?
She understands you like a sister
She s the best friend that you knew.

Now the twisting road is narrow, when the years come crowding in,
And you look inside your glass, and see the man you might have been.
She s got two children she s got a husband and you, you ve got the railroad track,
You ve taken her for granted, but she always took you back
Until she found somebody new& somebody true.
05-04-86

Canonization

St. Jeanne of Arc carols in the pyre,
Sainted for her final song.
Her martyred voice, a human lyre,
Her ashes, immemorially strong.
04-09-86

Wee Melody

Voices of wind-chimes tinkle,
Laughter of children s glee
Sprinkle the air with music
Under the ice-cream tree.
03-24-86

(This Just Might Be) The Last Old-Time Train Song

Come on little children, put your ears upon that shiny silver rail.
You know that train is comin and you know this time it isn t going to fail,
So listen in the distance, you can hear the whistle whining in the air,
So hurry to the station, bring your neighbors, ev rybody will be there.

This just might be the last old-time train song,
Sing it one more time for you and me,
Kickin up cinders down the line,
The engineer, he s a
friend of mine,
This just might be the last old-time train song.

Hurry to the platform, try to see the train, it s just a mile away,
And listen to those drivers poundin , bringin back the sounds of yesterday,
The engineer is waving, all the little boys, they seem to know his name,
The station s full of people, and the train is here, and ain t you glad you came?

Now the whistle s blowing, now the fireman s stoking up a little steam,
The passengers are boarding and I wonder, is this really all a dream?
And is that train returning, or will it be gone forever down the track?
It doesn t matter, we ll keep singing, just as if that train is comin back.
1985

Redonda

(in memory of M. P. Shiel and John Gawsworth
In eighteen sixty-five an Irish merchant found an island in the ocean.
It rose up so majestic like a crown upon the Caribbean blue;
He claimed it as an undiscovered Kingdom that he swore would last forever:
He named his little boy as King to make a father s fantasy come true.

Officials up in London thought the father and the Kingdom both were crazy;
They hoisted up the Union Jack to claim the island for their bloody own.
The story of the Kingdom still survives in all its tarnished, royal splendor;
And high up in the sky the birds look down upon the island all alone.

The island that was found was called Redonda, with a legend left behind.
The kingdom that was crowned is called Redonda. It s a royal state of mind.
The Kingdom of Redonda&

The little boy grew up and went to London where he earned to be a writer,
And on his death, the Kingdom like a legacy was left unto a friend.
The Kingdom lost some glory down the years, but it acquired some jaded wisdom.
The troubadours and jesters and the Dukes declare the Kingdom has no end!
1985

The All-American Ladies Choice

(for Dorothy and our child)

You know she missed her period and she missed graduation,
And she missed those wedding bells.
And her daddy s shot-gun missed the boy next door
Where he s gone nobody can tell.
It s a simple operation her sister recommends it
Her daddy s going to foot the bill,
It s the All-American Ladies Choice&
It s a legalized license to kill.

God help me Jesus, forgive what we ve done,
Did we murder a daughter, or a rambunctious bouncing son?
God help me, Jesus, please hear my voice
Forgive me& for making the All-American Ladies Choice!

The weary old world takes a couple rotations
And she marries someone new,
But every year round Mothers Day,
She s unaccountably blue.
Ten years later in a Frisco apartment
A cowboy tunes his guitar& .
He s been educated in the Land of the Free
That your songs reveal who you are.

He sings, God help me Jesus, forgive what we ve done,
Did we murder a daughter, or annihilate a rambunctious, bouncing son?
God help me, Jesus, please hear my voice&
Forgive me& for helping her make the All-American Ladies Choice.
1985

She Never Got Back From Frisco

She had cable cars in her brain,
And she said she loved the rain,
She had Golden Gate horizons in her eyes.
She said she had to get away
To that city by the Bay
For a vacation under California skies.

And now she s come back home,
But I feel her memories roam
She hung a San Francisco poster on our wall.
Now I work hard every week,
But late at night I hear her speak
In a whisper on a long-distance call.

She never got back from Frisco, she never got back from Frisco,
When I kiss her she s two thousand miles from me;
She never got back from Frisco, she never got back from Frisco,
She makes believe her mind s in Tennessee.

Now I feel I don t belong
When she plays her favorite song
you guessed it Tony Bennett, from so many years ago.
And how I hate to see
Those old movies on T.V
Clint Eastwood and Bogart and San Francisco!

I lost my wife to San Francisco& high on a hill& she cheated me& !
1985

Retrospect

I.

The margin of memory is stretched along
The edge of waking eye:
A glimpse of a field of yellow years
A flicker of sun, a tinge of tears
Nostalgia s blue-gold sky.

II.

The hope of Forever extends across
Horizons in front of you,
The mellowing mist of dewy grass
The rim of the rainbow s tinted glass
A kaleidoscope-colored view.
1985

Response

Poetry! I begged from life
She answered with a knife
Plunged hilt-high hard into my breast,
Aware I wear no metal vest!
1985

Independence!

Hear that wagon-master shout
Now keep those wagons moving out,
Stay close together.
We ll do twenty miles today
And day by day we ll make our way
Thought sun and snowy weather&
Talkin about& .

Independence. Independence. Independence& & Missouri!

Keep those wagons moving on,
Now we ve got dreams of Oregon
It sounds like heaven,
Leave New England far behind,
We ve got a restless state of mine,
In eighteen thirty-seven,
Thinkin about& .

Independence. Independence. Independence& & Missouri!

