four-and-thirty years ago
he was going to meet her here
they would spend a night, then
it was 1984,
he was sure, as sureness comes,
night would turn into a
so he waited in a room,
waited for her sudden step,
waited for a hand that
four-and-thirty years has gone,
all has turned to dirt and dust,
except for one small tear this place
the queens of meritocracy, who sing
of shortness in the lifespan, and the fall
of capillaries once encumbered flush,
the way that halls for Kostelanetz filled,
when everyone who knew was frozen red.
hereby the wind, afraid it might be late,
takes bits of snow with it, to reassign
a crinoline escape to stalk and stem,
a baritonal escapade in frost,
and caravan of jesters in the snow.
So many “they’s”,
From untold places,
In rooms for healing,
We know this.
But we just
With our contumely
We’re here —-
What matters who is gone?
It isn’t real, beyond,
A faint remaining
An echo, an
A bill of life
That’s elsewhere spent;
We needn’t hear
What there was meant,
Nor sit down to
Who came before,
Who lay in here,
Or built this door,
Whose tears and blood
Call from the floor,
“All dust is made
Of us —“
We see our each reality
Through lenses of desire
That frame eventuality
And lead us far-from-higher
It’s all an aberration, though:
Just drips of oil, pooling,
We try to light, although they be
Just fantasy and fooling
So every day, the cycle goes,
And there’s no breaking free:
The wasted lost desire world
Of ugly men
The moon is not a terrorist; in fact,
She often visits both the poor and sick.
Although she has a schedule that is packed,
And often deals with clouds that can be thick,
She’s regular. And knowing that’s the trick:
The moon is true, not subject to caprice,
And that should bring no fear, but only peace.
The moon is not a soldier or a spy;
She does not aim to kill, or try to steal.
The moon’s a corporeal lullaby,
A friend, though far away, who’s very real,
Who gives your very goodnight a words her seal.
As children know, once sung their fav’rite tune,
It’s time to sleep when they hear “Goodnight, Moon”
I sat to write four-dozen things;
I’ve written forty-seven.
The sun is golden in the sky,
And kind of looks like heaven;
As peace falls on the wintertime,
That’s constant, and abiding,
And I sit here, right after this,
For one more bit
I guess I am a winter crow.
Although I’m not a birder —
I’ve see so many of them now
It’s absolutely murder.
For many birds will go one way,
Together, in connection —
But I am always flying in
The opposite direction.
So I say, I’m a winter crow.
And will add, in concluding,
That people say I’m somber, when
It turns out I’ve