

LOVE HANDLES

———————

Carried Away

Selected Love Poems

David Madison

Earth's the right place for love: I don't know where it's likely to go better.

—Robert Frost, Birches

Contents

What Love Is

1. A Chatterbox on Lisa Foxx

2. A Fork in the Road

3. Age Came for Me

4. Ain't it Grand!

5. Ardor in the Court

6. Be Still Now, My Heart

7. Blue Morpho

8. Body of Work

9. Carbon Dating

10. Chill Winds of Change

11. Clean Be Our Love

12. Consummation

13. Deep in the Heart

14. Doing Right

15. Eb 'n' Flo

16. Elephant in the Room

17. Free

18. Goodbye, Old Tooth

19. Gretchen

20. Halloween Humbug

21. Hawaiian Poi

22. Here in My Garden

23. I Would Have Kissed Her

24. If I Were A Lass

25. Iffie 'n' Biffy

26. In Deep

27. Julie

28. Lines Addressed to an Owl

29. Little Hollywood

30. Little Stinkers

31. Lock

32. Love from A–Z

33. Lusting Beast

34. Miss Jaunty Hats

35. Musical Chers

36. My Little Bird

37. My Little Conette

38. My Two Elizabeths

39. O Doctor

40. Plum Sweet

41. She Walks in Beauty

42. Something—Love

43. Spider Love

44. The Astronomical Formality of Love in Space

45. The Celestial Cup

Prologue

The Sage's Address

The Glory That Was Rome

Heaven's Seven

The Road to Xanadu

Romeo, O Romeo!

The Lamb of God

The Camel's Tale

The Sacred Cow

The Broken Heart

The Brindled Pig

The Agony, the Ecstasy, and the Gigolo

Epilogue

46. The Guru King of Orange and the Avocado Queen

47. The Perfect Persimmon

48. The Poet Tess

49. Twilight

50. What Care I?

51. Wild Wildflowers

52. Would You, Mary?

53. Your Rose

Author

Copyright

What Love Is

They don't know what love is

They don't know what love is

They don't know what love is

I know what love is

—Randy Newman, You Can Leave Your Hat On

It's an adjective (love story);

it's a verb (I love you truly;

it's a noun (my love, I'm sorry,

I've not loved you much more duly;

you deserve it); it's a pity;

it's my bad, Love; it's a blame

that's mine alone, Love; it's a pretty

mean requital; it's a shame;

still, it's emotional attachment;

one strong feeling of attraction,

strong desire to meet its match meant

(you both hope) to lead to action;

something that you cherish, treasure,

worship, hold dear, and care for

so passionately; height of pleasure

you, with all your heart, adore,

Love; something that you headlong fall in,

sucked in by its siren song,

and you're so headstrong that you're all in;

and then, when it goes all wrong,

it breaks your heart, it breaks the spell,

and breaks you as it breaks the bout of

what now makes your life pure hell,

a tree-like something you fall out of

—if you're lucky; like as not

you're fated to be more the weeper,

since, Love, hopelessly so caught,

you headlong fall in all the deeper.

Well, as usual, I got a little carried away there, I know. But Plato understood:

Every man is a poet when he is in love.

And how can one not be in love, not be a poet, when there are so many objects of love to be in love with? In fact, there are as many objects of love as there are objects in the world, even beyond—the moon, the stars (especially those falling for you), the sun, the planets, even the space between them. Don't we all love our space—and expect people to respect it? Yet the question that confronted me, in creating this paean to love, was, With so many objects of love, and seemingly as many ways of treating of them (romantic, sincere, satiric, tongue-in-cheek, narrative, nonsense, erotic . . .) how in the world would I handle them? The answer is that I handled each according to how it moved me, meaning sometimes with honeyed words, sometimes with honey-coated thorns, so effective, I've found, at pricking love for the pricking. Yet however much I was carried away, I always took pains to handle each with tenderest care. If I hadn't, could I really call it love?

And now, having totally bared myself, I stand before you, vulnerable, feeling as star Indian Bollywood actress and ravishing object of love Kareena Kapoor Khan felt in Tashan:

Rising out of the sea like a Bond girl in nothing but a green bikini, I had nightmares of how my love handles would be on display for the whole world to see.

My own Love Handles now rising up out of the See! in nothing but a cyber-thin cover (hiding nothing)—on display for the whole world to see—my trembling hope is that, like me, you will tearfully pore upon each as a heart-melting object of love, and be likewise carried away. But even if, in the final ogling,

You don't know what love is

You don't know what love is

You don't know what love is

I know what love is.

1

A Chatterbox on Lisa Foxx

Lisa Foxx, now she's a fox

—and one 'L' of a pretty fox,

and so I voice in Latin vox,

Her beauty's quite unorthodox:

as solitaire as flights of auks

who share the air with white peacocks;

extraordinaire as mighty rocs

who wear their hair in bright dreadlocks

—all tearing over the Scottish lochs

upon the vernal equinox.

Yet, rare as are these few ad hocs,

I dare to say these poppycocks

cannot compare to Lisa Foxx

—in fact I do declare to vox,

no, au contraire I swear to vox,

they can't compare to Lisa Foxx:

her beauty's quite unorthodox!

Ignoring her dear mother's squawks

who watches her like twenty hawks,

I move the 'L' from Lisa Foxx

to prove to you she isa Foxx.

Then in dementia so praecox,

when romance blooms and courage balks,

I suffer sweet and tingling shocks,

and dream sweet dreams of Lisa Foxx.

But truly, there's no paradox

between a 'fox' and Lisa Foxx:

a fox has long and lovely locks

oh, long as lovely hollyhocks!

And yet a fox next Lisa Foxx

is but a clever, poor Xerox,

and really not of equal stocks

to lovely, lovely Lisa Foxx.

The extra 'x' in sly Ms. Foxx

just proves that she is twice the fox!

If gold is how you'd rate a fox,

then Lovely Lisa's pure Fort Knox.

But Piff! I'm just a chatterbox:

love's sentimental old jukebox

that sings one song that ever mawks:

The One, the Lovely Lisa Foxx!

And so each day when all the clocks

approach the hour by ticks and tocks,

I wend my way to her boondocks;

and shortly, after three love-knocks

(my knees, my knees you silly ox!),

I mend a sweet bouquet of phlox,

and tender it to Lisa Foxx.

I love the way sweet Lisa walks!

I love the way sweet Lisa talks!

Sometimes we walk for blocks and blocks

along the jetties and the docks,

ignoring all the bourgeois flocks

in their silly little smocks and frocks,

and I buy her bagels topped with lox,

she in her chic designer socks.

So let lesser Romeos and jocks

conspire in heat to lease a fox;

for though they hire a teasing fox

and so aspire to seize the fox,

they'll never acquire a squeezing fox

as pleasing as sweet Lisa Foxx.

And to each troll who stands and gawks,

dazed, on his soul I'll blaze a pox

—to think that he'd appraise her hocks,

and cast his gaze on Lisa Foxx!

Thus when the morn sweet night defrocks

I'll stand atop Love's grand soapbox;

then, dodging jeers and leering mocks

of ne'er-do-wells and laughingstocks

who spiel their lewd catcalling schlocks

and spin their macho come-on crocks

on spindly unromantic stalks,

I'll shout! above the crow of cocks:

Dear world, sweet Lisa, she's a fox

and one 'L' of a pretty fox,

and on the whole I'm moved to vox:

Her beauty's quite unorthodox!

O Lord, forgive the lifelong mocks

of one you know is heterodox.

Of all your lambs in all your flocks,

I praise you well for Lisa Foxx.

And if in praising you this chalks

me up your greatest paradox,

I pray you count me, for my mawks,

your born-again Foxx chatterbox:

believing you, in all your flocks,

made none so fine as Lisa Foxx.

2

A Fork in the Road

"O Father, you have made me

no good hands, teeth, or feet,"

the serpent moaned, "to aid me.

Oh, how, Lord, shall I eat?"

So sharp and biting hunger

shall leave your tripe unstung,

I made you, serpent, younger,

your pretty, long, forked tongue.

"Lord that's just it—you split it,

my loving tongue, in two,

so now I cannot spit it,

as one-tongue lovers do!"

I wrought it, for each love date,

a north half and a south,

so you can shmooze a lovemate

out of both sides of your mouth.

"I wish that I could shut it;

"it's made me some hard life;

and I fear I shan't cut it

—you've made for me no knife!"

Did I? Think of the creatures

I haven't made—a glut,

for that they lacked sharp features;

yet you, snake, made the cut.

"O Lord, you've made me no lips

to give a loving kiss,

receive that king of pleasure trips.

You've made me much amiss!

Exactly. And to shmooze her

(akin to smooch), for this

I've made you, to enthuse her,

your all-beguiling hiss.

"Lord, what have I to aid me

to know love's high—alas!

when you yourself, Lord, made me

so snake low in the grass?"

Yet you go in between each blade,

lo, hither, yea, and thither.

Did I not do well to have made

you your seductive slither?

"God, how shall I, a love snake,

not hunger for a mate

when you, so little of steak,

have heaped upon my plate?

Child, lie low in the bi-way

your tongue. Snake mate will, showed,

take—taking you the high way—

your low fork in the road.

3

Age Came for Me

(Emily Dickinson's Lament)

Age came for me with heavy hand

When I was was thirty on;

He knocked upon my looking glass,

Finding me therein.

His manner was abrupt. I said

I'd not see him, for time;

But he would not be turned away,

And entered my small room.

He did not bring me nosegay fresh

As courtly suitors do,

But wilted roses on my cheeks

And baby-blue eyes, blue.

Nor yet sweet spray of baby's breath

In my Age-brought bouquet.

He tendered love-lies-bleeding and

One bleeding heart to me!

Nor pale perfumed wisteria,

But poignant wistfulness,

For lily, white, smooth, there no more.

The bloom was off the glass!

Nor morning glories dewy-faced,

But late-day four-o'clocks.

I sighed that he had thought to bring

His stock forget-me-nots.

"I always said I'd come for you,"

He spake with Age-old breath.

I sighed for all the musty scent

Gave off my bridal wreath.

It's years of days I've sat a-glass

With Age—his withered sum—

Repenting each I did not bar

The door into my room.

4

Ain't it Grand!

My niece has popped a baby doll

she's pleased to call my "niece";

but on this budding femme fatale

my mind has little peace.

It's nice that my niece had a niece;

at least I think it's nice;

that is, it's quite a nice increase,

but is my "niece" precise?

Her skin's soft as a baby's butt,

this lovely little piece

of heaven, relatively, but

is she a niece increase?

She hasn't any name yet; more,

she hasn't any hair;

but even so, with neither/nor,

it's nice that she is there

upon my niece-cum-mother's breast

(I'm sure she thinks it's nice);

but, someone, come, what am I blest

with? Yes!—that's it! Precise.

I don't know to this very day

if my niece was a planned niece;

but without doubt I can say,

she truly is a grand niece.

epilogue:

My niece has not yet had a nephew

(oh! but give her time).

God help me then (I won't use "ephew").

There's no other rhyme.

5

Ardor in the Court

Hauled into Court

My new love hauled me into court today.

The judge had zero sympathy for me.

His gavel struck, he harder: "You must pay

—and plenty—to the beautiful payee!"

What could I do? There was no getting round

the judgment—he had thrown the book at me!

The judgment had come down, and I was bound

to pay—and I would pay. That he would see.

And what a book it is the judge has tossed

at me—the Book of Love. It hit me square

between the eyes. I'm paying now the cost

—and gladly, too, the judgment more than fair:

A life of giving her full love support.

(I'm sure by now you guessed the judge was me.)

I'm gladly bound to pay her lifetime court.

(I judged that she was beautiful, you see.)

I'm paying her right now—I must; and I'll

pay court to her, for life, this bounden way.

and all because (she brought suit with her smile)

my new love hauled me into court today.

The judge declared, "You're guilty of the crime!"

But he'll get out of me no least repentance.

Hauled back into court time after time,

I'll pay it—Here, my love!—with joy each sentence.

Court Adjourned

I penned and sent the summons

I hoped would be the sort

to haul you, of all someones

most lovely, into court.

I trembled in the courtroom

for you to take the stand,

and make it a retort room

in your own loving hand.

Your missive said too little;

at that, it came too late;

not so much as a tittle

of all I hoped you'd state.

I ached for you to hold me.

It didn't give me strength

when all unstated told me

you held me at arm's length.

Hush! court will come to order.

The jury has returned:

You are no love awarder.

The court is now adjourned.

Wait! Someone's sent this missive.

My goodness, how she sighs!

Excuse this most dismissive,

uncourtly of goodbyes.

6

Be Still Now, My Heart

Hush! Whispered (that dear voice!) to my sleeping ear!

Her voice—oh, I'm certain—(how soft!) yet how clear:

I love you, I love you, I love you, my heart!

So joyous was I that it gave you a start.

Breathless, I waited to hear it again. . . .

But silence, in envy, concealed the refrain.

My eyes (how they ached!) for her lips to betray. . . .

But darkness conspired; I divined not their play.

She lies close beside us in semblance of sleep,

but truly—her voice it was made your blood leap!

I love you, I love you, I love you, my heart!

It's true!—oh, rest now, let weariness part.

Forget now the words made you helpless, forlorn;

how she (hush, be still now) would leave you come morn.

You see now how foolish you were for to weep?

Be still now, my heart. Go back to sleep.

7

Blue Morpho

The genus name Morpho comes from ancient Greek meaning roughly "the shapely one," for Aphrodite, goddess of love and beauty.

Beneath the still, sky-blue lagoon

the "crocodile submerged" had soon

become long-sung-of "Lamanai,"

the long-lost Mayan ruins I

had climbed deep in the jungle's heart,

my own full glad to play its part,

immersed in its own humid heat,

in keeping up its timeless beat.

Atop the sky-High Temple, I

knew not from whence blue butterfly

had come, some stone or leafy shelf?

It kept its secret to itself,

yet wished to show me something, too:

how highly beautiful its blue,

more than the azure sky, high noon,

blue-mirrored in the New Lagoon.

Wings all aflutter, round it flew,

a hush of blue, and closer drew,

till of a sudden, on my face,

I felt the merest fluttered grace:

the softest touch, and dwelt apart

to feel the flutter in my heart

that it bestowed that touch on me

vouchsafed to Mayan royalty.

Its felt intent I couldn't miss—

the flutter of a lover's kiss!

so highly flattering that I

was higher than High Temple high,

and felt, for all it touched me so,

more than a touch of vertigo

(so tender, soft!), and felt I'd swoon

and tumble to the blue lagoon

to face the crocodile submerged;

but at the thought my senses surged,

and brought its soft kiss back to me,

the touchingest, in memory:

how deftly it had brushed my face,

its buss so soft it left no trace

of blueness on it, which I knew:

I wasn't in the slightest blue.

My pink-blushed whiteness wasn't smutched,

though I'd been more than deeply touched

the high blue morpho butterfly

had bussed me so to flutter by;

and had, I so rejoiced to see,

kept all its lapis lazuli,

its blue it knew its richest prize,

that precious hue my own two eyes

made mine. And I rejoiced anew

its blue lay not in ruins, too,

as silently it fluttered round

to show me all its blue was sound;

thus it was not for me to rue

I showed no smallest trace of blue,

so highly touched with fluttered wing

I felt myself a Mayan king.