Independence is a word
The sweetest word you ve ever heard
It stands for freedom.
Like a high-flying bird& .

Independence. Independence. Independence& & Missouri!

You can t wait till you get there,
You ll tie some ribbons in your hair
You ll make your showing,
You ll buy a cotton dress or two,
Those city men will stare at you
Until we re going,
Moving along&

Independence. Independence. Independence& & Missouri!
1985

How Can I Give Jesus Everything That He Deserves?

How can I give Jesus everything that He deserves?
How can I repay Him for His time?
Three long hours he spent upon the Cross of Calvary
That you and I might live eternally.

How can I give Jesus everything that He deserves?
Gold and silver slip right through my hands.
All I have to offer Him is my thanksgiving prayer
With Jesus, I am rich beyond compare.

He loves me though I m a sinner,
And He purchased me with all his blood and pain,
And it makes me feel so humble
His loss upon the Cross became my gain.

How can I give Jesus everything that He deserves?
His suffering and tears have washed me clean.
Forgiving me for all the evil wickedness I ve done
Thank God for giving me His only Son.
1985

Here Come the Cowboys

Now one year it s this, and the next year it s that,
And this is the year for the ten-gallon hat,
They wear them in Dallas, they wear them in Spain,
They wear them in London to keep off the rain.

Some cowboys punch cattle and some punch time-clocks,
And some punch the buttons upon the juke-box,
There s cowboys in offices, cowboys in schools,
And cowboys whose saddle is just a bar-stool.

Here come the cowboys, they re walkin and talkin real slow.
Here come the cowboys, just like a movie show
(And it s a western.)

Some cowboys are riding the dreams in their heads,
With posters of rodeos hung by their beds,
And some think they re cowboys when they pick guitar,
In Texas or Tokyo. That s where they are.
1985

Freedom Was the Death of Me

(for Chris Wiener)

We rode into Nacogdoches, with our pistols and our Bowie knives,
Volunteers for Texas we came to risk our lives.
Some of us had families, and others, just the memory,
And some of us they didn t hardly miss in Kentucky and in Tennessee.
Some of us came for adventure, and others, we came for land;
But at the Alamo down in San Anton we made our last stand.

Some called it glory and some called it greed, and some they called it Liberty.
But mostly they called it the Lone Star Republic so Texas could be free.
But freedom was the death of me.

Colonel Bowie from Louisiana, with a big knife at his side,
He got drunk most every day, but he was sober when he died.
Colonel Travis from Alabama, commander of the Alamo,
He answered Santa Anna with a cannon shot, and he let the world know.
Colonel Crockett, he was laughing with his men he held the wall.
But the Mexicans, they overcame them, and you know they killed them all.

And the Mexicans kept coming, everyone of them was brave,
But they turned the mission of the Alamo into a heroes grave.
Susannah Dickinson, a lady from Tennessee
Her husband died across his cannon, but Santa Anna let her go free,
With her little girl, she went free.

Santa Anna he grew careless
Sam Houston he laid in wait
Down on the San Jacinto River
Santa Anna met his fate.

Now the tourists load their cameras, in a San Anton motel,
And they buy postcards and they suck on snow-cones, and they stand right where I fell.

Some called it glory and some called it greed, and some they called it Liberty.
But mostly they called it the Lone Star Republic, so Texas could be free.
And freedom was the death of me.
1985

Civil War Marker:

Vanderbilt Campus

History s unpopular these days,
No one cares where Blues shot Greys,
Or where the tons of cannonballs were kept.
Union marker stands aloof, alone,
Monument of bronze and chisled stone,
And students giggle where the Northern troops once swept.
1985

Brushy Bill Roberts

(died 1950)

Brushy Bill Roberts was born quite a long time ago;
Eighteen Eighty-Eight, he rode the Cheyenne Rodeo;
He even trained horses in Argentina, he said;
When he rode for the Pinkertons he left a few rustlers dead.

Brushy Bill Roberts had twenty-six wounds that had healed,
Scars from the horses, and bullets, and knives, he revealed;
His real name and date of his birth are a mystery still,
But he used to break mustangs and broncos for sure, Brushy Bill.

Brushy Bill Roberts went off to a faraway shore,
In the Shetland Islands, roping ponies, Eighteen-Ninety Four,
And down there in Cuba, he was a Roosevelt Rough Rider too,
And he smuggled horses to help Poncho Villa, it s true.

He went crazy, there at the end&
In 1950& he even surrendered,
To the governor of New Mexico&
Asking for a pardon for his crimes.
It seemed that all those years he d been
Keeping it hid&
Yes, he even confessed he was& really&
Billy the Kid!
They laughed at Brushy Bill and three weeks
Later he died&

Brushy Bill Roberts was born quite a long time ago,
They still tell his legend way down in old New Mexico,
And he s still in the saddle like a ghost in a rodeo dream.
You see, sometimes those cowboys are quite a bit more than they seem.
1985

Buffalo Skull on the Desert

Buffalo skull on the desert,
White from the wind and the sun;
Sometimes I feel like that buffalo skull&
I really don t need anyone.

Buffalo skull on the desert,
Spider makes a home in its head;
Sometimes I feel like that buffalo skull
When I think of those last words you said.

You said to me, Adios, caballero, we re crossing the border,
A posse s close on our trail;
We re wanted for love, and there s a price on our hearts&
We re fugitives from somebody s jail.
And our ponies are starting to fail&

Buffalo skull on the desert,
Gila monster scurries by;
Sometimes I feel like that buffalo skull
Under the dry desert sky.

