Bastille Day

She's born on Bastille Day, and every year

A revolution in her life occurs;

The sans-culottes once more forget their fear –

Another prison falls, her life detours.

This prison guard was nice: he fed her cakes,

And let her have some paper and a pen,

And every morning, when the sun awakes,

He’d let her peek through cracks within their den.

“So there’s the moon,” her prison guard would claim,

“But don’t enjoy its light too long, for there

Is madness in its gaze, and all-the-same

Another comes tomorrow just as fair.”

But in her journal she did daily write,

“His kindness traps me in eternal night.”

Watery Face

She looked into the pool and saw his face

And lingered there too long and gave her mind

To him within the water’s rippling trace

Of his closed eyes, sad mouth – his voice so kind;

It said, “Please, kiss me now, give me your breath,

And give me back the life I once enjoyed,

And with your love’s surrender and your death

Your gentle life will be by me employed:

We’ll do such things, and give our aging Earth

Another youth, an Eden here imbrued

Through me in you – Earth’s paradisal mirth

Will bubble, tumble, spring from us renewed.”

With all her heart she quickly answered yes,

And kissed his lips and felt their long caress.

Bardo

He stood within a night to catch the fray

Of dark and clouds apart that rent and spun

Upon the rushing brightness of a day

Stupendous in its thrill and one  

Within him and outside with space time bent

Where sunburst seen displayed itself to him 

And looming sky and ground within the rent

Sustained their light as all else then dropped dim - 

All was forgotten and the rent redeemed

When as he crawled or stumbled like a child

Or as he walked or limped and all that seemed

Again devolved into the endless wild

And rapid choices to be made once more

When shadows rush towards a sunburst door.

The Dying Knight

With armour, plume, shield and my lady’s token

And love emblazoned on my scarlet heart

And with a burning lance and soul unbroken

By years of tourney where I rode my part

Upon a field suffused with light and duty

And overwhelming with event and done

All for my lady’s gaze, kind smile and beauty

That fell on me as others feel the sun,

I enter now my final battle for

The morning glory of a day in bliss

That even now arises from that core

So animated by my lady’s kiss –

Now here upon a field of sun and clover,

She sits with me until the dying’s over.

Psychopomp

I’m trapped within the furthest corner of

Their dining room – I watch them eat and drink

From this shadowed distance dark above

Where none see me and no one dares the link

Between our worlds, the breathing and the dead,

Where I exist, am always in transition

Before the door where inside all are lead

To those old landscapes and their deposition.

Then suddenly their cat aware he stares,

While they continue to avoid my space:

They blot their vision, can't confront the fears

That wait them here or in that older place.

But Henry, princely king of cats, he sees,

And every night comes closer by degrees.

Knight Errant

So while my mistress sleeps upstairs I roam

The darker regions of the noisy night;

For things leak out from corners of our home

And I deliver puissance, justice, right.

But I am so magnificent they walk

Quite willingly into my open maw,

But not before we have a little talk

About the house and of the house’s law.

For no intruders are allowed I swear,

And this and more is thoroughly explained;

I demonstrate my claws and show them where

The lot of them will soon be entertained.

So if alive or ghost, they come to me,

For my panache is their catastrophe.

Periwinkle's Purr, Pastoral

In apogee and perigee the moon

Still waned and waxed and all the seasons changed

And nothing happened late nor came too soon

With roses mostly painlessly arranged.

And Sue now viewed the world as with new eyes,

With scales and blind bits mostly dropped away;

She saw the world robed in its proper guise,

And to her purring cat had this to say,

“It happened in that moment, oh my sweet,

My hand withdrew just in that instant when

Your mouth closed on that evil poisoned treat –

For that good moment I now say amen.”

That’s what she said, not what she truly knew:

In truth, our Sue could neither stir nor brew.

Periwinkle's Purr, Five

“Sly cat, he thinks he’s got me in his grip,

And things are inside out and upside down –

Or so he thinks, but things with this will flip

And show him who’s the boss and who’s the clown.”

At that, Sue raised a steaming bowl of brew,

Then laughed that evil laugh that she had learned –

“It’s wicked me or bad demented you;

A drop upon your treats is what you’ve earned.”

And Susan did exactly that, and called,

“Oh Perry, my sweet Periwinkle mine –

Oh, come, my sweetie sweet, to your enthralled,

And on these tasty morsels come and dine.”

And Periwinkle purred and just as he

Came down on what she held, she cried, “I'm free!”

Periwinkle's Purr, Four

The trees within this forest lean to talk

At midnight each to other, and tonight

The topic is Sue’s Periwinkle’s walk

Upon the forest path within their sight.

“I hear he’s done some magic things,” says Thorn,

And Rose agrees, “He serves an active witch;”

“But neither of you understand,” adds Bjorn,

“That pretty cat has made a nasty switch.”