8

Body of Work

When young I did a body of work!

I strove to push and pull

the weights to have (love pain, don't shirk!)

the body beautiful.

The bodies beautiful that graced

the bodybuilding mags

were just the image I embraced.

To have such body brags!

The mirror athlete I was then

worked hard for the V-taper,

for those measurements my pen

could proudly put on paper.

I worked my body—and it worked!

in truth, I got a measure

of it. Oh! and how I smirked

in youth to have that treasure.

But surely, sadly youth gave way

to age; though dutiful

to working it, I'd every day

less body beautiful.

It's years ago, now, I stopped eyeing

all within the mirror,

all my body of work dying!

Nothing could be clearer.

Death I couldn't ever stand

to look at. And, since when,

I've put down barbells, dumbbells, and

picked up this weighty pen

I push the harder (PUSH! don't shirk

the pain!) so when I taper,

die, so might my body of work

look beautiful on paper.

9

Carbon Dating

Paleontologists took mincing care

to chip away at, perfectly preserved

in Russian ice, the woolly mammoth pair,

exposing them with care, as they deserved,

locked up in ice for 15,000 years

instead of in warm mammoth love embrace

(Love's carbon test), their mammoth love careers

made cold, extinct; a mammothly sad case.

But scientists would clone their DNA,

make carbon copies, playing the Divine,

and bring them back to mammoth loving play,

to carry on their modern mammoth line:

they'd reproduce anew by carbon mating,

hooking up through on-line carbon dating.

10

Chill Winds of Change

Farewell, my love, the hour is nigh,

your ship lies rigged and waiting;

the tide is high, the winds more sigh,

and our sweet love's abating.

Side by side, long did we chart

our course upon love's sea.

And now, my heart, we sail apart,

but never your thoughts from me.

Our love shone like a beacon bright,

two true and mated souls:

a guiding light through youthful night,

illuminating shoals.

Like wind we sigh, Love's candle flicks,

and lessens now the flame.

Of blackened wick and waxen drip,

is one the more to blame?

Farewell, my love, let slip my hand,

your ship moves with the tide

over foreign sand to foreign strand,

and cannot be denied.

Chill winds of change blow constantly,

eroding and resolving,

'cross ship and sea, 'cross you and me,

'cross love and life, dissolving.

11

Clean Be Our Love

She comes to me fresh

as the sweetness of birth,

as fragrant and naked

as newly turned earth;

as gaily as laughter;

as lightly as mirth;

as soft as a dove.

Clean be her love.

I come to her free

of the wiles of desire,

as raw as comb honey

unsullied by fire;

as open as flowers;

as pure as a lyre;

as warm as a glove.

Clean be my love.

We come to each other

with wonder and joy,

our love and our hearts

and our souls to employ:

a knight for a girl,

a damsel for boy.

Clean be our love.

Clean be our love.

12

Consummation

Quiet consummation have:

And renowned be thy grave!

—William Shakespeare, Cymbeline

Consumed by attraction-of-opposite's fire;

consumed by longing, consumed by desire;

consumed by the fear of being alone;

consumed by the need for a love all their own;

consumed by compulsion bred in the bone

(assumed: estrogen/testosterone);

consumed by the need of His sanction above

(consumed by the need to make lust into love);

consumed by the need to be loved, and to burn;

consumed by the need to make love in return;

consumed with the pressure to couple, conform;

consumed with the need to be part of the norm;

consumed by the ache for security;

consumed by the hunger for family;

consumed by each cell's biological drive;

consumed, through DNA, to stay alive;

consumed by the impulse of getting ahead;

consumed by convention, convenience, they wed

(consumed by the passion to be two abed);

consumed by satiety soon in its stead;

consumed by exhaustion, passion sedated

(presumed: the marriage is consummated).

Consumed with keeping their union together;

consumed by ennui, temptation (the whether);

consumed by the need for intimacy;

consumed by the bounds of fidelity;

consumed by monogamy's tyranny;

consumed by suppressed promiscuity;

consumed by the stigma of failure, divorce;

consumed by freedom's loss remorse;

consumed with seeming each other's best friend;

consumed by the children, work, time, in the end

consumed by each other.

One makes the assumption:

they died of natural causes: consumption.

13

Deep in the Heart

God help my mettle and heart to be strong,

for I am in love with the Amazon.

She comes from Colossus beyond Paragon,

deep in the heart of the Amazon.

O Lord Almighty, for her love I ache!

although she could bend me, and easily break

my body and soul, my heart then forsake,

and leave me in pieces to drown in her wake.

God help me if, in love, I should spawn

the feelings immense of the Amazon.

Who knows what colossal emotions go on

deep in the heart of the Amazon?

14

Doing Right

(Ode to Lady Highpockets)

It's she! I know her highborn walk; with every step she takes

my heart, high pockets moving so alluringly, and makes

me bolder than I'd ever be (to think of getting near

a lady of her standing!) did her pull not conquer fear.

To think to meet a lady of her stature and her height!

God, I don't know what I'm doing! but I know I'm doing right.

She's browner than brown sugar, and I know, if we should meet,

I'd throw stones at that sugar so much less than she is sweet.

So sweet, if somehow we should bump, I dream so bumptiously,

she'd stick to me! How crazily presumptuous can I be?

I fear my sticking to her, though, would not be quite polite.

God, I don't know what I'm doing! but I know I'm doing right.

I sidle closer . . . closer . . . (I could reach out now and touch

her, she could touch me—deeply. God! imagine thinking such

of such a highborn lady, of her reaching out—to me,

so small as to be in her pocket to a high degree.

She's someone else's, surely, of like stature and high might.)

God, I don't know what I'm doing! but I know I'm doing right.

I've lost all inhibition; my adoring eyes now meet

her eyes in meeting mine—Lord! my insanity's complete.

Imagine how far gone I am to fancy that I see

the same adoring look in her eyes, looking up—to me!

I have to think she's loopy, but she seems, this balmy night,

to know what she is doing. God! I know she's doing right.

15

Eb 'n' Flo

Young Ebeneezer Waneright would allow he was content

with taking life, not as it came, but rather as it went.

It wasn't most folks way of taking life, not by a sight;

but all had to admit Eb took it on the wane just right.

It suited him. "I'm satisfied," he'd answer folks, "in knowing

no one has life coming to him; all, though, have it going."

Rose-colored Florence Floodwell had it in her sweet life's blood,

the cheerfulest of optimists, to take life at the flood.

Flo never cried for sad for long, her youthful buoyant years,

for crying so for happy her accustomed flood of tears.

The full moon would so tug upon her heart that Flo would cry

a flood for the glad-tidings in a flow it brought her, high.

That Eb and Flo (as opposite as two could ever be)

should thus exert their pull on one another (gravity)

is not surprising; nor was either, in the full moon's glow,

and less than full, surprised in feeling that pull ebb and flow

so widely. "It is but the tidal cycle," each one thought.

"It's just the way Life comes and goes." And so they tied the knot.

However, Flo insisted that she keep her maiden name

of Floodwell, so that she might go on flowing just the same.

Well, that made Eb no never mind, for in it he could see

that Floodwell complemented Waneright just as perfectly

as Waneright complimented Floodwell for the love she spent

upon him, for all he was one to take life as it went.

With their exchange of wedding vows they made a compromise,

as Flo suggested (Eb saw pretty quickly Flo was wise).

As such, their married life was one of perfect ebb and flow:

they took the bad times with the good, the high tides with the low.

They took life as it came, both Flo and Eb. And when they died,

they took life as it went. As one, they went out with the tide.

16

Elephant in the Room

Love, isn't it grand! just us talkative two,

here, alone, in our own room, together;

free to talk . . . and to talk . . . and to talk, me and you,

far beyond, dear—oh, well past the weather;

quite as if our true hearts and our true souls were one,

so we two, dear, need never assume,

as we talk—oh, of everything under the sun

but the elephant in the room.

Oh, we both know it's there, love, for always it's there

—did you just feel its hide brush our skin?

Yes, it looms here between us, we both well aware

of its having presumed itself in.

There! the stock smell of peanuts, the elephant breath!

Love—oh, dear!—what a beastly perfume!

Shhh! don't talk of it; that, as we know, is the death

of the elephant in the room.

Truth is, we've become so attached to the dear

we would miss all its sweet bulk between us;

we're as close as we ever were, so never fear

this apartheid should somehow demean us.

We talk . . . and we talk . . . talk our very souls bare

so our love, in this rich soil, may bloom;

which we don't want to stunt, so we don't talk, a pair,

of the elephant in the room.

[In the room the lovers come and go

not talking of the elephant so.]

Dear, its skin is so thick, more, so elephantine,

it can hide all its secrets inside,

while we, for our frank talk (the thin-skinned design)

have, of course, from each, nothing to hide.

So we talk . . . and we talk . . . our two fluttering hearts

making two open books which presume,

Love, to touch upon all, as time sweetly departs,

but the elephant in the room.

Yet we love it for all its IMMENSITY, we,

for the elephant never forgets

its role in our sweet talk, our intimacy,

or its place in our close tête-à-têtes.

Thus, between us, we two always know, round-the-clock,

who is who, who is talking to whom.

But lest overbig ears overhear, we don't talk

of the elephant in the room.

Too, we never forget, do we, dearest? why we

love our pachyderm all the more dearly:

its memory rubs off on us, sweet, and we

recall everything each says—so clearly.

So let's pledge, love, to keep it between us, as one,

here in room two-oh-for-love-in-bloom,

and more talk—oh, of everything under the sun

but the elephant in the room.

[In the room the lovers come and go

not talking of the elephant so.]

17

Free

Abed, the child beseeched her mother

for a secret she might keep;

each night beguiled and leeched another

with "promise" to fall fast asleep.

Childhood years were passed in dreaming

of the things she'd never tell.

Daylight all too fast come streaming,

she bade her secrets sad farewell.

Youthful rites, played out in fashion,

held not hopes nor proffered joys.

Her throbbing heart would shout in passion

My secrets are my dearest toys!

Fertile years were spent in weaving

dreams upon her loom of life:

a tapestry that lent no leaving;

became not lover, mother, wife.

Ancient primal urges vying,

one by one she laid to rest;

her song of life, a dirge denying

the plaintive cries inside her breast.

Golden years awakened forces,

whispering, first soft, a plea:

"Your secrets are as taken horses.

[stronger now] "Child, set them free!"

Torn between her true loves dearer,

and a lifetime's passions missed,

she turned a face into the mirror

that never was, in passing, kissed.

Pallid, wrinkled, eyes now teary,

she was moved to set them free.

They, champing, snorting, wise but leary,

made through the gate exultantly.

Hooves long silenced, still unbroken,

flung up dust (how stung her eyes!).

They having so long gone unspoken,

drummed the earth, now pierced the skies.

Wildly grieving, blindly running,

she would seize them back again.

Divorced a lifetime's binding cunning,

they wed the vast, eternal plain.

Freedom's bliss renewed their rapture

(how the child inside her cried!).

They evermore eluded capture,

and in her pain the woman died.

18

Goodbye, Old Tooth

Today I said, "Goodbye, Old Tooth,"

and even now I cry.

I'd had it long before I'd youth,

and grieve it had to die.

It had no proper funeral,

just tossed out as debris.

So I held service sorrowful,

and wept a eulogy:

"The day it broke my gums, at six,

as white as white could be,

I proudly chewing licorice sticks,

Old Tooth was there for me.

"And always was from that day on;

broke all I gave it down.

Jawbreakers—Crunch!—rock candy—gone!

at risk of needing crown.

"It never hot or cold complained;

it took all my lust gave it.

But came that day when it was pained,

and I at pains to save it.

" 'I yet could save it with expense,

most selfless friend, and true;

but it is in great pain, and hence

it would be cruel to.'

"I didn't take it in my arms

and look long on its face,

the last, though facing worst of harms.

—O God! my life's disgrace.

"Come needle, there'd be no more pain,

the friendship most devout,

true love that would not be again:

my life friend would be out.

" 'It's suffering from root to crown;

it's time to say goodbye.'

And, like a dog, I put it down.

And that is why I cry."

19

Gretchen

If you're ever in Topia one fine day,

and you're a guy with an eye, as they say,

and you see a gal who looks like perfection,

you'll have made the sweet acquaintance of Gretchen.

Yes, Gretchen's adorable, Gretchen is vim,

Gretchen's a beaut, and adorably thin.

If you'd go so far as to say, "She's fetchin'!"

Hoo, boy! you'd be right on the money—that's Gretchen.

Oh, Gretchen's perfection, Gretchen is thin

—cute as a pin is Gretchen!

I once saw Gretchen when she was with child,

but I did not suppose that she had been wild.

I wasn't surprised; I merely surmised

that she was expectin', and just bein' Gretchen.

She was expectin', and still she was thin

—cute as a pin is Gretchen!

Yes, Gretchen is just as sharp as a pin,

and as shiny and bright, and as slender and slim,

and her head is so perfectly, perfectly trim

that you find yourself pinin' for answerin':

How does she squeeze all that femin in?

It's enough, Lord, to make you believe it's a sin.

Perfection may grin, but Gretchen is thin

—cute as a pin is Gretchen!

Now there's some who think that it's manly pride,

and some believe I just plain lied;

but Gretchen smiled on me once, and I sighed,

'cause that smile was a heartmelt and three feet wide.

"Nonsense!" folks say with a mulish grin,

"It's just your foolish imaginin'.

Why, God Himself, his Heaven in

might hope—in vain—to discipline

his hand for Eternity but to win

a smile that wide on the head of a pin!"

Oh, sweet God above, forgive their sin

and all their faithlessness deep within

who know not—who know not chagrin:

that You can paint a smile on the head of a pin!

Yes, friend, it's there for all to see,

and it's sweet and it's fair—and it's waiting to free

the love in your heart, as it once did for me

(so long ago!) in that far countree.

Then go, my friend, you won't need direction;

you'll know in your heart when you've found Gretchen.

Your head, your heart, your love she will win

when you see Beauty's face on the head of a pin.

Perfection may grin, but Gretchen is thin

—cute as a PIN is Gretchen!

Yes, Gretchen is just as sharp as a pin,

and as shiny and bright, and as slender and slim,

and her head is so perfectly perfectly trim

that you find yourself pinin' for answerin':

How does she squeeze all that femin in?

It's enough, Lord, to make you believe it's a sin.

Perfection may grin, but Gretchen is thin

—cute as a pin is Gretchen!

20

Halloween Humbug

Yes, I'm the Halloween Humbug, that's me;

and I hate giving my candy away free!

After all, what's in it for me,

the Halloween Humbug?

So come Halloween night

I lock the door tight,

turn out every light,

and keep well out of sight

—just in case some polite

little hobgoblins might

want to give me a fright

with their big appetite

—though I did not invite

their minuscule height

(as their voices unite)

to sweetly recite

every syllable quite

so disarmingly right

so as to incite

when they mean to excite

(though the difference is slight

it behooves me to write

that it's best to recite

things in plain black and white).