You said to me, Adios, caballero, we re crossing the border,
A posse s close on our trail;
We re wanted for love, and there s a price on our hearts&
We re fugitives from somebody s marital jail,
And our ponies are starting to fail&

Buffalo skull on the desert,
Might make a good souvenir;
Sometimes I feel like that buffalo skull
On a fence-post so far from here.
1985

And I m Never Going to Leave You, Girl

When the years come down like snowflakes, and they flutter in your eyes,
I ll rise up like the midnight sun and I ll warm your winter skies,
And warm your winter skies.
When your dreams dissolve to ashes laying cold upon the stone,
I ll build the biggest bonfire your heart has ever known,
Your heart has ever know.

And I m never going to leave you girl,
I m never going to let you go.

When the devil comes knocking and you forget to pray,
I ll kneel right down beside you girl and help you find your way,
And help you find your way.
And when at last it s over, our love will still survive
Two names carved on a heart-shaped stone will keep the flame alive,
Will keep the flame alive.
1985

Manger Monument

Had Yahweh picked a palace for the birth
Of Christ, its splendored Solomonic worth
Would stagger calculation: sheeted gold
Might overspread its cedar walls, and bold
Phoenician carved designs would praise the Child.
But who today would know? Instead, a wild
And rude unlikely cavern cradled Him;
Above--a star millennia can t dim,
More brilliant than lamps of oil aflame,
Illumining the cave where Jesus came.
Thus Bethlehem endures, a citadel
Within our hearts, where mankind s chief event
Occurred. Though Nineveh and Tyre each fell,
The manger outlasts every monument.
12-85

Immortal Bouquet

The withered arm of Time has plucked the blooms
That crowned the brow of Love and rent the ring
Of roses round Love s head. Decay consumes
The petals. Powdered grey flecks everything.
Thus shorn of blossoms, Love s skull draws
Its scalp in wrinkles that retract
And tighten. The first of all Time s laws
Would seem the last as well: the fatal fact
That life means death. Yet death becomes rebirth:
Love s phantom sheds its flesh and rides the sky.
Below, its skeleton sinks deep in earth,
The gnarled old arm of Time grasps high
But cannot seize the cloud as it encloses
In silken mist& gold-ruby roses.
08-06-85

Nuclear Aqua-Archaeology

The map was inscribed upon a scroll.
It marked where the land fell under.
The floor of the sea became my goal,
Submerged Atlantis unplumbed wonder.

Past stones sunk in sand, grown green with slime,
I swam through remaining arches standing,
Aghast, to discern, from ancient time
An algae-crusted airstrip landing.

Metallic devices were moored in place,
Cylinders balanced steady,
With barnacles clinging upon their face,
Otherwise aimed and ready.

The rustless contraptions were set to spring,
I noticed a coral-coated lever
Still cocked like a cannon, set to zing--
I pulled it released the lethal thing
The missile smashed half of Denver!
07-08-85 (rev. 09-28-90)

Message from Heaven

.
.
.
.
.
4-85

Striking Out

(for Charles Lewis)

The color of lemonade washing the sky
Popsicle memories revive
Of baseball connecting with ash wood, hit high
In an arcing, outfield drive.

Are summers forever? Or only a day?
Moth-eaten , major-league hat&
December s the umpire, miscalling the play,
And there s ice on my Louisville bat.
03-09-85

The Vietnam War Ain t Over Yet (It Takes a Long, Long Time)

His daddy died from workin , the boy dropped out of school,
He should ve hid out in college, that patriotic fool.

His mama, she was weepin that day he raised his hand,
He wrote her almost ev ry week from a Southeast Asian land.

He led his men in battle, he risked his ass each day,
He hit the dirt but not in time when a bullet came his way.

A purple decoration rehabilitation, and an ex-wife
And now his nation s awarding him& just twenty years to life.

The details they don t matter, no, it s just some Veteran s crime,
The Vietnam War ain t over yet, it takes a long, long time.

Psychiatrists and lawyers, they fashioned his defense,
They tried to make him crazy, but the jury took offense.

Now he don t sniff that cocaine, no, and all he drinks is beer;
But he s got memories in living color, they re-run all so clear.

He hears those people screamin , he sees the bombs bright light
It all came back one fatal night& inside that bar-room fight.

The details don t matter, no, it s just some Veteran s crime,
The Vietnam War ain t over yet, it takes a long, long time.
1984

The Queen of the Mojave Desert

The old man lived out by the desert, selling postcards and gasoline,
He sold road-maps and Navajo silver, and True West magazine.

And under his Gabby Hays beard beat the heart of a dashing young man;
With arthritic fingers he cleaned off my windshield& he once was a Dapper Dan.

He said Take care on the desert, carry plenty water to spare
And look out for mirages that float like a dream there s all kinds of dangers out there.

And you better watch out for that sweet senorita, the travelers all agree&
They call her the Queen of the Mojave Desert& but she once belonged to me,
Yes, she once belonged to me&

I thought the old man was demented, from too many years in the sun;
But there in his gas station office I noticed a Winchester gun&

And I saw a faded brown photo a Mexican beauty was she&
Right next to a newspaper clipping& about a murder in 1953&

Then later that night on the desert, my car overheated and died
And I saw the Queen of the Mojave Desert& with a bullet hole gaping wide!