And underneath, three points of light appeared,

And Periwinkle stopped, then kneeled and purred,

“Great king of cats and emperor of weird,

She’s done – we’ve won – we’ve read her well and stirred.”

When Sue then woke to purrs upon her chest,

She slyly said, “My sweet, you are the best.”

Periwinkle's Purr, Three

She flies a kite with Periwinkle’s face

And knows of its effects throughout the land;

On things it sees, it leaves a hidden trace

Of luck or love to prick up with your hand.

He's buried there, Sue knows, in tufts of grass

Or upturned stones so innocently grey;

He's in that whiff of topsoil as you pass

Within his reach at any time of day.

So there he scuds upon a balmy breeze

And Sue can hear him purr and, yes, she knows

That all his bounty needs no thank-you-please,

For Periwinkle’s gifts are like a rose

Upon whose fragrant beauty you will linger,

But, careful now, its thorn is in your finger.  

Periwinkle's Purr, Two

It’s spring – a rising warming hums, expands
On Susan’s day and sings through her and more:

Grass, leaves, flowers, bees, each understands,

While in the singing skies the songbirds soar.

And so she chose a wispy flowered frock,

And chose a parasol, flip-flops, straw hat,

And is about to set out on her walk,

When there she sees her purring waiting cat.

For Periwinkle sits beside his bell

Upon the table where Sue keeps her keys;

His purrs of course had helped her in the spell

That banished winter in a magic breeze.

Outside, Sue thinks, “This heat has too much bite,

But we’ll adjust the spell first thing midnight.”

Periwinkle's Purr, One

Her discus moon’s in perigee tonight

And glares and paces on the mountain clouds,

While Susan, underneath, steals home, despite

The densely gathered blindly playful crowds –

They shout and laugh, most drunk – it’s Saturday,

And none look up to watch the falling sky,

And none see Susan boldly on her way,

And only Susan hears the moon’s dread cry –

For she still watches all of Nature’s signs,

Haruspicates and scries, can read and stir

A remedy or incantation’s lines

From secret books or Periwinkle’s purr.

She knows the trick to save mankind its fate,

But none will thank her when they wake up late.

Tripods

Upon the beach a thousand lights proclaim

The people’s worship of their thousand gods;

A thousand bulls are sacrificed to flame

Within the thousand brazier tripods.

They leave some choicest cuts for him who shakes

The earth from out his oceanic realm,

And then each ardent supplicant partakes

Until the night and numen overwhelm.

A thousand miles away a woman sounds

While on a tripod singular and keen;

She sits above a hollow on the grounds

Around the sun god’s temple, where she’s seen

The thousand tripods burning on the beach

A thousand miles away, but still in reach.

More Waiting

We’re waiting for the second-coming-of…

The second coming of our King-of-Kings;

He may be still in that place high above,

Or maybe he’s already spread his wings.

The once-and-future-king might be right here

Upon a field of battle on TV –

A gallant for the masses, one that we’re

On every Sunday game tuned in to see.

His name is Tim Tebow and he has sworn

So many oaths to goodness and to right;

His charities and chastity adorn

A Roman profile in emblazoned light.

But devils of the Devil make this claim:

That steroids figure in his noble game.

Curtains for Sweet Sue

She hears a noise behind the bedroom curtain

(She has thick curtains to keep out the cold)

And thinks to look, inspect, but isn’t certain

(“It’s warm right here,” she thinks, and isn’t bold)

The noises grow much louder now, and shrill

(Like spiders, if they ever learned to talk)

And so the space around her grows quite chill

(It’s then the hidden thing begins to walk)

She’s deeply underneath her woollen covers

(She can’t see it and it can’t see her too)

Above her bed the toothy thing now hovers

(It knows her and it calls her name, “Sweet Sue”)

She knows that this is not her little dream

(She’d like to, but she can’t, begin to scream)

Windows

Across the way within a window waits

A woman who has lost and waits to find

Her losses in the winter of their fates

Of husband, son and, all at once, mankind.

She waits for them while practicing her smile,

She waits and gently waves her ready hand,

She waits there, and will keep them just awhile,

Rehearsing her embrace, kiss, talk, walk, stand.

Now watch her turn towards the door and rise

Just as a tall and ghostlike man appears

And with him is a child with dark brown eyes -

Their eyes, alike, and mine smile, filled with tears.

But afterwards all subjects must return

To separate windows sans the same concern.

An Imp of Day

On vanquished rooftops smoothly curved with snow,

Like rolling mountains shining in the sun,

I caught an imp or goblin to-and-fro

Within a magic sleigh and bound for fun.

He laughed three times and then he disappeared

To reappear a little further on

To catch me at my window, when I feared

That in a moment more he would be gone.

I did not hide – nor did he flit away,

But both of us continued as we were:

While I stood fast, he chuckled in his sleigh,

And all that happened next passed to a blur.

When I awoke a twinkle in the sky

Alerted me to night and said goodbye.    

