À Dieu
(1920-33 & 20??)
nowhere have I found peace
save in a glass of wine
perfection in blood red grapes
long plucked from the vine
they say I cannot go again
and drain another glass
I say they speak in vain
their prohibition will not last
I know I will not live
forever but while I do
the wine will flow forgive me
I don’t want to walk out on you
sooner or later I’ll be called
I know one day I’ll have to go
bravely into the dark and cold
meanwhile let the red wine flow
Flickers
(1613 & 2019)
a watch spring
this cuckoo-clock heart
fully wound up
time’s ticker flickering
waiting to strike
black hole its beak
poked the world’s fabric
shredded into ribbons
robin’s nest torn
storm-tossed onto lawn
constant this love
its warm ashes lingering
searing holes in shoe soles
soul-sick with yearning
bright bonfires burning
metaphor and meaning
real and imagined
hammering on chimneys
territorial flickers
spring heartbeats drumming
losers of somethings
winners of others
wings lofting upwards
light above darkness
all creature comforts
a spring need to nest
an old man’s need to rest
Starry Night
(1889 & 2019)
last night I saw stars
never thought to see them again
first time in years
a riot of bright lights
no dark spots floating
nor black holes barring
vision’s edge
just layer upon layer
star fields like buttercups
littering the sky
I had forgotten their names
forgotten how many existed
smiling frowning down
immortalized in myth
celebrated in song
daylight broke waves
an ocean of sunshine
untying dreams’ night-knots
sharp black and white memories
shifting to corkscrews of color
two refreshing rain drops
four times a day
a never-to-be-forgotten face
seen once again in close up
Fundy fogs clearing
mist un-threading between salt
laden pine roots gripping
splitting fragile rocks
complicated emotions
woven in simple words
no arm-waving propaganda
nor chanted simplicities
spat out to fool proper geese
Baby
it’s cold outside
(2016-2019)
damaged and diminished
no longer great but grating
gritting grinding worn-out teeth
stamp collection of small islands
seeking annihilation
no longer a leopard or a lion
a cat’s paw of wind
drifting a rudderless craft
without captain or sails
crew abandoning ship
Britannia ruling no waves
making waves in land-locked lands
billows of bitterness
filled with sweet nothings
torn from a long-lost love
a disunited kingdom now
untied not united
its shipwreck revealed
verbal Freudian slip
so many between cup and lip
lemmings at cliff edge
no blue birds over
white faces frowning down
denying anonymity’s oblivion
old lady of Threadneedle
a wheel-chaired cripple
stay-cationing in the Caymans
stooping to conquer
a hollow centre that won’t hold
though she can’t stand up straight
Tug Turmoil towing
drifting and shiftless
a common weal of festering
failures and faithless
flying enterprises
Eden 2
(1956 AD)
Mushrooms
cremini oysters pearl
love them
love them not
garlic mushrooms
flash-fried
in atomic frying pans
nor magic mushrooms
nor radioactive fungi
spores parachuted down
mushroom grey
clouds
built this berth canal
an umbilical cord
birthing oceanic links
not division
nor destruction
Eden’s Garden
a walk in the park
an earthly paradise
closed to many
open for few
lost now
that projected paradise
not much room
four maneuvers
all things
vanished in a flash
horizon’s banana
split in an instant
everything lost
Eden 1
(1956 AD)
wet rags of dirty washing
hang on the Siegfried
line’s barbed wire
flesh rent ripped
broken-glass anger bottled
blood-mottled concrete
bones mixer-crushed
blood sacrifice a keep-safe
ash-cross camouflage
stretched sketched
over grime and crime
heavy the spike-toll
rooted the rock
chips off old blocks
these flint flakes flying
faceless this sphinx
inscrutable smile
where now
sands of the Nile
ample ammunition
beneath this apple tree
flat-footed lame-duck walk
goose-stepped after expulsion
walled this garden
to lock what in
to keep who out
Russian Roulette
(1789 & 1937 & 2019)
trickster mind
bred in heaven’s
half-acre
gateway to counterpane
sleep-full forgetfulness
yesterday’s
visual banquet
bluebell primrose
clover and cowslip
gone all gone
cuckoo survives
emerges every hour
calls from cuckoo clock
skylarks lie buried
within vinyl grooves
no more to rise
lions tigers panthers
elephants rhinoceros
slipping off the ark
sliding into oblivion
soul’s dark night
empty the house
spun Noah’s wheel
no more bets
the stakes are set
space-ship earth
humanity’s house-boat
spins onward into what
wheel of fortune
onward she goes
where she’ll stop
nobody knows
Comment 1:
I am intrigued by the ideas in this poem. Sitting in the eye surgeon’s waiting room this morning, I watched a video on vanishing wild life. The result: I added some images to this poem and elaborated it a little bit more. There may be some twists to the cork-screw, some more spins of the gun’s roulette wheel. I am not sure that I am finished with this one yet.