So I hoofed it on back to the station, left my automobile behind&
And that grizzled gas station attendant, he told me one final time

You d better look out for that sweet senorita, the travelers all agree,
They call her the Queen of the Mojave Desert& but she once belonged to me,
She was unfaithful to me& back in 1953& she was unfaithful to me...
1984

Mary s Song

Above the sunken lake of Galilee,
Lay isolated disdained Nazareth,
Where misted in obscurity
Was Mary born. Her kin Elizabeth
Gave John the Baptist birth. But Mary wrought
The Motherhood of ages: Jesus, Son
Of Man, Whose prophesied arrival brought
Astrologers and shepherds one by one
To marvel. Mary, in a squalid cave
In Bethlehem nursed Infant Child with care.
The Savior Whose death forgave
Our primal sin too weightisome to bear.
To celebrate that first far Christmastime,
Let carillons of joy inside us chime.
1984

Like the Wind on a Winter s Day

Love used to be the answer.
Now it s a painful question.
Are you staying, or are you blowing away&
Like the wind on a winter s day?

Love was the whisper of Springtime,
Sighing around us so softly.
Our rose-colored sky is turning grey,
Like the wind on a winter s day,

Summertime love full of laughter,
Firing our bodies and our dreams.
Sensuous hot August passion,
Turns cold like December snow& on our skin.

Love is like ice on your fingers&
Burning and freezing at once.
Goodbye is a chilly word to say&
Like the wind on a winter s day.

Love is a Springtime illusion&
Wedding bells ringing in June.
Later, they toll for the heartbreak&
Like the wind on a winter s day.
1984

Jesus, Don t Come Back Today

Jesus, don t come back today,
I ve got too much to do,
Jesus, I ll be ready for you
In a day or two.

I know it sounds a little strange,
I need at least a day to change,
I ve got some people to repay,
So Jesus, don t come back today.

Jesus, don t come back today,
I ve got too much to do,
Jesus, I ll be ready for you
In a day or two.

I need to change the way I live,
I ve got some people to forgive,
I m busy learning how to pray,
So Jesus, don t come back today
1984.

Jesse, I m Coming to Know You

Jesse, I m coming to know you,
Better than ever before.
Danger and trouble are leaving our lives&
Children are crawling the floor.

Jesse, I m coming to know you,
You re drawing closer to me.
Finding a future and finding a farm
Thank God, we found Tennessee!

Sometimes at night when I m sleeping,
Nightmares, they enter my head.
Hear people shooting and dying&
Wake up so safe in our bed.

Jesse, I m coming to know you,
Even though we ve changed our names.
Worth it to find a new life full of peace
They ll never catch Jesse James.

Not while you re holding me
In Tennessee& &
1984

It s a Dusty Road

It s a dusty road, and life s its name
No guarantee of gold or fame,
A cloud of dust for your royal gown,
And a sweaty brow for your regal crown.

It s a dusty road, all men have trod.
The Devil waits, but so does God.
There s one companion you must choose
There s wealth to win and a soul to lose.

It s a dusty road, but you re not alone,
Though your feet are bloody from the ice and stone;
The blizzard comes to chill your skin
But you travel warm from your faith within.

It s a dusty road, and it soon is gone,
The rich and poor both travel on.
They might bury you in some gravel ditch
But if your faith was strong, then your years were rich.

It s a dusty road, and it s been trekked before,
Nineteen hundred years and more&
A wooden burden and some Roman whips came down
And a ring of thorns for the regal crown.

It s a dusty road, soon left behind,
A greener valley you will find,
A peaceful pasture comes into view&
And Living Water will cleanse the dust from you.
1984

Aubrey Beardsley

(1872-1898)

Boney, hawk-beaked boy,
Beardsley was a toy
Of fickle Time s disdain:
Consumptive, blood-flecked pain.

Furiously he drew,
Knowing all was through
Too soon. His paling face
Foreshadowed Time s brief race.

Harlequins and whores,
Dwarves and marble floors
Are Beardsley s legacy.
Sublime perversity.
1984

Bird Dung of Doom

The prophets forewarned us in ancient words
Of monstrous, metallic, reptilian birds
Igniting skies with a flight of fire:
Below them the smoke of charred Earth will spire.

These death-pterodactyls are coming true:
Their pilots turn bleak the horizons of blue,
Sleek avian avatars, spilling down
Their droppings that cinder the field and town.

The creatures themselves are consumed in flame,
And man is a dinosaur, obsolete-name,
Forgotten as prophesied, slain by sleek
Low-swooping pteranodons, bones-in-beak.
12-03-84

Adios to Ernest Tubb

(02-09-14 to 09-06-84)

In Nashville, all those tourists visit Broadway every day;
They buy those Dolly Parton posters there;
But the record shop of Ernest Tubb won t seem the same no more
Sing Adios to Ernest Tubb he used to walk that floor.

Inside there re old brown photographs displayed upon the wall
Of Jimmie Rodgers, and Roy, and Kitty Wells;
On his radio show he helped some kid name of Elvis get a chance
Sing Adios to Ernest Tubb, and his Western-Country dance.

Across the street is Tootsie s Lounge, where beer and memories flow;
Nearby, the Grand Ole Opry used to play
Where E. T. helped Loretta face that famous microphone;
Sing Adios to Ernest Tubb he s the best friend Nashville s known.