Yet, not one little mite

(though they know I am right)

is the least bit contrite

—oh, it's too impolite!

And so, just for spite,

I won't give them one bite

of my hallowed Halloween candy.

'Cause I'm the Halloween Humbug, see,

and I hate giving my sweets away free!

After all, what's in it for me,

the Halloween Humbug?

Why, if I were to give each small hand a treat

that came begging to me from off a dark street

on two little tender white hobnobbing feet,

why, it wouldn't be long before they'd deplete

me of my every candy and precious sweetmeat

—and then what would I, a poor humbug, eat

to give me some vestige of bodily heat?

Cracked wheat?

Bah! what a cheat!

Truth is, I'd soon be all bones and no meat,

with not so much as a tattered old sheet

to wrap up my bones against ice, snow, and sleet

till even my memory'd soon be effete;

and cold moments later, quite obsolete

—and not so much as a Paid receipt

for this sad little bleat

we call Life.

And all because I got up from my seat

when I still had two bowlsful of candy to eat,

and unlocked my door to that first Trick or treat!

(which they use not so much to greet as to cheat)

and grinned through my teeth at their childish deceit

—and not so much as a Paid receipt

for the loss of a sweet

—for my own defeat!

Oh, what a conceit

is this sad little bleat

we call Life.

But, hah! that's a good one: my bones with no meat!

At least as a skeleton I could compete!

At least, as a beast with no meat on my bones

I could sing Trick or treat! in such sweet skeletones

on my way to Life's—Humbug!—eternal unknowns.

—Bah! demons and phantoms and spectres and spooks;

old vampires and phantasmagorical kooks;

Bah! good witches, bad witches, ghosties and ghouls;

cold sand witches made up by silly old fools

—yes, fools eating up silly Halloween's rules!

Which is why I'm the Halloween Humbug;

and why all my feelings lie perfectly smug.

So I never give dear little children a hug

for fear that some something might give me a tug

and pull something saline from out of the jug

that's accustomed to lying so perfectly snug

so deep in the eyes that lie deep in the mug

of the Halloween Humbug

—yes, pull out the plug

—which would pull the old rug

right out from under the feet of the smug

old Halloween Humbug;

So all I can do is sigh with a shrug,

one foot in my grave that is already dug

—I might just as well have been born a slug

as be treated so ill by a costumed thug.

But Shhhh! . . . be as still as a toad on a stool;

be as quiet as thread on a soft velvet spool;

be as hard to see as a genie's gene pool;

be as small as a mole on a mole's molecule . . .

—They're here! outside—in the vestibule:

those sweet little voices so lately from school

—Shhh! . . . be quiet! stay hidden! don't move!—stay cool!

Don't think about candy—you're a shoo-in to drool.

But, above all, remember the Humbug Rule:

Don't answer the door, you silly old fool!

Oh, listen, just listen to the dear little feet,

Oh, listen, just listen . . . how pure and how sweet

are the high lilting notes of that first Trick or treat!

Oh, surely, yes, surely I've too much to eat!

Shut up! Shut up! you silly old mule!

Can't you see common sense is a worthless old tool?

You must harden your heart for the coming Yule

—and practice makes perfect the perfect old fool!

So, for God's sake, remember the Humbug Rule:

Don't open the door, you silly old fool!

Oh, dear! oh, dear! it's simply too cruel!

Shut up! Shut up! you spineless old ghoul!

Would you rather eat candy—or candyless gruel?!

Too late! too late! ohh, God, it's too late!

—may a thousand ills fall on your silly old pate!

for the door lies ajar now—and there they await. . . .

Dear Lord, every year it's the same old fate!

Ho ho! look at you! . . . are you little Snow White?

Why, you look like a perfect young angel tonight!

And are you the devil, all dressed up in red,

with such darling horns coming out of your head?

And you, precious light, in your pretty pink dress,

Oh, I see, yes, I see—you're a pretty princess!

Arrr, Arrr, little matey, har hardy har hee,

here's hopin' it's pity ye're takin' on me!

By the blue in your beard—and the sha-a-a-ke in my knee

Arrr, it must be cold-blooded old . . . Bluebeard ye be!

Ah, children of gingerbread, sweetness and grace;

goslings of gossamer, satin and lace;

fledglings of fantasied, frighten-me face;

wee scare-me-to-deaths of the mummery race;

dear munchkins of make-believe; mock populace,

here's a candied apple for each and for all

—but take two, take three for, like you, they are small!

Only, stay but a moment more . . . God's night is young;

oh, stay while this sweetness lies sweet on my tongue. . . .

Oh, I know, yes, I know,

you must go . . . you must go;

all rivers must flow . . .

it is so, it is so. . . .

Good night! Good night!

sweet children, good night!

So brief, so brief was your costumed delight,

for the darkness has swallowed . . . your sweetness

from . . . sight.

Dear God, is there rain in thy heavenly sphere?

What effusion so warm on my cheek does appear?

Bah! it is nothing—it's only a tear:

such a warm . . . and a sweet little nothing . . . to fear

—But don't you kids bother coming back next year!

Shhh! be careful, be careful for still they might hear

—because the door will be locked—and I won't be here!

And harsh words do so wound a tender young ear

—and the lights will be out till morning draws near!

And darkness does so wound an old crotcheteer

—and tears in my I shall never appear!

And tears do so wound a cynical sneer

—and I'll eat my candy till it comes out my ear!

And candy does so wound a silly old ear

—and I'll make it last me the whole lone—the year!

'cause I'm the Halloween Humbug—that's me

. . . and I hate! giving my heart away free.

21

Hawaiian Poi

The little Hawaiian boy queried his aunt,

"Auntie, what do you make from the taro plant?"

"Why, dear little honey bee of a boy,

see? I'm making a little Hawaiian poi."

"Auntie," he smiled as he got on his bike,

"what does the poi that you make taste like?"

"Why, you know, my poi is so smooth and so sweet

that all of Hawaii says it's a treat."

Said the boy with a smile as wide as the sky,

and a gleam in his little Hawaiian eye,

"Well, last night I asked my mama in bed

what your poi tastes like, and my mama said,

'Oh, bless my soul, I'd be merciful

if I said that it just tastes taro-ble,

'cause every Hawaiian under the sun

says your auntie's poi tastes like poi, son!' "

And he laughed with all his Hawaiian glee

as he pedalled for life, and she cried, "Little bee!

I'll warm your stinger for you!" But he

was the picture of pois on Waikiki.

And poi-sonned Hawaiians, to this loving day,

heave jollily in their poi-fed way

to think of their dear honey bee of a boy

who stung his auntie's Hawaiian poi.

22

Here in My Garden

Good day, Miss Ranunculus, how do you do?

Pretty, how is your aunt—and your unculus too?

You're so comely, so splendrous, exquisite, divine!

Would it now be ridunculus to add sublime?

My dear sweet Chrysanthemum, don't you look nice!

Oh hear now this anthem, mum, I won't look twice

—at others that is!—don't think me absurd.

I adore you, Miss Anthemum. (Shhh! mum's the word.)

O fair Gladiolus, so stately and tall,

surely you I love most madlyolus of all.

Courting other than you, Love, with glad-roving eye,

would be stooping to petal the 'Gladio' lie.

Here in my garden of floral delights,

so sweet are the days, so tender the nights.

Love is abounding, surrounding my sights,

here in my garden of floral delights.

Good morn, Mistress Hollyhock, hail and halloo!

Permit me, my heart, to sweet hollytalk you.

Your Highness, your height has me half-cocked I fear.

Is it folly to talk of my fondness, my dear?

Bon matin, ma cherie, bon matin, Bougainvillea;

Bonne après-midi, ma amour, ma douce fille;

Bon soir, ma belle fleur du jardin, en Français.

Ma amour, tu es charmante, en bon jargonais.

Good sunup, Miss Columbine, dear morning dove,

your petal-wings sweep me up, soaring above.

More sweet than sweet peas on a wee smallum vine,

I peek down on your charms, Love, and I callum fine.

Here in my garden of floral delights,

so sweet are the days, so tender the nights.

Love is abounding, astounding my sights,

here in my garden of floral delights.

Daylilies, Morning Glo's, Night-blooming Jasmine;

I love you ALL most—and most all them who hasim.

Sunflowers, Starflowers, Moonflowers bright,

I adore you by day, and amor you by night.

Veronica, Violet, Rosemary, Daisy,

Lily, Rose, Iris—you all make me crazy!

Petunia, Camellia, sweet Forget-me-not,

Begonia, and Dahlia—I love you—the lot!

Here in my garden of floral delights,

I'm a sheik in the days of Arabian nights.

A thousand-one concubines conquer my sights;

here in my harem, immoral delights.

Now humbly on bended knee, my Queen Carnation,

I bow and thus crown you in keen coronation.

I never was subject to kiss royalty.

Your Serene Incarnation has done this to me.

Good eve, Lady Aster—dear me! I'm aswoon,

for it's clear I should say to you, good asternoon.

These days are gone soon—yet Love is steadfaster,

so it's good asternoon once again, Lady Aster.

And softly I say to you, wee Miss Alyssum,

if your favors leave me, sure this—I shall missum;

but should they return with fair Spring's greenery,

in bliss would I kissum—such sweet scenery!

Here in my garden of floral delights,

so sweet are the days, so tender the nights.

Love is abounding, surrounding my sights,

here in my garden of floral delights.

Where Beauty so dwells there is no room for prose.

Here in my garden a rose is a Rose.

No thorn can deny it, as everyone knows;

and here in my garden the Poet Tree grows.

23

I Would Have Kissed Her

I would have kissed her, then and there,

had Passion leave to go

where blossomed full and red and fair

Love's sweetest cameo.

When near she brushed, she, Venus, blushed

(so dear!)—and yet so far;

My heart, full-flushed, in one beat, rushed

to kiss this distant star.

A pulsing race! a hushed embrace!

a stealing (kissed!) as she

so near in space (Love's radiant face)

fair hovered over me.

I would have clasped her to my breast,

and soft-caressed her face;

and, in my rapture, warm-compressed

all beauty, time, and space.

Oh, might she, tearful, not have melted,

weeping, in my arms?

Oh! might we not, as one, have melded

deep into Love's charms?

Heart, what if I had spoken soft

and sweetly-rendered vows,

in vocal splendor, broken oft

with tender "thee"s and "thou"s?

Might she not, then, her raven hair,

have let down—wild and free!

for that I'd kissed her, fair and square?

But Fear was quick to see:

"Oh, what if she—with plaintive screams—

should libel you—a thief?

and in the Court of Broken Dreams,

life-sentence you—to grief?

Can love, in spite of Passion's play,

bloom from a stolen kiss?

Might you—from prison!—rue the day

you stole one moment's bliss?"

I would have kissed her, then and there

(Fear's grip I'd overcome)

but Panic filled me with despair,

and struck me still and dumb!

My heart, in swelling throbs, cried out

(but every sob was mute);

for Terror, Dread, and crippling Doubt

had crushed Love's tenderest lute.

O Passion! what might Love have been,

had Caution let you go?

O Love! what might have Fervor seen,

had Fear not cowered so?

O Venus! what pure ecstasy

might we have found above,

had Modesty permitted me

one sweet, soft touch of love? . . .

I would have kissed her, then and there,

but Prudence dared not, so

I sat, numb, in that dental chair . . .

and we shall never know.

24

If I Were a Lass

If I were a lass, if I were a lass,

if I were a lassie instead of just me;

I would wish that my image,

and hope that my vision,

and dream that my likeness

would close to you be:

a tall bonnie lass, a fair bonnie lass,

a beautiful lassie, instead of just me;

with a different image,

and vision and likeness,

in a far, far different class would I be.

So I look in the glass, I look in the glass,

I look in the looking-glass . . . what do I see?

Oh, I see an image,

now I see a vision,

yes, I see a likeness

that looks . . . just like me!

Alas! oh alas! not you that I see!

I see my reflection looking at me.

Alas! oh alas! not you that I see!

A wistful young lad is looking at me.

If I were a lass, if I were a lass,

if I were—alas! I am not.

I am me.

25

Iffie 'n' Biffy

By way of this ditty meet dearest Aunt Iffie:

she's married to Charley, his nickname is Biffy.

Her real name is Effie, but fear of a spat

keeps drear Uncle Biffy from calling her that.

Biffy wed Iffie one warm summer night.

She looked spiffy, and Biffy held Iffie real tight.

But Iffie let Biffy know right from the start

that Iffie weren't iffy in matters of heart.

When Iffie felt itchy and wished to be kissed,

she'd call him Biffoon, which he couldn't resist.

If Iffie was lazy or in a small tiff,

she'd drive Biffy crazy, and just call him Biff.

For better or worse Biffy loved Iffie plenty,

But Love's curse is vision that's not twenty/twenty.

Iffie was flawed, but to Biffie's blind sight,

Iffie'd the gift of—God!—perfect hindsight:

If Biffy had loved her as much as to fish,

then Iffie'd be happier, such was her wish.

If Biffy'd been sweet, if he'd just learned to dance,

he'd've worn out his feat, not the seat of his pants;

if he'd gone to college, and not off to war;

if he'd've sought knowledge, then neither'd be sore.

If he'd a diploma, if he'd a degree,

if he had a job—oh, the pure luxury!

If Biffy'd been here and if Biffy'd been there,

his dear little Iffie'd have been everywhere.

If Biffy'd done this and if Biffy'd done that;

if he'd been successful, she wouldn't be fat.

If Iffie had married the minister's son,

her mother'd have said, "It's a fine man you've won!"

And if Iffie had married the spinster's son?

"Oh! daughter, dear daughter, this cannot be done!"

If only . . . if only! How quaintly absurd:

those two tiny letters paint such a big word.

If Iffie had not once become Biffy's wife . . .

If only . . . if only. How different her life!

Iffie and Biffy were born the same day,

in two different rooms, in a similar way.

The doctor was pleased, sighing, "My, they're a sight!

Two pees in a pot—oh! I'm dying of trite.

I tell them apart, the dear little hearts,

by not scrutinizing their queer little parts.

for Iffie just whines, and Biffy just bawls;

there can be no mistaking them—even through walls!"

The good doctor's wit made the nurses small laugh,

and the mirth was returned by the tall of the staff.

It rang through the hospital halls in a jiffy:

"If Iffie'd had bawls she'd be called by all 'Biffy'!"

Biffy just whined, "It's all folderol, Iffie!"

26

In Deep

I had to take a man-made light

(Shhh!) out into the Plan-made night

to see what skulking unbeknowns

were sculpting innie-button cones

in earth's soft belly (where no leaf

lay fallen) in reverse relief

like little conic jelly molds

in mouldered-where-they-fell leaf molds,

as eye-impressive wide as deep,

as if in falling out of sleep

small eggheads, out of smallish beds,

had fallen on their pointy-heads;

so falling from, in dead of night,

some head-first top- or low-bunk height,

each one impressed, in deep surprise,

a conic mold of varied size

from one to some two inches wide

that, round and down its sloping side,

well made (as if the eye to soothe)

a point of being love-talk smooth.

