Desolate My People Go

The world is dreariness today
The whole dang town seems haunted:
It’s very cold and gray outside
And that’s just how I want it

I like the feeling that I have
That nature doesn’t care;
Beneath the dull immensity
That I’m just barely there

The world is large and heartless,
And is deaf to our demands:
This cold indifference spreads across
All peoples in all lands

And desolate my people go
Behind their walls of stone:
There is no earthly paradise
We’re all
The hell

(“Desolate My People Go” – 12/31/2014)

Winter Walk

The ancient farming sweep ahead she sees,
While on her winter walk she makes her way;
The world is weak and wracked with some disease,
And dressed, as though in mourning, all in gray

The winter wind is whistling and bare,
Her heart is heavy with a load of care;
The steps she takes, somehow, are lightening
The burden, making things less frightening

The farmers, once, who tilled this barren land
Knew winters such as this, but still survived;
Some barely made it, others fairly thrived
And saw the verdant spring born close-at-hand

She walks, and feels inside, a life sublime;
The miracle who’ll come in summertime


Out here on the Interstate
All movement seems to cease:
I’ve listened to most every part
Of Tolstoy’s “War and Peace”.

And Audible dot com should make
A killing here today —
Downloading now: the complete Proust
And all of Rabelais.

I’ll do the commentaries then
Of Ramban and Jerome:
And might do the Upanishads
I make it

Behold, December

Behold, December opens up her arms,
And bids me stay the distance, if I can.
A month known best for candied, candled charms;
She sits there, now, forbidding, on the span.

The wind blows icy through me, on its way;
Bare branches stand, where late were orange tresses.
Behold, December stands arrayed in gray,
Allowing me to see her, ere she dresses

In all the finery she’ll don with care —
The real her stands before me, cold
And bare

Gulls of Winter

I straggled lonely down the beach
My last desire was spent:
December only crowned the winter
Of my discontent

When these two gulls, they circled down
Beside the waves and me:
Two sporting in chill freedom,
Me mired in misery

I had them for that moment,
Their impulse became mine;
And all my disappointments
Started there to realign

So now I write about them,
While they’ve been long offstage:
But one bird you have in your eyes
Is worth ten
On the page

= = = = = 


Clichés become clichés for a reason. Tell us about the last time a bird in the hand was worth two in the bush for you.