He was Lone Star lean and lanky, with a voice like Texas sand
And he used electric guitars, `way back when;
Instead of wasting tears tonight, let s everybody sing
Sing Adios to Ernest Tubb& he made that dance floor swing.
09-07-84

There s a Black Wreath Down in Nashville

There s a black wreath down in Nashville on a Broadway record store.
It commemorates a troubadour who used to walk the floor
He was Lone Star long and lanky with a voice like Texas sand.
It s adios to Ernest Tubb, with his County Western Band.
There s a black wreath down in Nashville on a Broadway record store.
It s near the place where the Grand Old Opry ain t going to play no more,
Where E. T. helped the girl from Butcher s Holler shine the light,
Across from Tootsies Orchid Lounge, where Tom T. used to write.

There s a black wreath down in Nashville on a Broadway record store.
I ve browsed those crowded album racks three dozen times or more,
I sometimes came to purchase, or look and not to buy.
Those photographs of Kitty Wells and Jimmy got me by.

There s a black wreath down in Nashville on a Broadway record store.
You can shed a tear if you want to, but tragedy s a bore,
The man himself is best remembered for his Texas smile.
Let s hit he dance floor, Ernest Tubb is still in style.
09-06-84

Sabbath, 1966, 1984

Those motel memories return.
The colored comic pages opened first
And water bubbling in an urn
And powdered coffee slaking my communion thirst.

Montana windswept plains outside.
Stark desolation s existential rites within.
But earth I ve trekked since then rolls wide:
And prayer, not newsprint, now assuages sin.
08-05-84

I Once Had an Angel

I once had an angel she had silvery wings,
Now the memory of her, it burns and it stings.
We both lived in heaven, till she crashed to the ground,
And I d rather not mention that devil she found&

Now her wings have turned scarlet
From the shame of her life,
I once had an angel,
I once had a wife.

I try to forget her as I look in my glass
But whiskey reflections of her will not pass.
I once had an angel and the chance won t come twice;
To hell with salvation. I lost paradise.
07-24-84

Regal Revenge

The twelve-cursed king,
Defies the maledictions, one by one:
You cannot kill me with your imprecations
He utters to his wizard foes.

Your insults ring
But cannot slaughter me or even stun.
Exhaust yourself in futile fulminations.
My royal thunder strikes down blows.
So writhe to death& in final throes.
07-11-84

When the Tears Outnumber the Years

Everyone said we were crazy, our love wouldn t last out the year,
But we ve been together a dozen we fooled them awhile , didn t we dear?

Our first years were ragged and tough ones, harder by far than the rest,
We had our love and a big stack of bills, but I think those first years were best.

How do you measure your losses, when the love in your life disappears?
Is it in heartaches or houses or automobiles?
& .When the tears outnumber the years,
When the tears outnumber the years.

Everyone says we are wise now, sensible people at last,
Making the grown-up decision tearing the page from our past.

But I question my own calculations, did I figure everything right?
Did I total the times with the children? Did I add up each sweet loving night?

How do you measure your losses, when the love in your life disappears?
Is it in in-laws or court laws or who keeps the dog?
& When the tears outnumber the years,
When the tears outnumber the years.
06-28-84

Prayer

When my standing turns to falling,
Lift me toward my petty perch.
When my running runs to stalling
Goad me back again to search.

Horizons widening ahead
Re-sparked! All languor shed.
06-18-84

A Woman s Work is Never Done

It takes a lot of trouble and toil forgetting you,
But everybody says I ll find me someone,
But I ve been working overtime on your memory&
A woman s work is never done.

It takes a lot of labor and effort to greet the day,
It takes a lot of courage to face the sun,
It ain t easy but I ll be getting up one more time&
A woman s work is never done.

I ve struggled hard to make a life as if there s really nothing wrong.
And everybody down at work respects me, and they say I do belong.

It takes a lot of practice at home to get things right,
A fishing pole and baseball and B-B gun.
I wrap each package, sign your name to the greeting card&
A woman s work is never done.
05-27-84

No Valhalla: Death of Robert E. Howard

Battlefield flows red,
Celtic swordsman dead
By his own remorseless hand,
Carried on his shield
Down the skull-strewn field
By embattled comrades from his band.

How can gods forgive
Craven warrior terrified to live& ?
Will his ghost win peace?
Or haunt this patch of post-oak land.
05-19-84

Ganier Ridge, Radnor Lake, TN

Nature affronts the arch-modernist
Feather and scale and skin and fur,
Crystal and stone and fern and burr&
Challenge his gears that wheel and whir.

Nature consoles the romanticist
Gaseous fumes and stench of town,
Billowing plumes that bloom with brown&
Hasten him toward the woods green gown.
04-15-84

Crazed Carnival

The fair of folly arrives in town:
The furled-up banners are flopping down,
The Fool is enthroned as the King of all.
So welcome: idiots, leap and fall.

The clowns cavort on the midway strip,
Revolving acrobats tumble, flip.
The Fool himself on the trapeze wire
Disports himself in a dizzy gyre.

The madness mounts and the crowd joins in,
The laughter of lunatics makes a din:
The circus tent s an asylum jail
Imprisoned spectators weep and wail
And Folly triumphs. Fools prevail.
04-09-84

You re Passing Through Life On a Song

Those lullabies became a funeral dirge when your Mama passed away.
Then you studied love, and rock n roll, on the radio in your Daddy s Chevrolet.
And that wedding organ music, it took Sue from you that sad June day.

You bought your first guitar so you could protest a war you didn t have to fight.
But your best friend from Eleventh Grade, they played those military taps for him just right.
You got the news, and you got drunk, and sang his favorite songs all night.

You laughed at Country Music till some woman laughed at you, and left you broke and blue.
For the next two years, those old Hank Williams songs, they all came true.
Then some television gospel singer with a toll-free number saved the soul in you.