By then, too, I'd made it a point

to put my nose all out of joint

in looking past it, morn to night,

each time I passed and cast my sight

upon the jelly-molded soil

to see no sign of conic toil;

no laborer could I detect;

no trace of conic architect;

no clue to what things made no bones

of making the iconic cones

(like small minds who make farmer folk

wake up to their crop-circle joke).

For all my pains all I could see

was their impression deep on me.

But human, I was thus reduced

to stealth to get their selves deduced;

yet, though I crept with step so light

into the soft, dark summer night

and of a sudden shone the beam

upon their little conic scheme,

upon the hour and on its half

throughout the night, no conic staff

did I once catch flagrante or

delicto or like metaphor.

All I could, for their absence, see

was pure iconic modesty:

it seemed each humble heart's desire

that all of the impassioned fire

within its small heart-throbbing breast

be hidden, not made manifest,

so one not-seeing I would see,

for love of conic labor, the

most modest model one thinks of:

a labor of iconic love.

Oh, love—well, now, I see it all:

it's all in answer to love's call!

So crazy strong its mating pull,

it calls for mating ritual

—and who should answer, in a rut

of tug-of-love proportions but

some in-a-spin nocturnal slew

of lovebugs—all in answer to

her their-way-wafted pheromones

that call on them to spin love-cones

by night. (So with Night One began

his Made-the-Whirled-in-Seven Plan.)

The beetle (as I see them) males,

heads in a spin, love-spin their tails

fast round their heads, spin round and round

while burrowing heads in the ground

to make, earth pushed to conic side,

so-deep-in-love cones just as wide,

that serve no earthly purpose but

to show they're in a love-spin rut,

and make themselves, for all the fuss,

look perfectly ridiculous;

all calculated so that she,

all in a whirl, will think, "If he

is willing to look that absurd

he truly loves me! I'm assured."

And fall with him into that zone

as circumscribed by their love-cone.

Bah! I'd have caught them in the act,

but, once again, quick to react

on hearing me (they heard my feet

approaching them with metered beat,

and fearing I would see, and, worse,

get their iconic love in verse

for all to see wide-eyed and scoff

in looking on), they've beetled off.

Yet I can truly sympathize

with foiling voyeuristic eyes,

for all the times (divinely planned)

I've love-dug my head in the sand

all in a spin—dove blindly in,

commenced a love-mad tailspin

to move love's earth out smooth and wide

that I might headlong fall in sighed

falls to that lowest point and know

I'd fallen, deep as I could go,

in love to where I could not sleep

or eat, to make one point, and deep:

that my iconic ritual

is no whit less habitual;

that, no exception to the rule,

I show myself the love-mad fool,

till one cannot fail to detect

all signs of comic architect,

for which I'm shier far than they

by night—and shier yet by day.

You might think I am not to see

me write so self-confessedly,

until you see me, for the light,

make laughable that other's flight

in beetling off to night-bedim

myself behind my pseudonym.

27

Julie

Diamonds may dazzle,

jade emeralds shine,

rubies may sparkle

like burgundy wine;

turquoise may scintillate,

amethyst glow,

yet, wondrous they glitter,

no love do bestow;

topaz may coruscate,

moonstone may beam,

opals flash milkily

turning to cream;

sapphires blue-shimmer

in shades indigo.

In lustre, all pale

next my fair cameo.

Pearl of Love's treasury,

jewel of my Nile,

one glance on your gilded,

sweet-faceted smile

shows truly, no more

precious gem could be mine,

than you, Julie, loving me,

more purely shine.

Then my riches abound

—and I'm all the more blest

that my heart's jewel, Julie,

swells my treasure chest.

28

Lines Addressed to an Owl

(In Memory of a Dear-loved Cat)

Great Bird of Night, upon the wings

of darkness, swift and strong,

into my dreams' imaginings

flew your foreboding song:

Hoo HO-O-O . . . hoo . . . hoo!

Hoo HO-O-O . . . hoo . . . hoo!

So haunting, mournful seemed;

so real that I could but construe

that I no longer dreamed.

Your midnight-visioned image gripped

my mind's eye to its core

—and well I knew when through me ripped

its gaze, I'd sleep no more:

how fearsome wide those eyes of gold

—how piercing sharp the beak!

how fierce—and deep!—your talons' hold

upon me, helpless, meek.

You perched upon my towering fear,

your mighty wings tight-grouped;

then, silent as night's lunar sphere,

sheer swiftly down you swooped!

My damp skin felt your airy rush,

then something warm and soft

from out my heart, in your fell crush,

was ever torn aloft.

In melancholy I arose

(all joy from me was flown,

all wrenched up in my stark repose),

and I was all alone.

And in my heart—my ravaged heart!—

so sickly, sad, and sore,

I knew a dear and precious part

would there return no more!

Great bird of night, hear now my song!

I kneel beneath your stars:

Nor time nor tears, though life be long,

shall ever heal your scars.

You tore aloft—with fearsome flight—

my soul's most lightsome part.

Return! return! great bird of night,

and clutch my heavy heart.

29

Little Hollywood

I'm holding her! my dream girl

it's my dream to osculate,

the kiss all dreamers on a dream date

burn to consummate.

I make my move, and it's the right one,

there is no mistake:

it's just the kiss and just the movie

I've so longed to make.

She's putty in my arms—and I

am getting it on reel!

The camera zooms in for the first-kiss

closeup to reveal

—CUT! cold Reality, the thug,

has once more broken in!

and, dashed awake, I'm getting it

on real, to my chagrin.

It happens every dream: the whole night's

rushes, every scene,

upon the cut-room floor, and not

up on the silver screen,

the movie bust, my dream date gone!

with no reel chance to get

her dreamy kiss and more back on

the poof!—gone! movie set.

If only I could pick the dream up,

as a love-scene script

I'd laid down, where I left my dream

girl, just now, pucker-lipped.

But I must dream a whole new dream,

and that out of whole cloth

to swath a whole new dream girl in

I don't get to unswath.

My only solace, each dream shattered,

is I'm not alone:

a world of indie-movie makers,

dreaming up their own,

all have theirs dashed to sounds of break

and entry, too; no kiss

is consummated; none, to lay

their heads down, dreaming this,

sad dreamers: they're all movie kisses

none will ever see,

they most, for cold Reality's

dashed crime of b and e.

Come night, though, movie makers round

the world lay dreamy heads,

afresh with dreams of kissing dream dates,

down on dreamy beds,

convinced this one will be, of all

their movie-making schemes,

the kiss-and-tell? the kiss-and-show

blockbuster of their dreams.

Each gets the all-important backing

for it (such relief!)

by buying into it themselves,

suspending disbelief.

The screenplay written in each head,

the movie rights acquired,

each movie mogul, fancy head

of DreamWorks, is inspired

to cast themselves as the romantic

lead, the role that they,

the osculator of the dream date,

were so born to play.

Themselves cast perfectly to type,

they send a casting call

out: Call for dreamy date with the

most dreamy lips of all.

Discovering the three in one

all waiting tables waiting

for their dreamy all to be

discovered for their dating

kiss appeal, each head of DreamWorks

gives the three the screen

test, showing they're the dream three for

the dreamy kissing scene.

Just seeing them positioned perfectly

for osculation

settles it: each head must film

the kiss scene on location.

And so the stage is set for date night

(so not right for day),

and, studio head/movie mogul/

film producer, they

produce an irresistible

attraction for the lips

their flipping heart moves them to dream

of kissing, on the flips.

Then each directs their lips, Be on

location from the start

of Action! backed up by my strong

supporting cast of heart.

You, head of makeup artistry, you,

head of hair design,

look, make my on-location kisser

purely kiss divine.

And hear me, head in charge of all

mood lighting, get it right

in casting me, romantic lead,

in my 'Most Dreamy' light.

And you, my fine head cameraman,

look, whether close or wide,

make certain you are shooting me

on my 'Best Kisser' side.

And listen, head of sound, make sure

each mike is right on track

—each track is ON, right?—to record

my every juicy SMACK!

And, hmmph, my so-called double, look,

your 'looks' are not required;

and, for the last time, even if

they were, they're not desired.

And you, my fine head mogul, come!

effect the dreamed-of lip

lock, seize upon my dream date, acting

as my own key grip.

Now, draw them in, yes, closer . . . closer . . .

I can almost feel

the warmth, the softness, sweetness—God!

we're getting it on reel!

It's better than each head of DreamWorks

dreamed that it could be,

with best to come—and not a sign

of cold Reality.

They're making all the right moves per

their movie-making plan;

the camera's zooming in—Lord! it's

as good as in the can!

Tonight's will be the greatest kiss scene

ever made—that good!

So dreams the world each night, each head

a little Hollywood.

30

Little Stinkers

A little stinker's every babe,

each baby Abigail and Abe,

from morn to night right round to morn

(know: no exception has been born).

The griper none too soon outgrows

the low-droop diaper, but each nose

knows all too well does not outgrow

the growing stinker's riper—oh-h-h-h!

The wonder is we don't succumb

to bigger stinker's odium;

but we ignore the nasal strife,

and call each other "Babe" for life

(That love life when they make a fuss

and such a big stink over us).

And who among us can deny

their ranking highness makes us high.

To know how high upon a babe

one gets, one needs an astrolabe

(some sextant) to know just how high

this baby sun is in one's sky.

Then one decries this "baby" boon

to smell a rat: each babe too soon,

as babers scorned have ever known,

has into bigger stinker (groan!).

How both babes weep, so stinking blue,

no more is heard, "I love pe-yoo!"

then cry, because they're stinking sore,

"I don't love—pee-you!—anymore!"

Still, "babe"d and "baby"ed their life long,

they can't think He will do them wrong

who made them. Innocents (they think),

they're certain to, high heaven, stink.

Dear God! what stink comes from the "But

we love babes dear—!" Ah, yes, that gut

thing, which drives babers to love's brink,

who love to raise a little stink.

It's so perverse!—our passions rage

for babes the more they stink with age,

to make one, as the stink gets worse,

but wonder all the more per verse.

31

Lock

Lock on my heart (security),

your clasp I suffer patiently;

for cold and hard as ever you be

you were not made for eternity.

A greater power has cut your key.

Lock on my heart, listen to me:

I suffer your clasp graciously.

Sweet moments hence now we shall see

Lock, you and I—and love—all three:

you were not made for eternity;

a soft sweet hand now warms your key;

one turn—and how my heart is free!

32

Love: from A to Z

I adore an apt alliteration

(b-b-buzz of a bumbling bee);

crave the craft of its cool, camp creation

to a dizzy, dear, darn daft degree.

eager ears eat each e-sound repeating,

for their form, fairly freely, does fly.

Gosh! Gal gallantly gives me gay greeting;

hollers, "Hey, hello, howdy, hon—hi!")

Id is itching in me (she's inviting)

—joy! I jaw, jabber in joint jamboree.

"Keen to kid, kibitz, kiss, or go kiting?

Languish loosely in Love's luxury?

Might we murmur of marriage, or maybe,

now say 'Nuts!' to nice nuptials, and nest?

Omit oaths of oration? Ohhhh, Baby!

parley, please, pretty paramour pressed!"

My queer queen quips quite quick quaint quotation;

my rude regent's royal rhetoric I scan.

So sad! sinks my sexy sensation

Tease—'tis the tattle-tale talk of—a man

breathing onion—UGH! But I'm undaunted

by my virile-voiced verb valentine.

Why, wild wit with words was what I wanted:

Ex-execs ex-X (ech!)-sex?—divine!

Yes, I yen yet to yield to my yearning:

to zig-zag for 'zed'—zest for 'zee,'

A-literate—Z-lously burning.

Zeal'z zertainly zomething to zee.

33

Lusting Beast

How wise is every lusting beast on earth

who makes its conquest, keeping up the herd.

Lust in its blood, it takes it at its worth,

nor thinks to call it love, the honeyed word.

It's what it is: hot, bloody, brutal, raw,

compulsive, all-consuming, beastly strife;

and its one fealty is to that one law

it cannot choose but to obey; it's life;

a life, so sated, it lives to the full,

all lusting, for the nonce, purged from each vein,

no longer all its thought, till comes that pull,

the blood stirs, and the lusting comes again,

then goes, a part of life, till life is done.

How wise is every lusting beast but one.

34

Miss Jaunty Hats

She soignées down with leggy stride

the greensward in her most-as-wide

and jaunty-brimmed chapeau du jour

—du hour an admiring viewer

wants to write in charmed assay

for each new milliner's array

she sports with such a jaunty air

(her each review is More than fair)—

and, toddler bucket blue in hand,

steps haute couturely on the sand;

then, childlike, squats and gathers stones

that win her eye, and one that owns

this present of her mil assortment

adds jauntesse to her deportment,

which (she's free to seek redress)

comports in one with headiness.

Her hand up light to right arrange it,

up and homebent now, to change it,

chicly striding, stone girl lissome,

though a Mrs. she's a Miss Some-

one in someone's eyes, and that's

enough to write Miss Jaunty Hats.

35

Musical Chers

A simple music lesson, dear ones,

one you might have missed:

someone who plays an instrument's

an instrumentalist.

To be a player of such noise

you simply take, you see,

the source of noise now, girls and boys,

and add an i-s-t.

If you would like to be an -ist,

and thrill our little ears,

like longhaired concert pianist,

well, practice hard, my dears.

And if angelic strings should play low,

make you wear a smile,

you'll know the harpist has worn halo

overhead a while.

Pop, classical, jazz, rock-n-roll,

folk, boogie, country, blues:

A good guitarist can play all;

the key is "payin' dues."

How children of all ages love it

when a big band swings!

The saxophonists rage and shove,

the clarinetist sings.

Dears, if you have a lovely sweetheart

you would serenade,

and violinist does his sweet part,

music will be made!

How odd to see there but exists

one ist in history,

yet six fair instrumentalists

in our brief istory.

And yet the Pied Piper taught us,

lessoned us, astutest:

"If you don't love to pay the flautist,

—don't engage the flutist!"

So there you are, my little dears,

the simple Rule of Ist:

some music for your little ears;

I think you've got the gist.

You see, it's elementary,

but, like a girl named Mary,

now and then what's meant to be

is really quite contrary.

Remember the old saw about

exceptions to all rules.

If you ignore Life's little flaws

—you'll be Life's little fools!

Yes, Old King Cole, that ripe old soul,

was out of his merry tree

when he called for his pipe, called for his bowl,

called for his fiddlists three;

But Simple Simon—need I say,

was quite the dumbest boy,

oh! when he cried on Christmas Day,

"The Little Drummist Boy!"

So, in coming weeks, if someone speaks

of Satchmo, Miles, or Dizzy,

puff up your little cheeks and say,

"A trumpeter is he!"

So there you are, my little dears,

a simple little twist:

some music for your little ears

—but are there some we've missed?

If you all do your homework well,

your cheeks shall all-l-l be kissed.

But there's the bell—oh, please don't YELL!

Class is now dismissed.

36

My Little Bird

My little bird has flown her nest

—how sad, how sad am I!

to think I did my level best

to teach her how to fly.

In one heartrending final test,

with nary chirped Goodbye!

her winsome wings, at life's behest,

took to the western sky.