Fingers Crossed

With fingers crossed and touching cords of wood

And spitting three times turned against the left

And crossing just exactly as I should

To Father, Son, the Holy Ghost... the cleft

Dread thing who listens to my claims

Or prideful aspirations, it conspires

Against all outcomes cheerful to my aims,

And so inverts the sum of my desires,

And gleefully emits its evil snorts

And rubs its claws with endless great delight

And shouts sarcastic insults of all sorts...
But, this, my complex prophylactic rite 

Allows me safely to assert a fact

About the present or a future act.

Thirteenth Night

That visitation thing is just not happ’ning –

I’ve thought all day, and this is all I’ve got;

Perhaps a metaphor will help: a sapling

From which a poem may grow, or maybe not.

I’ve spent the day alone – it’s Thirteenth Night,

And still I’m thirsty, weary, nearly dead

Of waiting for a seed that maybe might

Ascend to something, put this thing to bed.

But suddenly a sunburst breaks to find

A thought that’s truly quite spectacular –

A golden sunlight showcase of the mind

Leads bright as any navigational star.

Oh, please be kind and do not ask, “What is it?”

But simply let us go and make our visit.

La sentinelle

Within the walls of Old Quebec, a park

Called Montmorency sits above le fleuve;

To that today Jean trains his steady mark:

A daily track he hikes as in some groove.

The route from Ste. Ursule and down Ste. Anne

Has many spaces worthy of attention,

But none are in Jean’s aim – his scan

Seems on a further reach or veiled dimension.

It’s winter and today the river’s lost

Within the ice and thickly falling snow;

While in the park, its cannons, cruel with frost,

Still aim at stinging foes from long ago.

Jean turns from this, but here he’ll stand again,

And on the river where it narrows reign.

The Lott’ry Ticket

I bought a lott’ry ticket yesterday

And left it on my desk, to “scratch and win”

A fortune on the dawn, or so I’d pray,

And so my life would end and so begin.

I heard some creaks or cracks throughout the night

From downstairs where the lott’ry ticket waited,

But since the house is old, I felt no fright,

Though these were sounds that seemed newly created.

At dawn I brushed my teeth, then thought to eat,

And then I thought about my lott’ry dream,

So at my desk I took my nervous seat,

And, looking down, I heard a little scream.

I’d won all right; the proof was there, and stark:

Some other thing had scratched it in the dark.

The Muse Speaks

“You are my window on the stars and sky,

A microscope into the smallest things;

With you, my soul finds gossamer, can fly;

In you, the cosmos ends and takes new wings.”

“Gee, Michael, that’s a lot for me to bear –

Too much the poet, that is what you are;

You fly too high, are up there in the air,

While I, a simple girl, can’t see that far.”

 “Sweet Sue, I know that I fly too remote

From whom you are, from whom you want to be,

But when I start to speak I can’t help float

Upon the seas and skies where I am free.”

“A little discipline, that’s all it takes;”

“Okay, I’ll try, for both our goodness sakes.”

Theory

“The universe presents a symmetry,

From smallest form to its eternal whole,

Of patterns that repeated endlessly

Which are the outlines of its timeless soul.”

“So let me get this straight: you seem to say

That everywhere from tiniest of forms

To galaxies and more – the whole array

Of rock to life obey some common norms?”

“No, I go further and include much more:

The soul too follows in these simple schemes;

As room to room, from door to smaller door,

Or strings and streams, the fibrous stuff of dreams… “

“Queen Mab, I think, has been with you tonight… “

“… show teeming tendrils greenish in the light.”

First Avatar, Five

Elaine Bench,

The Vegetarian of Love

She says she’s got me underneath her skin,

While I think it’s a superficial rash;

She clangs into my thoughts – damn, what a din:

Her pleas ring out, and then all systems crash.

I pass out for an hour; when I wake,

Her smile's still there at all perception’s doors;

I hold my ears and scream, “Saints, don’t forsake

This barking lunatic upon all fours.”

They answer me, “Mad girl, you’ve got a choice:

Accept this lady’s clarion appeal

And in her honest song of love rejoice,

Or give up meat for every future meal.”

So since that day I’ve been a vegetarian,

Renouncing meat and love’s insistent clarion.

Second Avatar, Eight

Earl Pascoe,
That Special Dame

She rises in the room, and all eyes gather

Within her aromatic gait, her eyes

Draw light, and mind, heart, soul: these hopefuls rather

Her fragrant spaces to the azure skies.

We lock together here inside her sphere

To kneel, look, pray inside this temple room;

We see ourselves through her; as she comes near,

We melt within the warmth of her perfume.

Her room grows larger now, all spaces blocked

Within a floor where ceilings lose their lines,

With metaphysics and the heart unlocked,

Where space, speed, love ignore the standard signs.

There is no doubt that she’s that special dame

In whom we live, dream, breathing in her name.