Your children love those nursery rhymes that Daddy takes the time to sing.
You hit that dance floor with your wife she stands beside you in spite of every crazy thing.
And when that preacher reads those final words your friends will make their voices ring!

From your birth to the end, the music s your friend,
And you were born to sing along.
You re a little off-key, but you sound good to me:
You re passing through life on a song.
03-27-84

Winter Renewed

February coughing more snow
In the face of our premature thaw,
Is chilling us back to a few weeks ago&
Fickleness: Nature s own law.

Weather’s emotional, just
Like a woman’s strange eddying moods.
Snow, like a crystalline curtain of dust
Smothers Earth’s smile, and intrudes.
While landscape frowns and broods
02-05-84

And I Never Got Over You and Me

I missed the last few class reunions,
You ve been to one, they re all the same;
I shut my eyes and see those yearbook faces
That silly heart you drew around my name.

Growing up for some means growing older
I ve traveled light, I ve traveled far
But out there on that lifetime highway
Sometimes you find exactly who you are:

And I never, never, never got over you and me.

Hate to see how you have changed, for God knows time
Has left its lines on me.
Growing old but still I can t outgrow remembering
What we said we d be, you and me.

I ve traveled continents and oceans,
I ve slept in palaces and cheap hotels,
I ve danced with ladies of a foreign language,
But all I ve really learned is what time tells:

And I never, never, never got over you and me.
02-04-84

Villon Revisited

(After Francois Villon, b. 1431)

I.

I ve been a hero at Culloden
Though my sword was made of lath,
And my Redcoats were imagined in my mind
My other playmates looked, but they were blind.

I ve walked the streets of Tombstone.
O. K. Corral was where
I would face (with boyhood pistol in my hand)
Embattled cowboys making their grim stand.

II.

Now I raise my grown-up weapon,
A poet s pen against the foe.
But my ink is watery and swiftly fades,
And pens cannot replace boys wooden blades.

Valhalla. Dodge City. No longer near.
Where are the six-guns of yesteryear?
01-27-84

Zombie Bards

Poetry turns from the common man,
Turns on its arrogant heel,
Stalking away toward the cloistered academe.

Nothing is duller or deader than
Poets unable to feel
Love or compassion, or dream the lofty dream.

Thus poetry turns from you, from me,
And talks to itself, indulgently,
And nobody hears. Quite understandably.
1983

You Look Like a Soldier to Me

They drafted my body for South Vietnam,
I said take a look, Can t you see what I am?
A queer and a Commie and I take LSD,
They said Son, you look like a soldier to me.

Although I protested they were being unfair,
They volunteered me for a vacation out there,
And then they sent me home on a hospital ship.
Writing poems of protest about the whole trip.

After I learned them upon my guitar,
I wondered where all of the folk singers are?
Are all of them out, is something else in?
I went back home to start over again.

I sold my guitar for a five dollar bill,
And purchased some pleasure inside of a pill,
That softened my head where it used to be hard,
And bought me some bagpipes on my credit card.

Too many songs, too many rhymes,
Changing my instruments to keep with the times.
1983

While Reading Brennan s Creep to Death

Hour ticking late.
The kindling you plied
Is embered. Charring sticks fall
Down in the grate.
And shadows ascend the wall.
Listen! and wait
There someone just cried
The chimney wind? Or a wraith s call?
It s nothing, no nothing at all!
1983

We re Passing Through Life On a Song

From the nursery-rhyme tunes of the children,
To the funeral dirge played at the end,
You wander through life in the arms of a song,
And the music s your favorite friend.

From those rock-n-roll songs with your sweetheart,
To the music on her wedding day,
The organ was playing and your eyes were blurring
As you watched her and him drive away&

The song doesn t last, no, it s fading too fast,
And you can t hold the note very long,
It s a little off key but it warms you and me:
We re passing through life on a song.

From those uncensored songs when you re drinking,
To the taps at the soldier s farewell,
Those lullabies crooned to your very first child,
To those hymns that brought you home from Hell.

As hamlet might say, the question in this:
To sing or not to sing?
The answer s so easy and I know you know
Yes, your life is a song on the wing&
1983

Vincent Millay

(1892-1950)

Hair the shade of fire
Flaring like a spire
Over the sad space
Of her gypsy face:
Candle colored red
Burning down and dead.

Candle in a breeze
Of eternities,
Edna flickered faint,
Charring like some martyred saint
Scarlet at the stake,
Embered& for art s sake.
1983

Sideshow

Across the sawdust circus ground
Where bells and penny whistles sound,
The gypsy reads your fate for gold,
Good fortune, or dire doom, foretold.

She scans the stars, consults the gods,
And reckons up your life-death odds:
You tremble at what lies in store,
Then stumble from her tent front door&
1983

Shackled

Imagination lights
A path through all your nights,
For you to follow blind
Down your-moon-struck mind.

But deeper in your brain
Are beasts you have to chain:
The ancient howling fears
Hammering your ears.
1983

Reassurance

(After reading Joseph Payne Brennan s Creep to Death)

Hour ticking late,
The kindling you plied
Is embered. Charring sticks fall
Down in the grate.
December s outside
And shadows ascend the wall.
Listen! and wait
There someone just cried
The chimney wind? Or a wraith s call?
It s nothing, no, nothing at all!
1983

Rainbows and Daydreams

I ve chased a thousand fading rainbows, but you re the first one that remained,
You fill up my horizons with the colors of your loving, every day.
I ve lost a thousand dying daydreams, but you re the first one coming true,
I open up my eyes and can t believe your love has really come my way.