No more shall gape the wee brown beak

upon my swift return;

no more shall I kiss dear her cheek

upon her bed of fern;

no more shall hush the darling peep

to hear my lullaby;

no more beneath my breast she'll sleep,

though ever I shall cry.

O little bird, so spirit-blessed

—how sad, how sad am I!

All mine I did in you invest,

where ever it shall lie.

Was ever young hen more distressed,

did ever old more sigh?

No prayer can grant my life's request

that I might prophesy:

Where sing you my once-speckled egg?

Where sleep you (warm?) at night?

Find you fat worms enough who beg

that they escape your sight?

And will your warble, sweetly heard,

soon win for you a mate?

And will it leave, your little bird,

you sad more soon than late?

My little bird has flown her nest

—how sad, how sad am I!

to think I made it my life's quest

to teach her how to fly.

Was ever mother sadder pressed

to kiss her bairn goodbye?

My heart has flown from out my breast.

How sad, how sad am I!

37

My Little Conette

Oh, where—oh where is my little Conette?

has anyone seen her? Tell me!

Does my amourette roam

when she's absent from home?

My common sense tells me that I shouldn't fret;

my conscience then tells me forgive and forget,

but I constantly dwell on my little coquette:

Is she flirting, and so hurting me?

Oh, where—oh, where is my little Conette?

Does she care not one tittle for me?

Has anyone seen my little Conette?

Has anyone seen her? Tell me!

Can my joy and my pride

be so coy as to hide?

She's a bonnie blond thing in her own little class

with her tawny brown skin (sigh) the color of brass,

and her braw brawny limbs which at long length surpass

—into assets—as fine as can be!

She weighs no more than pretty, my fine gentry lass,

and at twenty, stands five-ten-and-three.

Oh, how can I tell her, my little Conette,

I adore her, how can I? Tell me!

I think she's just swell,

but I suffer as well:

Is she dating that muscleman down at the gym?

No! that cannot be why she is getting so slim.

But what if I'm wrong—and she's right—there—with him?

in a sweat! oh, Conette, pity me!

Say, does she philander, my little Conette?

Oh, tell me, Miss Landers, tell me!

Oh, what shall I do without little Conette?

oh, what shall I do now if she

has departed and gone,

will my heart still go on?

Well, why don't I call up my little Conette,

just give her a ring on her little phonette?

or one on her finger?—oh, heart, better yet!

Oh how happy she'd certainly be!

And if I don't call up my little Conette?

Why, it's certain—my pet'll phone me! . . .

But my phone keeps on not ringing all of the time,

and it's always Conette who is not on the line.

If I'd just known her number—or she had known mine

—or my name. Oh, Conette, pity me!

I grow sadder now yet to think we've never met.

What a shame!—oh, Conette! . . . love me!

38

My Two Elizabeths

Two beautiful Elizabeths adorn my life:

the first is my dear friend; the second, dear wife.

But the numbers don't mean who is dearest to me;

they're attached for the mere sake of chronology.

Elizabeth First is the first of her line

who came into my life and fair made it shine;

Elizabeth Second came after the First,

and in less than a second romance in me burst!

And yet, strange to say (here I make no amends)

My dear wife and I are the dearest of friends;

and often, I find, as I sail through my life,

I think of my dear friend oft as my wife.

(While Elizabeth First is not second in line,

Elizabeth Second's the first wife of mine.)

Yet sometimes my addled mind gets them reversed,

and the First winds up second—the Second in first!

But, in truth, my heart never more makes this mistake.

I did it just once—and got such a heartache!

Elizabeth I and Elizabeth II.

Such a lot of explaining—and loving—to do!

Yet, what's in a number? What's in a name?

Toss all to the wind, still, the flesh is the same;

the spirit still burns with the same sweet flame,

and it all seems much like a silly old game.

But if you must know what these two numbers mean

it's that each in her dear monarchy is a queen;

and it's such a dear thought that I say it again:

Oh, long may my two Queen Elizabeths reign!

If the rest of my days are but sorrow and strife

I shall crown myself king for my dear friend and wife,

and weep for the blessings with which I am rife:

that my two Elizabeths rapture my life.

And if Death wants to cheat me of life's second half

I'll say, Grant me one wish—and I'll go with a laugh!

Gone, let this, my lovesong, sing on my behalf;

be, "My Two Elizabeths," my epitaph.

Then I'll ask you to read it, if this you can do;

it's the last thing, for evermore, I'll ask of you.

I'll ask you to tell me, Death—tell me quite true!

Was I singing of one love, or singing of two?

39

O Doctor

O doctor, beware of the penniless man

who enters Love's house from the cold.

There are riches enough in the warmth of his hand;

one finds in his heart pure gold;

there are pearls in a string, each bedazzling smile;

diamonds brilliantly stud his sweet verse;

there are tears within reach of his silver-tongued speech;

in each lent ear a priceless silk purse.

O doctor, beware of the penniless man

who enters Love's house from the cold.

There is king's wealth enough in the warmth of his hand

to smelt your heart's heart of its gold.

When ways lead you home, and your treasure is gone,

swear not the deed was not foretold.

40

Plum Sweet

Santa Rosa and Elephant Heart,

fair plums of each other's eye,

standing together, vowed not to part,

each other's sweet loving ally.

Weathering all, they stood their ground

in the plum of towns, Ojai,

where, one to another, they were bound

beneath a plum-sweet sky.

As if life were an eternal spring,

they blossomed, touched to the root,

and gave (but to see was heartening)

of most the sweetest fruit.

And those who came, as the years went by,

to taste of their fruit thereof,

knew in their hearts, which moved them to sigh,

the two plum tasted of love.

41

She Walks in Beauty

She walks in beauty, all alone;

no one can keep her company

(her matchless sway of high hipbone,

her ebon skin so beautifully

unflawed). No, none may chaperone

the regal Queen of Ebony.

Pianos, when she passes by,

play out their wildest fantasies:

To have her ebon knees! while I

am lost in wilder reveries:

My tickling ebon knees, and sigh

to think I'd play such symphonies!

Her hands are a pianist's dream,

lithe, long, and supple works of art,

and, smoothly topped with chocolate cream,

play tastefully upon my heart;

so sweetly play this solo theme

she guarantees she walks apart.

But, soft! her feet do not bestir

a lovely metatarsal bone;

for, pressing round her, crowds occur

like sycophants around a throne;

still, not a soul comes close to her;

she stands, in beauty, all alone.

42

Something–Love

Lord! Alfred, how he loved, when young, to play

at poetry and tennis with Annette,

and she with him in her same loving way,

their love words back and forth, by each, well met.

Their boy-girl tension was the net between

them, and the score was always something–love!

Not less than that—and oh! you should have seen

them play at it—and oftentimes above.

It saddened them to think that some would play

at love with naught between them but free verse,

no tension in their words, and so each day,

no rhyme or reason to their lives, the worse

for growing old and having this regret:

their playing Tennyson without Annette.

43

Spider Love

No, there's nothing a spider loves more

than a corner, an inner one, for

all an insider corner is just the right angle

to spin out a web and in gossamer dangle

in indolent, idling atmosphere of

pure bone-lackadaisical, lollygag love

of a lingering, loitering, do-nothing style

in which it can leisure its spiderly wile

in a dawdle, and plain dilly-dally all day,

all the long-legged night shilly-shally away

a spider's whole love life, which love's all about

loving hanging out upside down, eyes looking out

over web site for signs of a score.

No, there's nothing a spider loves more,

unless . . . unless it could be . . .

Oh, pshaw! of course not—how silly of me!

No, there's nothing a spider loves more

than a corner convenience store

where an on-the-fly spider can get a fast bite,

quickly satisfy one's primal love appetite,

for there's no love a spider would rather instead

than some love on the fly it has met on the web

—Pray, lively! one's caught and is frantically threshing

—good speed, spider, hurry now, aid the enmeshing

spin silken strings lovingly over and round,

make prey with each more inextricably bound,

so helpless you see the love moment is right

Now! to rush in, deliver the fatal love bite

to love-prey to carry it over the thresh-hold

on life, so that you might inflict now a fresh, bold,

deeper love bite, and, in one final fit

of pure spider love, lovingly suck out of it

all the love life you'd love to encore.

No, there's nothing a spider loves more,

unless . . . unless it could be . . .

Oh, pshaw! the notion—how silly of me!

No, there's nothing a spider loves more

than that corner high over the floor

where two right-angled walls meet with right-angled ceiling,

for right high's the love-high and right-angled feeling

one gets looking down on two dear family members

burning with bigger prey-catching love embers,

so love in a bigger taxonomy league,

loving large catching prey in their web of intrigue,

most cunning device of their spidery making,

so cunning their love-prey is theirs for the taking

by lovingly spinning each long silken string,

and catching en web! the long-prayed-for love thing.

No, there's nothing a spider loves more

than to see them walk right through adore;

to see Daddy Longlegs carry Mommy Longlegs

right across the love threshold on newlywed pegs

see each spider's so lovingly cornered its prey

that it's bound it securely to their dying day,

for let one day go by, nothing caught in its web,

it is sure its whole spider love life's on the ebb,

and there's nothing a spider does more

than a single day loveless deplore,

unless . . . unless it could be . . .

Oh, pshaw! such fancy—how silly of me!

No, there's nothing a spider loves more

than its own corner spider-love corps.

And what isn't the pride of the spider to see,

looking bug-eyed on down from its spider aerie,

the fine web the two long-loving Longlegs designed

so long, long ago the time's long out of mind,

each dangling temptation in dilly of dalliance,

angling for high love in spider-love álliance,

hanging on whispers so barely half heard

they lovingly hang upon each other's word,

each turning on each so infatuously

they interpret each sweet one as saying, "I'll be

your loving, long-prayed-for, beloved web adorner,

there for you forever, yes, there, in your corner,"

which turns their whole spider-love world upside down,

making spider-love smile of each spiderless frown

—and there's nothing a spider loves more

than a smile where a frown was before.

And so both fall for each other's spidery charms,

both throwing their legs (only they call them arms)

round their love-prey now so web-enmeshed in the grip

that each moves to press spider lip to spider lip,

longing so to deliver the fatal love bite

that will suck every "one" of the single life right

out of it with such longing-for-love appetite

that all long legs is each on their long wedding night,

which behooves them to close the adore.

No, there's nothing a spider loves more,

unless . . . unless it could be . . .

Oh, pshaw! such moonshine—how silly of me!

44

The Astronomical Formality

of Love in Space

Dear Sun:

The side to everything

that's bright I've yet to see;

yet from my dark breast hope yet springs

this light shall come to me.

Each night I sing my heart's refrain:

May your love touch me soon.

Until that sweet day

I remain,

the Dark Side of the Moon

Dear Dark Side:

Thank you for the note;

it's sweet of you to write,

especially since I know you wrote

it in the dark of night.

Pursuant to your sweet love song,

with thanks I sing you one:

To those who love, comes love erelong.

With warm regards,

the Sun

Fair Venus:

You mean more to me

than every shining star.

I've worshiped long your high degree

of lovely from afar.

And I would give you everything:

though breaks the pretty pattern,

know I pledge you my best ring.

Your faithful planet,

Saturn

Dear Saturn:

I am in receipt

of your late, kind proposal.

Please be advised (your words ring sweet)

my love's at your disposal.

Your face, each night, is all I see.

Though distance comes between us,

my wish is that someday I'll be

At your convenience,

Venus

Ms. Neptune:

I trust you'll forgive

my cordiality

to thus convey my heart would live

within your solar sea.

Since cold reserve your love won't win,

my heart's in warm pursuit—oh!

Cast your net and haul me in;

I'm yours,

Sincerely,

Pluto

Kind Pluto:

Sir, I deem you nice;

I so admire your form;

and though your surface is of ice,

I see your heart is warm.

I trust your heart, within Love's sea,

may, in my net, be swept soon.

Until such time consider me

as

Yours in good trust,

Neptune

Uranus:

When your face is full

mine irresistibly

is drawn, pursuant to the pull

of your sweet gravity.

Might I not hope that your strong love

with my love does concur?

I wait your answer from above.

Yours truly,

Jupiter

Dear Jupiter:

Your ardent size

gives you the swellest face;

yet I am moved to note your sighs

and heart have kept apace.

Should your love grow, as mine has done,

could all of space contain us?

And would we not outshine the Sun?

With due respect,

Uranus

Fair Mercury:

I weep that space,

in all its cold degree,

can yield the splendor of your face

—yet keep your love from me.

Close consort are you of the Sun,

and dearer than the stars;

yet how I wish you nearer one:

to

Yours sincerely,

Mars

Dear Mars:

Sir, might I not surmise

your redness hints of love?

that all your blood within you lies

in your sweet eye above?

Has your kiss led me not amiss

that you are courting me?

Or have mine eyes misread your kiss

In closing?

Mercury

Dear Madams/Sirs in my embrace:

Please find enclosed my best

regards as I each Dear . . . Dear . . . face

press sweetly to my breast.

Drink well and deep the love that flows;

but think of (for my pay)

yours truly in your sweet repose.

I am,

the Milky Way

Dear Child:

Of Heaven's bodies all,

your face is best designed

to get my blessings, all-enthrall

the awestruck undersigned.

So shine, beloved, for all to see,

for all to be so awed.

But shine, and know I'll ever be,

Earth,

Yours in good faith,

God

45

The Celestial Cup

Prologue:

A sage arose in modern times,

in aged pose proposed in rhymes

that every pure religious face

should cease to pray, and run a race,

to settle once—and once for all—

to whom the Heavenly Gates should fall;

and end the strife that first began

when God wrought clay . . . and wrought was man.

The Sage's Address

Above Earth's blest Italian boot

shone Heaven's eye, a golden fruit,

warm-kissing earthen heel and toe,

the thigh above, the calf below,

whose gilding light fair dressed each home,

though fairest blessed of all was Rome,

wherein lay gilt St. Peter's Square,

where lilting bells sweet-tolled the air,

whence, as the light, now swelled on stage,

and, as the bells, sweet-tolled . . . the Sage:

"O pious friends of God and man,

pray hear a sage's humble plan

to end the bloodshed, pain, and grief

that's dealt—and felt!—for thy belief.

Do let us sport instead of fight,

to sort out who is wrong or right.

The victors shall in Heaven dwell,

and all the rest . . . well, who can tell?

"Pray, let us make divine the rules

that doth define the sage from fools.

In truth it would be sense gone wild

to have each wroughten man and child,

with teary eyes to Heaven cast,

beseech the skies their faith be fast;

then don a number (theirs to choose)

and pray to God! that they not lose.

"No, let each faith, religion, creed

mount their most holy on a steed;

but not the equine beast—perforce,

a faster, far more stable horse:

a thoroughbred in all respects,

yet free of Dobbin's speed defects;

a low-slung beast 'twould scorn his pace:

an Indy Charger—born to race!

"But friends, alas, man's many creeds

do far surpass all worthy steeds.

If thou art pure and wouldst take part,

but thou art poor, pray now take heart.

If faith but lira thou hast not,

with one who does, pray cast thy lot;

pray in these hands (put by your fear),

place your one soul, and let them steer.

"And if, in course, thy steed shouldst fall,

endorse another therewithal;

for in the end the only sin

Faith can't defend is not to win.