Russian Roulette 2
(1789 & 1937 & 2019)
yesterday’s
visual banquet
bluebell primrose
clover and cowslip
gone all gone
cuckoo survives
emerges every hour
calls from cuckoo clock
skylarks lie buried
within vinyl grooves
no more to rise
unless the magician
waves his wand
who loads the gun
points the pistol
pulls the trigger
fires at lions tigers
elephants leopards
pushing them off the ark
sliding them into oblivion
soul’s dark night
land’s desolation
all covered by rising seas
Noah spins his steering wheel
les jeux sont faits
rien ne va plus
space-ship earth
humanity’s house-boat
spins onward into what
a roulette wheel of fortune
onward she goes
where she’ll stop
nobody knows
Comment 2:
Told you I hadn’t finished with it. Here’s the next version. Great to live in a bilingual province. What a pity that so many people do not speak both official languages. If you have read this far, let me know which version you prefer. I am going for the one below, the latest edition.
Rushing Roulette
(1789 & 1936-39 & 2019)
yesterday’s
visual banquet
bluebell primrose
clover and cowslip
gone all gone
cuckoo survives
emerges every hour
calls from cuckoo clock
skylarks lie buried
within vinyl grooves
no more to rise
unless the magician
waves his wand
who loads the gun
points the pistol
pulls the trigger
fires at lions tigers
elephants leopards
pushing them off the ark
sliding them into oblivion
soul’s dark night
land’s desolation
all covered by rising seas
Noah spins his wheel
steering space-ship earth
humanity’s house-boat
onward into who knows what
a roulette wheel of fortune
onward she goes
where she’ll stop
nobody knows
messieurs et mesdames
les jeux sont faits
rien ne va plus
.
Chronos
(700 BC & 1933 AD)
tub-thumped these clouds
grey-framed skylights
gathering sky
corralled on coral
this ship’s figure-head
mouth open to speak
a foghorn
her bare breasted
Scylla & Charybdis
lighthouse lights
goat-legged beach-comber
wandering a lug-worm beach
avoid those places
where the sea-weed
water the father
earth the mother
false union
engendering an egg
waves breaking
their broken marriage
cyclical the sickle
ticking rocks to sand
time personified
Cogito ergo sum
(1812 & 1942-43 & 2019)
I think therefore I am
what I am but what am I
a man who borrows and buys
who runs up false credit
sneaks away from unpaid bills
and reads fake falsifications
or listens to such things on tv
talk shows where noddies nod
finger-talk shaking their heads
and grinning so much people can
even see them smile while chatting
with them on land-line phones
I am at the center of my universe
egocentric terracentric heliocentric
a boiled egg this world a cracked
shell this starry firmament
and me with my silver spoon
poised to dig into worldly riches
stuffing them into my mouth
as I lie in the ripped steaming
horse’s belly behind me dead cities
the whole world flaring into flame
ahead of me this winter snow my fate
an albatross noosed around my neck
Comment:
Poetry is made up of little touches, a metaphor here, a line change there, a word less, an idea more. As a result, poets dabble with their verses, shifting them around, sliding them about. I call it “shuffle and cut”. Some arrangements are more effective than others; the big question: which is which? Every word-change alters tone, emphasis, meaning, exposition. What, for example, is the correct place for “the center of my universe”? Should it start the poem? Should it appear in the middle? Which is more effective? While one answer may please one person, that same answer may displease somebody else. As poets, we must make choices, we cannot always “have patience and shuffle the cards”. Somewhere, the cards, like the male deer who visit my garden, must stop. But where do they stop? Where do the words make their final stand?
Cogito ergo sum
(1812 & 1942-43 & 2019)
centered on my universe
terra- helio- ego
I think therefore I am
what I am but what am I
a man who borrows and buys
who sets up false credit
runs away from unpaid bills
reads fake falsifications
listens to talk shows on CBC
tv shows where noddies nod
shake their heads or smirk
grin so much people can
even see them smile while
talking to them on the phone
a boiled egg this world cracked
shell this starry firmament
me with my silver spoon
poised to dig into worldly
riches stuffing them into my mouth
I lie in the warm steaming belly
dead this horse behind me cities
whole worlds flaring into flame
ahead of me this winter snow my fate
an albatross noosed around my neck
Tongue-Tied
(2 May 1808 AD)
bottle tops unscrewed
tighter than the tightest
oyster refusing to open
pointed knife and scissors
plastic this many layered
onion-skin’s pliant defiance
waging its guerrilla war
against arthritic fingers
words tongue-twisted
damning dark mouths
white picket fences
midnight the faces
lightning the teeth
felonious figures
grimy with grimaces
Mother Hubbard’s
cupboard empty hearts
robin redbreasts
battering heads wings legs
against stony cobbles
if only stones could speak
what stories they would tell
this city this sunny square
anywhere
Comment:
El dos de mayo, 1808, marks the start of the Spanish War of Independence. The people of Madrid rose up against Napoleon’s Mamelukes and Goya painted that encounter in his Dos de Mayo. On the third of May, 1808, Goya also bore witness to the shootings when Napoleon’s troops took hostages and shot them. Two great and wonderful paintings which we can celebrate today and tomorrow. Also well worth a visit, today and tomorrow, is Mr. Cake’s Cake or Death site with his blog on Seasons of Witches and his introduction to Goya’s Black Paintings. Another site that merits serious attention is Geoff Slater’s art site.
rogermoorepoet 