Rainbows and daydreams, they come like a gift from above,
Sometimes I lose them, and sometimes they linger with love&
Rainbows and daydreams of you.

I ve faced a thousand cloudy mornings, I ve weathered all those stormy years,
My night fears turn to daydreams when the rainbow of your loving falls on me.
And when my eyes grow dim and misty, I ll see your love light shining through.
I ll close my eyes one final time and see your rainbow shine eternally.

Rainbows and daydreams, they come like a gift from above,
Sometimes I lose them, and sometimes they linger with love&
Rainbows and daydreams of you.
1983

Poetaster Manifesto

Irreverence to us is All-Sacred,
Light lampoons, devoid of real hatred,
Our metrical crime
Is limerick rhyme:
We re strippin the stuffed-shirts bare naked.
1983

Lured by the Looking Glass

I m running backwards down the hall of years,
Beseeching Time to halt. Time turns deaf ears.
I race down corridors in quest of you,
In vain, in vain. Echoes mock anew,
Reverberating in the tunnel of my dreams
Love s playback of my heart-recorded screams.

On cold, metallic walls I press a kiss,
Then realize their surfaces are glass
Reflections, nothing more. And as I pass,
Their fun-house images distort and bend.
While down love s labyrinth I blindly wend.
1983

The Color of Your Goodbye

I love the purple of the mountain peaks at twilight,
Yes, and I love the same color in the wine glass after midnight,
And I love the silver on the ocean in the moonlight,
But you ve exposed me to something new.

It s the blue of your eye,
It s that bleak November sky,
Darling, you ve painted me the color of goodbye.

I love the music on the Southern country radio,
Yes and I love the guitars on the back porch, in the ghetto,
And I love Memphis music in a jazz club out in Frisco.
But you ve acquainted me with something new.

It s the blue of your eye,
It s the color of your goodbye,
Darling, you ve painted me the color of goodbye.
Darling, you ve painted me the color of goodbye.
1983 (Rev.11-3-89)

To Not Return

There s an arc of a rainbow ringing
Round the horizon s rim,
And the colors collect on the brim
Of the world. I hear singing,
But of angels (or sirens ) it s not clear.
Either way, they entice me afar from here.
12-23-83

Self-Strangle

Barbed-wire words
Wrap my neck around,
And noose me, sanguine-tight,
Feet kicking off the ground.
12-21-83

Periodical Horror

Ephemeral pulp magazines survive
In readers memories
Or microfilm archive reels,
Where desolate graveyards are still alive
And shapes under cypress trees
Arise, as the death-knell peels.

The sensuous covers are livid red
Or luminous greenish-blue
Where maidens fend off some beast,
Within: certain stories endure, undead,
The classics of fear and grue
Where literate ghouls still feast.
12-09-83

Thrust Home

I strive to smelt my feelings in a crucible of art,
I plunge them into tears until the hissing starts;
And after they are cooling, then I hammer them with zeal:
A rapier forged of supple, double-edged poetic steel.

I lunge it at my enemies imagined& usually,
Or raise it in salute to valiant friends, so loyally,
Or turn the weapon on myself, then finally
To stab my pretenses, skewered with Why me?
12-04-83

Conviction

A man, to survive must never once care
For what the effete folk think
Vicarious cowards who, jealous, stare
And knowingly share a wink.

The cautious exceed the daring, ten
On twenty to one, at least.
They never suspect, for actual men
Adventure is life s vast feast.

They tally success by approval s nod,
Of fashionable acclaim
Real heroes feed vultures on fear-soaked sod,
No marble to mark their name.
12-04-83

Yellow Rider

Now the villager s are waking from the dreams inside their heads,
They re locking doors and windows, and they re hiding in their beds;
It s a yellow rainy morning with a mist across the sun&
You can hear the hoof beats coming, terrifying everyone.

It s a legend sprung to life, and it s a horror story true,
You listen in the silence and you know you hear it too,
And the sound is getting closer till it s beating in your bones,
And it s hammering and clattering upon the cobblestones.

Yellow Rider coming
Through the early light of day,
Hear the hoof beats drumming&
Too late for you to pray.

And the Rider s coming closer still you stay inside your room,
You re looking at his saddle, and his giant hat and plume,
But you cannot see his face because it s hidden by the brim,
Still you recognize his saddle so you know it must be him.

For it s silver-mounted leather from a Gypsy caravan,
His uniform is yellow silk imported from Japan,
And his sword is Spanish-crafted, and his pistol made in France&
And there s nobody escaping, everybody s had his chance.

Yellow Rider coming
Like a bandit through the rain,
Hear the hoof beats drumming&
Till they echo in your brain.

Now the Rider is departing just as swiftly as he came,
He s taking someone with him and I will not tell his name,
But it s either you or me or maybe someone else we know&
Now the Yellow Rider s leaving as the sun begins to show.

And the people are appearing at their windows and their doors,
The merchants all are opening their markets and their stores,
And the villages will make believe he never came at all&
But away out on the high road you can hear his mournful call&

Yellow Rider going,
And he s taking someone new,
Someone we re both knowing,
Is it me or you?
Is it me or you?
11-14-1983

No Sex

Sex cannot be in poetry.
The details might offend,
So when in verse, pretend
It s never done by you or me.
10-10-83

Pruned

There is not long before the severing of all.
Sheared off in bloom the rose will fall,
Crushed underfoot, on life s stone walk.