Yea, bless thy lost creed with a prayer,

and leave the dead steed lying there;

then fast! another mount embrace,

and count thyself in 'Heaven's Race.'

"Pray, holies, sell thy churches, land,

upswell thy wealth into thy hand!

If greed tempts thee to trim expense,

thou hast contempt for consequence.

Spend thy lucre!—horde it not,

lest Lucifer shouldst burn the lot.

If thou be nervous (fear hits hard),

well, I've a service . . . here's my card.

"If thou a Maserati choose,

slim be the chance that thou shalt lose;

a Lamborghini, less now yet;

Ferrari, surely thy best bet.

No matter that it cost the moon,

a crew must keep thy beast in tune.

My stable is at thy command;

if able, grace a sage's hand,

"For I'll a Golden Cup award,

at my expense, as thy reward,

in honor of thy faith, and speed

if thou wilt but my counsel heed.

A million then—wouldst thou agree?—

is but a paltry entry fee

for thou to everlasting sup

with God, drink life from thy sweet cup.

"For this 'Celestial Motorfest,'

let each knight don his Sunday best.

Dispense with helmets, suits, and gloves,

that He may bless whose dress He loves.

Let safety be not thy concern,

His hand shall guide thee through each turn.

Eternity's a damnéd spell,

to dwell in Heaven—and look like Hell!

"Fair Vatican City's hallowed gate,

shall be the gap that seals thy fate;

those sacred portals so divine,

shall be thy start—and finish—line.

Make fly! the Pope's own sacred dust,

to ply those ancient streets august,

of man's 'Eternal City' home,

and ever world's belovéd Rome.

"As fast thou quit St. Peter's Square,

spit out thy utmost earnest prayer,

and o'er swift Tiber make thy cross

in haste! lest time shouldst be thy loss.

Where Romulus and Remus snore,

there seven hills await thy roar;

in seven hours—for Heaven's sake—

must seven laps times seven make.

"I pray thee then to fix thy course,

and from thy steed coax one last horse;

though hearts of steel cry out in pain,

spur on thy beasts!—and give them rein!

Shouldst rivals seek to past thee glide,

may thine own conscience be thy guide.

As He dost judge thee from above,

let thy lone rule be: Brotherly Love.

"Who crosses first wins Cup of Gold,

and he and his shall Heaven behold,

thy faith engraved in bas relief

the Sole Official Blest Belief.

But should no Holy cross the line

within the fair alotted time,

the Cup shall e'er with me reside,

and I thy troubled souls shall guide."

The Glory That Was Rome

O Rome, thou can't escape thy past,

when gladiators gaped their last;

when lion hearts on Christians fed

'twas thou that was pronouncéd dead.

How paltry seems thy Colosseum

when all thy streets cry Mausoleum!

Soon Jews and Muslims—all—shall roar,

and lying hearts shall dine once more.

Disputed long, agreed upon,

it came to pass, the day did dawn:

a Sunday morning, mid-July

(At seven bells the dust shall fly!).

Already in St.Peter's Square

a din and clamor pierced the air.

The Sage, as light infused the east,

gazed down and mused upon the feast:

Oh, such a godly fine array

shone on the Sage that fateful day

as never before the Earth did grace

in harmony of time and place.

The masses who had suffered lent,

now suffered more for how was spent

their tithings and their sacrifice

over writhing sins and wracking vice:

Plush habits, cloaks of virgin wool,

alpaca caftans, flowing, full;

spun-silver slippers, chamois gloves,

kid-leather sandals soft as doves;

sleek satin tunics, capes divine,

high velvet fezzes, gold and wine;

Oy! yarmulkes of coal-black silk,

midst turbans white and smooth as milk;

Fine linen hankies ruffed with lace

in cambric pockets, sleeves to grace

chemises, robes of such damask

the very saints would blush to ask.

The Sage's eyes appraised the throng,

a twinkle glistening there erelong,

for brightest gear could not erase

the righteous fear on every face.

Yet, of all high priests good and fair,

not one exalted head shone there:

each high and pious, saintly mind,

"For reasons here set forth . . ." declined;

then each devout, most reverend face

a minion posted in his place;

yea, every blessed, holy nose

a designated driver chose.

Heaven's Seven

And thus that morn it came to pass:

amidst the pious, wailing mass

sat seven hopes and seven dreams

in seven holy time machines;

for yestermorn, in seven heats,

full seven more lost seven seats.

The Sage now, 'fore all Hell was loosed,

the 'Heaven's Seven' introduced:

"A Muslim mullah from the east;

from West Berlin, a Christian priest;

a Buddhist lama from Tibet;

a Hindu guru—Bombay's pet;

a Jewish rabbi north of Liszt;

a South Chinese Confucianist

—a monk who, yes, begat a son . . .

but I digress—the seventh one!"

Such frigid protest then arose

as might a lesser's wits have froze.

Through wisdom's grace the Sage kept cool:

"Pray, friends—embrace the Golden Rule.

Has mankind truly come this far

to grouse about who drives the car?

Old habits we must shed—and shun.

Behold! God's blesséd Anglican!"

Oh! such a saintly pretty thing,

she, pity, from all hearts did wring;

all virgins wishing, on her sight,

to wrest from her her habits white.

The mullah and the guru both

swore inwardly to her betroth;

whilst celibates (sigh!) waxed full loath,

to think they'd sworn such curséd oath!

The Sage warm-clasped her trembling hand,

whilst rapt, as one, the masses scanned

her face (a saint!), and drew a sigh,

for seven bells were queuing nigh.

Although the Sage officially

fair feigned impartiality,

shone from his dais in the sun,

the Sage's bias for . . . the nun.

As Moses did the Red Sea part,

the Sage, with mass, reprised the art:

a path before them opened wide

—Oh! for her beauty how they cried

to see that Chastity divine!

so graced this beastly starting line;

and disappeared with step so light

into her low Ferrari's might.

Who knows what seven hearts did feel

as seven bells began to peal?

The Sage with flag and Cup in hand

pronounced his most profound command:

"O drivers, thou so pure of heart,

I pray thee now thy engines start

—and may they never cease to roar,

till thou the Tiber cross once more!

"Thy steed is chomping at the bit,

pray heed—thine every faith commit;

to heart take this sage caveat:

Nay! slacken not thy pace for that

on wings of prayer thy Pegasus

Fly! thee to St. Pete's terminus

first, pray nor speed nor spirit leaven,

that thou mightst rise to Seventh Heaven."

The Road to Xanadu

Such discord never had heard Rome,

as echoed from St. Peter's dome,

so God Himself could well despair

to hear the bells (much less a prayer).

As engines screamed and faithful cried,

he might have deemed the Pope had died;

thus louder prayed each soul its cease

would bring them everlasting peace.

"Drivers, thou shalt hit the streets

in order same thou won thy heats.

From moment that thou cross the line,

full seven hours elapsed are thine.

True, Rome was not built in a day,

but let not that be thy cliché.

To do in Rome, as Romans do,

thou wouldst of this most surely rue!

"Devout, thou come from near and far

to bless and cheer thy faith and car.

The path to glory is just that:

a winding course that's seldom flat.

Yea, all roads lead to Rome, it's true,

but only one to Xanadu.

Behold! the blest Celestial Cup.

May God smile down—as thou speed up!"

With flourished waving of the flag

each raving beast lept like a stag;

at once both prey and hunter too,

all seven from St. Peter's flew.

The priest was first across the line,

his Porsche's scream a shrieking whine;

four Goodyear's squealed for earthly tie,

as o'er swift Tiber all did fly.

The guru hugged the priest's rear end,

in smug belief that he'd transcend;

his Aston-Martin too was proud,

and hummed its Vishnu mantra—loud.

The mullah was no less devout

as Allah akbar! thrice rang out;

his Maserati never ceased

to 'fast' whenever headed east.

The rabbi, strictly orthodox,

his faith—Oy vay!—would stop the clocks;

his Lamborghini (Talmud's rule)

ran fourth—and lean—on kosher fuel.

In fifth the monk disdained to look,

to quote his Master from 'The Book':

"Confucius say: A monk must sow

to reap an Alfa Romeo!"

The lama spake enlightened sense

(his car ran sixth, his karma hence):

"In darkness though its root's begun,

the Lotus blossoms in the sun."

"Fair Virtue's battle's never lost

when she, the Rubicon, has crossed."

An inner peace already won,

in seventh heaven sped the nun.

Romeo, O Romeo!

On every crack, on every stone

of every street stood every bone

of every wretch and every wraith

of every church and every faith;

on every stoop, on every sill

of every house on every hill,

watched every eye of every face

for every sign of 'Heaven's Race.'

Oh, how the vias, corsos rang

as, through them, holy torsos sprang

in chariots whose deafening keen

screamed out of horses never seen,

as every tongue from every place

cried every prayer of every race,

and every curse in every head,

and every sworn oath ever said.

Thus through the plazas, fountains round,

'top papal tombs and sacred ground;

astride the ruins of ancient homes,

'top temples, forums, palace domes;

past stadiums of loud repute,

by marble statues, crumbling, mute;

amidst the hills where wolves once played,

'The Seven' set their wills . . . and prayed.

Lap three of forty-nine now done,

the Holy Shrine so moved the nun

that she, the Sistine Chapel, passed

with blesséd full Ferrari's blast.

The ardent monk, bemused and slow,

bethought himself the Romeo;

and when the nun was full abreast,

the amorous monk, her heart, addressed:

"Confucius say: A woman's heart,

must love in life 'fore youth does part.

Soon Beauty's tend'rest bloom is lost

to Time's relentless, chilling frost.

Confucius say: To love is Life;

to love is to become a wife;

to be a wife and love a man

is loving God's—and Nature's—plan."

"Dear Lord, forsake my earthly pride

that takes me on this sinful ride

where weep these highborn Roman streets,

so deeply worn with Man's conceits.

Now drunk upon Confucian lore,

a lovesick monk wears them the more.

I pray, O Lord, he be excused.

Forgive him, Lord . . . he's just confused."

Thus Passion's arrows missed her heart,

she, past the monk, was quick to dart.

In dudgeon for her righteous nerve,

he nudged the gas to spite her verve.

"Confucius say: O Romeo,

a woman's 'yes' is often 'no.'

If love you seek—pray, never forget:

Love speaks with God's own Alfa—bet!

"Confucius say: A man must be,

religious in his chivalry;

and nothing makes a courtly man

like practice, and more practice, can.

Love's labour's like (and here he smiles)

a journey of ten thousand miles:

although it takes a lover's pep,

he makes first love . . . with the first step."

And what a thundering step they chose,

these two sad, blundering Romeos;

and then another, then a score,

and then a hundred-thirteen more.

Both down the ages, down the depths,

in fiery stages, took their steps.

Where poet John Keats breathed his last,

Love's journey ended . . . with a blast.

"Confucius say: Before Love dies

each lover sees before his eyes

each name that did his heart console,

each flame that warmed his very soul.

Oh, I see two, and now a score

and now a hundred-thirteen more!

Though down I crash into the fire,

Love's passions lift me higher, high—!

As hush fell over St. Peter's Square,

the Sage wore his most solemn air:

"O Lord, dear friends, so sad my heart!

so pure thy servant didst depart.

His chaste soul vanished—to the depths—

in tumbling down the Spanish Steps.

Oh, praise his piety in thy prayers,

who died for thee on Spanish stairs!"

The Lamb of God

The lama, who'd himself advanced,

was astral travelling, well entranced.

Though no 'Grand Lama,' he ran hot;

a 'dally' Lama he was not.

Upon a hill the monk he'd passed,

but still, though fifth, was second last.

The seventh lap now just begun,

the lama rapped most everyone:

"O Buddha, I am from Tibet,

or from Siam . . . I quite forget;

I must be in some mystic funk,

or, Lord, in love—just like the monk.

And love is like the lotus flower

when much of either we devour:

the lotus fruit fair makes us sleep,

the fruit of love fair makes us weep.

"Although this Lotus makes me ache,

pray notice, Lord—I'm wide awake!

But of this fruit that makes one cry,

sometimes, Dear Buddha, I could die!

How can a rabbi—God!—from Liszt,

know love from broad, old yentas kissed?

What fires shall there his mettle try

when gray mares in his shtetl lie?

"That celibate, self-righteous priest

—what knows this wit of passion's feast?

A frozen heart, a rigid head

—such frigid parts can't warm his bed!

Where blow the hot Sahara sands,

there go for naught fair Love's commands;

thus 'neath burnous and turbaned skull,

The mullah's juice lies cool . . . and dull.

"The guru's soft, for lack of meat,

his point of view thus lacking heat.

What cow would sport a flaccid bull

that seeks to court—a vegetable?

For all his trite Confucian quotes,

his Lilliputian anecdotes,

Gautama Buddha, Lord Above!

what can a dead monk know of love?

"And yet, these thoughts now said and done,

I count it not against the nun.

Dear Lord, her vow I'd gladly breach,

her, habits now, I'd love to teach!"

With these few love-knots off his chest,

the lama laid his thoughts to rest;

unravelling then as oft before,

went astral travelling yet once more."

With blast to stir Rome's stately hall,

now past the Palace Quirinal;

where popes, kings, crimes, and presidents,

all in their times were residents;

both nun and lama quickly hied,

flashed through the plaza, pink and wide;

two hearts, as one, now beat so close,

the nun, in heat, became verbose:

"My Lord, the lama's thoughts are crude

—Gautama's lips were not so rude!

The late, dear Buddha's sweet young lamb

has grown, I fear, into a ram!

who seeks to pull, with clever lies,

his reeking wool over all our eyes;

so Lord, I must—for Heaven's sake—

his beastly lust now overtake!"

When he divined she sought to pass,

he thought to smite her saintly brass;

thus as she loomed up on his left,

his Lotus bloomed, so swift and deft:

he veered in front and stave the brake,

but Oh! (Dear Buddha!)—grave mistake!

The Lotus, slipping, set a trend,

of deadly flipping, end for end.

"As snow doth on the mountains fall,

so coins unto the fountain's call.

Thus Man will dream and Man will dare,

for no more reason than they're there.

In water born does lotus rise,

in water lives, in water...diiiies—!"

The lama did no more expound,

for, like the Lotus, he was drowned.

"O Brothers, Sisters, welladay!

that we shouldst see this hell a day.

Our Lamb of God, our lama—Christ!

To save the nun, he sacrificed

himself—the pride of all Tibet;

in Trevi Fountain, died—all wet!

But he'll return to Rome—a Saint,

whilst I, a sage, though worthy, mayn't."

The Camel's Tale

As if all Heaven's clappers sang,

all seven bells in clangor rang.

In first still, by a second's gap,

the priest streaked forth, on his ninth lap.

"God, east is east and west is west;

Your Holy Grace knows which is best.

Oh, may it never be my disgrace

that Thou should kiss this . . . camel's face!"

In second place and top gear now,

the mullah made a solemn vow:

"If I don't smear this infidel,

'fore I hear one more curséd bell,

may Allah strike dead Abou Addam

Al-Farouk-El-Sheik-Ben-Saddam."

'The Camel' stopped to spell his breath,

and thought he caught the smell of death.

And if he'd known, that fateful morn,

the oath the priest himself had sworn

("I'll lead him such a Roman chase,

I'll blow the beard clean off his face;

and If I let this Camel by

—may God Himself spit in my eye!"),

he would have prayed or rushed to plead,

that Allah pay his little heed.

The mullah'd passed the guru great

who'd paused in pits to meditate:

"Enlightenment of flesh and mind

does man refresh and make refined;

but too much drink unnerves his bliss,

and only serves to make him miss

the joys of life when less is mor—"

his noise cut short by Aston's roar.

As if he'd read the guru's mind,

the mullah to himself opined:

"We Bedouins do not imbibe,

for we're a pure and righteous tribe;

and all our tribe (I am a prince)

has roamed the desert dunes now since

before it was the Holy Land;

just shifting, burning grains of sand.

"They call me 'Camel'—from the east—

a dirty, ugly, smelly beast;

as one they jump upon my back,

where both my humps they soon attack.

Contrary to the camel's son,

a dromedary's bumps are one;

but wealthy mullahs have a stack:

yes, lumps of moolah's what we pack!"

The priest, before he'd burned the line,

his holy water turned to wine;

which downing of it caused a flap,

but upped his speed—with every lap!

"Though ever faster times I log,

I cannot shake this desert dog:

Amir Hyena from the east,

and I a high—and western—priest!"

The Pantheon now flashed on by,

yet faster, faster he would fly;

the Roman Forum but a blur

as Porsche's pulse did louder purr;

then paled the ghost on Caesar's throne

as purr was pushed into a drone,

till 'neath the Arch of Constantine

the drone (like water) turned—to whine!

The memory of the mullah's oath,

swelled neath his turban like a growth.

The ninefold hour was near—alas!—

but still the priest he could not pass.

"The bells! the bells! as nine comes round,

Hell's strident bells shall nine times sound,

O God, the death! of Abou Addam

Al-Farouk-EI-Sheik-Ben-Saddam.

"—But wait! a graveyard lies ahead,

where lie the bones of Christian dead.

If over coffins I should speed,

why, who's to scoff—or even heed?

Does Allah care if I besmirch

the Holy Roman Catholic Church?

Did not the Sage say, 'push come shove,

let thy lone rule be other than love'?

"Soon 'round the cemetery's end,

the road there takes a tight, full bend.

The priest must slack his frightful speed,

and I shall do my rightful deed.

So what though infidels all talk?

By Hell's own rule I'll save—a block!

Mine eyes on Mecca's gold will feast

—behind me I'll behold . . . the priest!"

Just as the mullah had ordained,

the cemetery he profaned;

crashed through the gates with hellish zeal

as seven bells began to peal,

and flowers, headstones, mourners too

were scattered—shattered—as he flew.

"O Allah, if thou caring be,

pray, strike my vow—instead of me!"

The mullah lost his fervent grip,

the first ungodly, fiery flip;

when seven more the road brought nigh,

the laughing priest went roaring by;

the Lamborghini, charred, grotesque,

in ninth and final arabesque,

flipped high atop a rich man's tomb,

and burned the lips that spake of doom:

"A camel, if the deed will try,

may well pass through a needle's eye,

before a rich man Heaven sees

—though he wear out a thousand knees!

But if, as well, the camel's rich,

he'll go to Hell—without a stitch!

How sad—and poor!—is Abou Addam

Al-Farouk-El-Sheik-Ben-Sa—damn!"

How all Islam shrieked in prayer,

and plucked their eyes, and tore their hair,

and screeched their every epithet,

from every mosque and minaret;

with lamentations loud and long

flayed every ear of crowd and throng;

then every muslim gaze fell on

Sage lips that praised their fell low khan:

"Dear muslims I, too, share thy grief,

shed tears for loss of thy sherif

—chopped down! for so devout was he

that thou mayst ne'er his equal see.

So powerful was Mecca's sight,

his heart and soul burned with its light;

one glimpse proved such a blinding feast,

he, bowing east, bowed out—to priest!"

The Sacred Cow

Fast breathing down the rabbi's back,

unseen beneath his gown of black,

the guru read the gory news

off cue cards fed him by his crews.

And since he was a man obese

whose mystic musings never cease,

upon the mullah's sad demise,

he weighed in to philosophize:

"Oh, what is life and what is death

when separates them but a breath?

The Camel's foolish crashes must,

the mullah's ashes, turn to dust;

and then the wind the dust shall lift,

and cause the very dust to drift;

then drifting dust turn into Man

who roams the shifting, burning sand."

The heat now rising like the sun,

with thirty-three laps left undone,

the guru's fat commenced to sweat

so that his Nehru, drenched and wet,

clung to him like a second skin

—his best it was!—and such a sin

how he was looking less than cute

now nun acutely pressed her suit.

Near House of Vestal Virgins now

the nun renewed her purest vow:

"Dear God, my heart beats just for thee;

mine eyes do only thine eyes see;

and 'neath my whitesome breast my love,

shines all its light—for thee above;

when shall my earthly beauty die,

my heavenly soul—to thee—shall fly!"

To left, the hill of Avenine,

to right, so still, the Palatine;

by wasted Circus Maximus

the nun and guru hasted thus:

the guru, by the nun, was chased,

who knew not he was most unchaste;

whilst she, in truth, the Bible read,

he, Kamasutra, took to bed.

When he saw, with a mirror glance,

her low Ferrari did advance,

he thought his mind, her heart, could bend

with one quick shift, into 'Transcend':

"With all the power at my command,

within the hour I'll win her hand;

with Kamasutra in her head,

fair nun shall stir my wedding bed!"

O Rome, so was thy glory spent,

in days and nights so decadent;

from high upon the Palatine,

thy nobles, drunk of Sodom's wine,

looked down on Nero's Circus floor,

and cried for blood—and heroes' gore;

whilst in the middle, unconcerned, .

a fiddle played—whilst all Rome burned!

Now by his ancient charnel house,

a modern game of cat and mouse,

with all its strife, did now begin:

sweet everlasting Life to win.

The nun's Ferrari, nose to ground

(no pause), closed in with feline bound;

the guru's Aston caught its scent,

but scarce the wit of his lament:

"O Brahma, Vishnu, woe is me!

O Shiva, Krishna—pity me!

for I'm a mouse, a trifle fat,

'purr'sued by this 'Ferr'ocious cat.

A mouse though, if astute of mind,

and fat, and cute, and not too blind;

oh, if a mouse be all of that,

just like a flea—he'll catch the cat!"

As head to tail they flew through Rome,

Love failed to drive its message home.

The guru's mind, from 'Well in Tune,'

now shifted up into 'Commune.'

The laps and minutes fast did fly,

but still the same thing: no reply.

Despite the risk of mental harm,

he poured on 'Transcendental Charm':

"Since I'm a sweet fruitarian,

I wish to meet—and marry—one.

Till now my only sacred vow

was not to kill the sacred cow.

Fair nun, my troth I shall expand:

within the hour I'll win thy hand.

If not, the blest Celestial Cup,

all love, all life, I shall give up!"

His mind, now gravely losing strength,

sought frantically the nun's wavelength:

"O Brahma, Vishnu, Shiva—three,

O Krishna, where the deuce is she?

Dear gods on wing, my straits are dire,

soon 'Ten' shall sing Rome's 'Iron Choir'!

One final try . . . dear gods—rejoice!

I hear, I hear! the nun's sweet voice!"

"O Lord, My God, my tears express,

my worldly sins I here confess:

so chaste, and soft, for thee am I,

my soul prays oft for me to die.

Three gray long days from food I fast,

until my hunger, lewd and vast,

depraves my faith, and I must eat,

and Lord, I crave, I crave—for meat!"

Oh, where the skeptics needing proof,

that God to prayer is not aloof?

No sooner 'meat' drooled from her tongue,

into the street a . . . creature sprung

(as if to test the guru's vow):

a blest and sacred Brahman cow.

And—oh! to make his hell more real,

all seven bells began to peal.

The nun turned red, the guru white;

he veered to left, she steered to right;

his Aston clipped the beast's hind end,

which act no priest or god could mend.

She missed its head by scarce an inch,

but it was dead so ne'er a flinch.

The Aston turned its first cartwheel,

the first of ten the nun could feel.

"O Hindu gods, whence came the cow,

that caused me hence to break my vow?

Oh, what was I in other lives,

that I must die—whilst she survives?

O Karma, Kismet, Destiny,

O Fate, cruel Fate—why this to me?

Oh, what is death, and what is life,

when separates them naught but strife—?"

His death brought forth no single moan,

his dying breath no single groan.

In love, in life, in misery,

the guru liked warm company;

aflame, spun nine times through the crowd!

Defaming him, they wailed aloud;

their screaming tongues, in torture swore,

until, like he . . . they swore no more.

And with their passing silence fell,

as did the tongues of every bell.

Then bitterness and woe and grief,

for which their faith found no relief,

unto the throng did now descend,

as if death's song would never end;

and fell again unto the Sage

their massive sorrow to assuage:

"O hearts of light, do not despair,

though Heaven smite thy every prayer.

Thy guru was a man of word,

who made a vow, of which you've heard.

But how this beast, so young and sweet,

came there and then into the street,

no mortal soul can dare explain,

nor any god repair the pain.

"His saintly vow was like a prayer:

he gave his life—the cow—to spare;

and those who knew him rest assured

he chose to die—without a word.

Upon his pyre some forty-three,

—on fire with love—performed suttee.

Sweet rack of lamb, in life obese,

in death was wrapped . . . in golden fleece."

The Broken Heart

Three hours had passed, four dear ones dead,

and countless more the tears they'd shed;

for four deceased left two and one:

the priest, the rabbi, and the nun.

And so their order—one-two-three—

with four more hours of agony,

and nine and forty laps to run,

less twenty-four the three had won.

The halfway mark was near at hand,

and still the priest was in command:

"God grants dominion over beast

that Man upon his flesh may feast.

The question is not even moot

—the apple was forbidden fruit.

Because the cow he must not hurt,

the guru got his just desert!"

But let the rabbi's yiddish tell,

that fast was blabbing midst the swell:

"They call us moneylenders—Jews!

who profits before prophets choose;

that shekels are our fondest wish,

that stink like ten gefilte fish;

and worse, our kosher food is sham,

for that we worship Abraham!

"A Jew it was, the Christians say,

did Jesus Christ betray, betray!

for thirty silver pieces fine,

made dirty the word 'Philistine.'

But surely any goy can see,

a true shlemiel he'd have to be;

for no Jew worthy of the name

would sell—so cheap!—his people's shame.

"But I'm a lowly philologue

who teaches at the synagogue,

of all rabbinic laws' taboos,

and countless more Thou shalt not do!s.

So what should I for money care?

Is it not written in a prayer,

'How weak is gold and silver's worth

when shall the meek inherit Earth?'

"And God, that Hindu—what a shmuck—

to run into such beastly luck!

a shlep, a shmo, a true shlimazl

to get himself in such a shmozzle.

He got his dues, that mystic one,

for trying to shmooze the pretty nun.

To tell the truth, it makes me laugh:

he died in youth—a fatted calf!"

The priest, the Cup's equator crossed,

moved to speed up—lest all be lost.

The masses, piles flew quickly by

as laps and miles were made to fly.

"Oh, twenty-five, yes twenty-six

God bless my white-gold crucifix!

Now twenty-seven, twenty-eight,

oh, closer, closer Heaven's Gate!

"And yet, for all my holy haste,

another no less time does waste.

As sure as night does follow day,

that Semite stalks me like his prey.

For all I put my Porsche through,

the rabbi sticks—like kosher glue;

but I'll see his black soul—in Hell—

before shall toll one midday bell!"

Fair Rome, thy sun lights nothing new;

one Christian more fights one more Jew;

an act as old as day and night:

the Jews in black, the Christians white.

'Eternal City' that thou art,

how fitting thou shouldst break his heart

who seeks life everlastingly,

yet reeks of ancient blasphemy.

Now twenty-nine had come and gone,

and still the Jew—the swine!—hung on;

then thirty passed, then thirty-one;

God, something dirty must be done!

Beneath his miter now a vain

and priestly fighter racked his brain;

beneath his surplice white as sleet,

a cold, dark-purposed heart did beat.

Then seven bells, eleven times,

rang seventy plus seven chimes;

so like some hoodoo-haunted beast,

now faster flew the hunted priest.

But not to be outdone, the Jew

stuck to his tail as stalkers do,

till quoth the priest with venomed breath,

"My oath, my oath is to the death!

"O Lord, on him thy vengeance wreak,

make grim thy wrath for soon shall speak

the Twelve Apostles of the bells,

in twelve times seven decibels.

There lies ahead a synagogue,

where takes the road a deadman's jog;

the sun shall near its apex be,

and he shall fear what I foresee:

"In blazing down, this star, I'll fix

its light—upon my crucifix;

reflect it back into his eyes,

which shall his black soul mesmerize.

In simple words he'll miss the road,

into the temple he'll explode;

and when this act—of God—is done,

I'll make a fresh pact with . . . the nun."

Now loomed the Temple Beth Shalom,

where perched, foredoomed, atop its dome,

the Star of David, gold, obscene,

whose points the priest had not foreseen.

He held his cross up to the sun,

"And now God—let thy will be done!

What I've foreseen—let all behold!"

(Unseen, the first of seven tolled.)

The sun ignored his crucifix,

and poured its light on points of six;

so perfect was the priest aligned,

his vision ceased—for he was blind.

The Porsche, left without a soul,

bereft of faith, began to roll,

toward the star atop the dome,

atop the Temple Beth Shalom.

"Lord, from afar it guided them,

the holy Star of Bethlehem,

and to the infant Jesus came

the magi to revere his name.

To David's Star—how can it be,

that I am drawn so . . . magically?

O Lord, reproach my wayward car

fast dares approach this graven star!"

To end its twelfth infernal roll,

while yet the bells, the bells did toll,

the Porsche, slamming Beth Shalom,

shook loose the Star atop the dome.

Oh, down it crashed, a golden sword,

through Porsche's windshield smashed and gored

the priest—his chest, in two, did part:

one golden point had cleaved his heart!

How sad, O Rome, how sad thy bells,

a myriad of mournful knells.

Did ever sound evoke more tears,

the more profound for all their fears?

And now the last, the last does cease,

but shall it bring a lasting peace?

All eyes upraised unto the stage,

where numbly praised the priest, the Sage:

"O children of a common God,

I stand before thee, humbly awed.

A mortal's words can poor express,

what God for joy doth surely bless:

a heart so full of Mankind's pain,

incapable to more contain,

so burst its seams, its priestly love,

flew up to star with him above."

The Brindled Pig

Now every head and twice the feet

of every soul upon the street

felt full the sun of Roman sky,

this mid-day Sunday, mid-July.

The laps were ten, the hours two,

'twixt Heaven's glory and the few;

and now the cry was: One on one,

between the rabbi and . . . the nun!

"O Heavenly Father, hear my plea,

I pray that I may worthy be;

that I, a lowly nun, was spared,

whilst he so holy poorly fared:

a man of peace, a moral rock,

a shepherd—fleece to all his flock;

a celibate so pure and true,

and Lord, forgive me, toothsome, too."