The moments left to bloom are prized ones still,
Split-second, flowering! until
Black snipping scissors clip life s stalk.
10-09-83

Condemned

Curse the poets with oblivion.
They haven t changed a thing.
There still is war and pestilential greed
In spite of how they sing.

Damn the poets to perdition.
They haven t fathomed Fate.
The grave is still inscrutable, yet near
No poet makes death wait.

Banish poets to cruelest torture.
They deserve the rack
For promising your heart to me
When rhymes won t woo you back.
09-23-83

REL Rudder

My life is a tool
Obeying the rule
Of vast supernatural force
With faith for my fuel
To rocket me forth, on course
08-27-83

Embrace (2)

Iron-winged angel with riveted wings
Gliding down steel-colored skies
Is fashioned of girders and concrete and brick,
Floating toward you. You thrill when she sings,
Sweet as a jack-hammer--weep when she cries
Forgiveness in phrases metallic and thick.
The Angel descends , and industrial fumes
Exhale from her lips. Copper nostrils shoot spumes
Of vapor the chemical angel now looms.
7-83

Fool s Ore

Your mental rainbow arcs across
Horizons in your head
But pots of gold are only dross
And black expunges green and red.

06-83

Marie Ragghianti: Nashville, 1977-83

The heroine is human, happily
(To sanctify the living is a blasphemy);
And all that matters is her crucial act,
Irreducible, brave crystal fact.
Yet in her home-town, always she ll bestir
Disdain and awe: mixed monument to her.
06-19-83

Seeing Sammi Smith in Nashville

(Printers Alley, June 7, 1983, 1:00 AM)

Fell in love with her in Oregon
A dozen dreams ago,
And two hard thousand miles away.
Juke box in a reeking tavern
Took my quarters in a row
So one same song incessantly could play.

Now the distance is foreshortened
Scant twenty feet or so
My minstrel-mistress sprung from yesterday
Makes love-by-microphone across the night-club floor,
Beguilingly, like countless times before.
06-07-83

Suburban Sidewalk

An ancient hitching-post survives
Too strong and stable to tear down;
The horse-drawn cart no more arrives,
For Time has altered Man and town.
05-83

Nashville: 1978: Marie Ragghianti

Well-manicured and rich
Clandestine fingers spent,
And purchased murder, down in Tennessee.

They meant to kill the bitch
Who hung embarrassment
Upon their cozy aristocracy.

They aimed to slay each snitch
Informing on their permanent
Regime. And two or three
They got, but not their protege Marie,
Turned nemesis, Marie.
05-31-83

Anti-Communist Manifesto

World Communism s sure to spread
Where U. S. money s spent,
And mild reformers turn bright red
As Yankee guns are sent
To kill those who dissent.

The Marxist s actually approve
Our foreign policy.
By arming tyrannies, we move
Poor nations left as left can be.
The real dupes are you and me.
05-26-83

Sahara Doom Scape

I.

Whitening sands up mirror desert glare,
Glinting, underneath my mind s burnt sun&
Paling, dream expanse.
And there I wander, rootless in some Netherwhere
Mental vagabond, my trek begun&
Picaresque romance!

II.

Whitening bones appear by poison springs,
Dread oasis, tempting me to drink.
Shining, silver pool,
Mirage aglow. A maiden floats on glassine wings
Beckoning me toward the toxic sink.
Reckless, I sip cool
Blighted waters. Thirsty fool.
05-20-83

On Viewing New Buildings in Washington, D. C.

Man s lofty hopes once soared in stone.
His architecture sought God s sky,
In spires up risen, sprung from earth.

Today, man s mood is crudely shown
In concrete cubes that smite the eye,
Brute paleoliths of stone-age worth
That future archeologists, amazed, will scan,
And ponder& did ape-like artisans evolve from man?
05-18-83

Devouring Yesterdays

We grind up centuries between our teeth.
We gulp the decades down,
Digesting eras with a self-pleased smile.

We spit out months that taste too green,
But chew up years all brown,
And swallow ripened seasons served in style.

At Time s vast feast millennia are spread
For banqueting: we glutton gods are fed.
05-18-83

Riven

Fools believe in fantasy.
Skeptics see through all.
Devout and doubting, both in me,
Divided by a schizoid wall.
05-17-83

Graveyard Verse Verities (2)

I.

The raven, yew and cypress, each
Reminded Man of death s long reach,
Two hundred years ago: a page
Of wood-cuts from the Gothic age.

II.

Today, the poets sense of gloom
Is fear of life, not of the tomb;
And shrouds of existential dread
Enshadow Man s dank crypt: his head.
04-14-83

Lycanthropic Liberation (2)

Her grand-dame, years before,
Had warned her: Never look
Inside that black-bound book
Of German, legend-whispered lore!

She opens it today
Her husband wonders why&
Until he hears the cry
So bestial, weird and far away.

And now he lives alone,
His health is dimming fast.
But hark! He chills aghast
To hear that distant, female& moan.
04-05-83

The Tritest Song

Renewal& Easter,,,April love& rebirth
Are easy, archetypal terms for when
Fresh shoots begin to green the thawing Earth
And fill with sweet cliches this poet s pen.
At least I know what Spring is not
The cruelest month s not April, no,
In spite of Mister T. S. Elliot
Whose Spring and soul were both of snow.
But he was young. Age brings surcease,
And Spring, forsythia and daffodils,
As flowered sonnets sprout, increase,
And decorate the rain-swelled rills.
Thus, in the landscape of my autumn brain
The hues of yellow and of green remain.
03-23-83