"The truth is I have not the least

sweet rabbied tooth for the deceased.

Oh, why he held aloft his cross,

forsooth!—I'm at a total loss.

He wasn't English, wasn't French

—and God should sing he was a mensh?

His pagan art destroyed his car,

whilst broke his heart, King David's star.

"As from the oyster comes the pearl,

so fresh from cloister now this . . . girl,

this shiksa Queen of Sheba comes,

so like unto King Solomon,

to test my wisdom—face-to-face—

and wrest my kingdom, faith-to-faith;

but like the priest, she, too, shall part

this beastly world, with broken heart."

So swore the rabbi, mouth afoam,

in sight no more of Beth Shalom;

where now was settling in the street,

the Temple's dust neath Christian feet;

and where despite the anguished pall,

as if it were their Wailing Wall,

stood eight old Jews all hacking phlegm,

they ate cold in Jerusalem.

The nun more felt than heard the cries,

more felt than saw through teary eyes,

the full lament of Christly grief

in life would never find relief.

And thus her saintly heart sore bled,

without restraint more tears she shed,

so past 'The Wall,' this 'House of Peace,'

her speed did all the more increase.

"Dear God, what makes a Jew a Jew?

What makes a Christian through and through?

Why must all earthly brothers cry,

God, there, but for thy grace, go I?

Why must our sinful hearts contend

to win thy love to all thou send?

And God, what lust do I pursue

that I must overtake . . . this Jew?"

"A kosher ball of mucilage,

oh, may it fall upon the Sage!

My foot in pain cleaves to the floor,

and yet the nun gains more, now more.

Myself, my faith, my synagogue,

a wealth coughed up to buy this hog,

this Lamborghini—what a joke!

Houdini, on this dish, would choke.

"Unto the Sage a river poured;

now I, chopped liver, can afford?

(If greed tempts thee to trim expense,

thou hast contempt for consequence.

Spend thy lucre!—Horde it not,

Lest Lucifer shouldst burn the lot!)

Our gold, our silver—all is lost!

gone up in smoke, that is, exhaust.

"Now through this haze so blue and hot

she comes—the poorest of the lot.

How, Lord, can this poor, pensive nun

afford the most expensive one?

(The Sage warm-clasped her trembling hand)

Dear God!—at last I understand!

Make my life's wage one dwindled fig,

but paint the Sage . . . a brindled pig!"

To swell the kosher Jew's regret,

the nun drew closer, closer yet;

till every poor and rich man's dream

did lure the rabbi to blaspheme:

"O low Ferrari, Satan's car,

may all of every Jew's catarrh

flow down into thy sinful path,

and drown thy wheels in Israel's wrath!"

The more to swell this righteous tide,

to prime the well so deep inside,

depraved with hunger's stricter rule,

the rabbi craved his mid-day gruel.

He drew a basket to his side,

he thrust the lid and threw it wide;

for all he saw his eyes grew big:

one sad, small, dried, and lonely fig.

No meaning could his mind construct,

as near Rome's ancient aqueduct,

both mind and body rashly sped,

as if from some ungodly dread.

Though flesh and soul were both now sore,

the rabbi's hunger drove him more.

Towards his maw he thrust the fig,

and saw—"Dear God! a brindled pig."

Atop the ancient waterway,

sad vestige of a bygone day,

where Jewish slaves in Christian chains,

died young for these once-proud remains,

an old, and lonely, brindled boar

gazed down like stone upon the roar.

How came this beast? What to presage?

One God, one Jew alone could gauge.

The eyes of man and beast now met,

but oh! the feast it did beget:

the rabbi, losing sense and place,

struck thence a column full of face.

The old boar tumbled to the ground,

whilst stones, like swords, fell all around;

a lone and sharp one struck the Jew:

his boneless part cut clean in two.

"A sense of humor has our God?

and hence makes each a little flawed?

Whilst some—the goyim—are baptized,

'The Chosen'—Oy!—are circumcised.

A rabbi of me thou hast made,

and so I've plied my chosen trade;

and what's my gift, my just reward?

Once more thy swift—and terrible—sword!"

Now seven sad and lonely bells

struck seven only single knells.

The rabbi's soul at last was free

its earthly ties of slavery.

As to its fate, the brindled boar,

truth must relate what good men swore:

he snuffed about and found a fig,

then wandered off . . . a happy pig.

But truth, if so, must also tell,

the woe befell on Israel;

on every holy grain of sand

of every Holy Promised Land;

on each and every Pharisee

from Rome to Sea of Gallilee,

whose every heart shall ever be

sad Garden of Gethsemanee.

"O Kinder of King David's Star,

to Reb it proved a scimitar:

Thy rabbi prayed to be baptized,

but strayed and (sad!) was penalized,"

bemoaned the Sage, "and all because

he gave—to an unkosher cause—

his meager meal, one measly fig,

too eagerly, to some old pig."

The Agony, the Ecstasy, and the Gigolo

The nun, O Bestial God, the nun,

the gold Celestial Cup—has won!

This sentiment in many a prayer

impassioned rent St. Peter's Square.

Each Hindu, Muslim, Buddhist, Jew,

each mad, non-Christian tongue was blue;

each frantic, glowing, rabid face,

despaired of knowing Heaven's grace.

And now, all curses said and done,

each tongue converses: Where's the nun?

The bells of one are long at rest,

the sun now well into the west,

and hark! the once ear-jarring skies

are absent her Ferrari's cries!

By swift degrees their minds engage

their memories how spake the Sage:

". . . In seven hours—for Heaven's sake—

must seven laps times seven make;

but if no holy cross the line

within the fair alloted time,

the Cup shall e'er with me reside,

and I, thy troubled souls, shall guide."

Once more a sound suffused the air:

humanity's profound despair.

The nun (our tale goes back in time),

fell heir the hail of rocks and swine:

with first a whistle, then a roar,

by scarce a bristle missed the boar;

her winkling glance did not espy

the bored indifference in its eye;

nor did her flashing glimpse embrace,

the apathy upon its face.

No time to pray, just swerve—and duck—

oh, such display of nerve! (or luck?)

The very Roman sky did fall,

and yet, the nun flew through it all;

till one last small belated brick,

was cast to do its fated trick:

a shearing blow no God could heal:

the low Ferrari lost a wheel.

A ship without a rudder now,

a grinding shudder shook its bow

for ancient cobblestone on steel,

'fore all commenced a spinning reel.

"O God Most Tender, Light Divine,

my soul surrenders now to thine;

and so my love, my heart, my hands

—take all of me! Thy will commands."

Released of driving's enterprise,

the nun in peace now closed her eyes;

of late so rare unto her breast,

in prayerful pose her hands were pressed:

"Oh, soon, my Lord, I'll be with thee,

restored in thy sweet company;

the sun sets on my worldly days,

to end my frets of worldly ways."

Some swear an unseen hand did guide

the nun upon her unmanned ride:

where wildly it had shrieked and spun,

the low Ferrari peace now won;

when were her tear-filled eyes undressed,

her worldly fears had come to rest

beneath an ancient laurel tree:

her crown for moral purity.

And thus it was her dream collapsed:

with thirty minutes unelapsed,

three laps undone to test her wits,

the nun, depressed, was in the pits:

"O Lord, how could a lowly nun

think she could win this 'Holy Run.'

In vain I've sought to thus be free,

for all our thoughts are vanity!"

But all the while the nun despaired,

her pit crew toiled; now all repaired

("No matter that it cost the moon,

a crew must keep thy beast in tune"),

her low Ferrari, born anew,

gave testament to faith and crew.

Without another prayer's delay

the holy pair roared on their way.

O Rome, invest in them your grace,

for you have witnessed many a race;

and many the vanquished you have seen,

much more the anguish of their mien.

Indifferent as you are to pain,

have mercy now, in Heaven's name;

protect them in their hallowed quest,

and Rome in Heaven shall ever be blest.

"O Lord, how deft the minutes fly,

and twenty left is but a sigh.

Alone am I in Heaven's Race,

yet 'fore me I see every face,

that once in faith and raiments fine,

fair graced St. Peter's starting line;

and sadly now my grieving heart,

dear mourns their leaving, from the start.

"Have mercy on the monk, O Lord,

Confucius, tersely, he adored;

his maxims so inflamed his heart,

Love's flames the monk and life did part.

A zealot's tears—the tears of Job—

fell down upon his silken robe;

for all his faith bore him the higher,

its reign could not put out his fire.

"The Buddha said, Lord: Those who say,

know not the high Nirvana-way;

and they that true Nirvana know,

disdain to say the way to go.

The lama sought Nirvana's fire,

so he was hot to quench desire.

Four Noble Truths thus shared his bath

along the Buddha's Eightfold Path.

"I pray, too, Lord, that Thou evince

accord with Allah's 'Camel Prince';

rebuke not harshly Abou Addam

Al-Farouk-El-Sheik-Ben-Saddam.

Although the mullah was a 'beast,'

a burdened one to say the least,

who can, his addled blunders, blame,

when saddled under such a name?"

The Sistine Chapel fell away,

the forty-seventh time that day.

The nun fixed eyes upon the road,

whilst on her mind swift Tiber flowed:

"One blurred view less of Rome's terrain,

thus two twixt Heaven and I remain!

Then fast shall fly my albatross

when last the Tiber I shall cross.

"The guru's charm lay in his vow:

to save from harm the sacred cow;

but Lord, the poor beast, young and meek,

he gored (she'd turned her other cheek).

To every Hindu deity

he prayed, O Lord—but not to thee!

For all the gods he called upon,

despite the odds, Sweet Lord—he's gone!

"O God, the priest, thy earthly host,

I laud and mourn thy worthy most;

whose miter shone more white than snow,

whose virtue, whiter still, did glow;

whose zeal to drive thy scriptures home,

moved Jews at Temple Beth Shalom.

Though he was cleft, Lord—torn apart—

he left us with a broken heart!"

The Castel di Sant Angelo,

its forty-seventh cameo!

for one split second domineered;

as fast it beckoned, disappeared;

once more the Square, the Vatican,

the Trastevere, the Pantheon,

then—gone!—each one flew fast apace,

as flew the nun in Heaven's race.

"O Lord, in fourteen minutes time

the blessed bells of Rome shall chime;

but shall each sweet, angelic voice

in rhapsody with me rejoice?

Or shall each doleful, cold decree

compose my woeful elegy?

When seven bells shall twofold knell,

will I see Heaven, Lord—or Hell?

"But Lord, whichever way they toll,

pray spare the rabbi's severed soul,

who gave up all his worldly pelf

to save the Jews—then gave himself.

Since he was born Jehovah's waif,

all things he scorned considered treyf;

so pure was everything he did,

thy kosher prince, King David's yid.

"The 'Seven,' Lord, are down to one:

one sad and lost repenting nun;

for Lord (my heart beats just for thee,

mine eyes do only thine eyes see).

Strange flutters felt I in my breasts

that uttered of my heart's unrest,

till tears undaunted bade me cry,

and fell unwonted from mine eye.

"Dear Lord, I overmore confess,

my eye, a rover, stirred my flesh.

But Father Sweet, I trust that thou,

know heat and lust shan't break my vow.

O hear, Divine, my truest oath:

my heart shall thine—or none—betroth;

if earthly mortal catch mine eye,

unworthy, mortal, might I die.

"O great Egyptian obelisk,

once borne from Heliopolis,

upon the Nile, to ancient Rome,

so many ancient miles from home;

I see thee now—in Peter's Square!—

where long hast thou abided there

to point the way to Heaven's door,

like forty-seven times before!"

With crimson rush, no longer meek,

a winsome blush suffused her cheek;

the nun (Oh, hark the engine's whine!)

embarked upon lap forty-nine:

once more to pass the Colosseum,

with one last Laudamus, Te Deum;

once more to blaze the Roman Forum,

in praise of Holy Variorum.

The weeping mass now closer pressed

to see her pass (she so God-blest!);

round every curve of Rome's terrain,

each muscle, nerve, and eye did strain;

back every fence and barricade,

strained every sense God ever made;

with every beat and every breath,

each prayed to cheat the Devil's death.

Thus every hope and every dream,

plus every mad utopian scheme,

with every vision and romance

that ever did their dreams entrance,

fueled every fancy, mad desire,

fanned every fantasy with fire,

till every face did brightly burn,

with everlasting life's concern.

"O Lord—My God!—the second hand

now from the minute takes command

—but one hill lies twixt me and mine:

serene, bestill—the Palatine!

Then thou, my Lord, shalt lift me up,

adored! of thy Celestial Cup.

Thou hast my love, and now I pray:

Sweet Lord Above—show me the way!"

As if some power of Heaven or Hell

beheld both hour and nun in spell;

as if some force did hypnotize

the 'Course of Life' before her eyes,

a holy light suffused the air,

bright nimbus over Peter's Square;

above the ringing rose the sound

of angels singing all around.

"O God, the bridge, the bridge I see!

where flows the Tiber, swift and free;

and there—the Cup!—the finish line!

where thou await me, Lord Divine.

Now one last curve unto my left,

where fast I'll span the Tiber's cleft;

then Lord Divine, my Heavenly Heart,

thy finish line shall be—my start!"

The second hand now sweeping fast,

she scanned the weeping faces vast.

From out the throng (so fine His beard!)

a holy vision then appeared:

"A miracle! oh, how He mourns!

upon His head, a crown of thorns;

a cross in teary flood bears He;

His blood, from open wounds, falls free."

As fell His blood for Man's disgrace,

as well the nun's now from her face;

so holy, touching was His sight,

the nun turned ghostly, saintly white.

"O Christ, My Lord, so young and dear,

for thee so gored my eyes now tear;

how pure and meek thou bearst thy plight;

O Christ—oh, bathe me in thy light!"

A radiant Jesus heard her prayer,

and raised aloft into the air

His massive cross—of polished chrome—

reflecting, now high over Rome,

precisely as the nun flew by,

the sun's full glory in her eye;

of all God's sight she was bereft.

The nun turned right. The bridge lay left.

With one last pitched and whining scream

(as if in some rich-dining dream)

the low Ferrari left the earth,

abreast the Tiber's sunken berth.

In brief ethereal view of Rome,

in grief of watery catacomb,

the nun, O saintly pretty thing!

self-pity from her heart did wring:

"O God, have mercy on me now,

who kept her purest, fondest vow

(If earthly mortal catch mine eye,

unworthy, mortal, I shall die).

Thy Son! who sermoned on The Mount,

oh surely, Lord, He doesn't count!

If so, my life—I've sacrificed!

O God, O Lord, oh-h—Jesus Christ!"

The low Ferrari, scorning prayer,

two gainers turned in mourning air;

then entered clean with rare panache,

to end all dreams with scarce a splash.

The river's pace swift bore away

all ripple's trace of where she lay.

O would her ears could (hear!) how swells

the peals of Peter's seven bells!

A weeping more profound than prayer

arose around St. Peter's Square,

resounding through the Papal Home,

and out into the streets of Rome;

and thence to every foreign strand

of every corner, every land;

and every child of every age

sore wept for grief to hear the Sage:

"O Satan! Satan! thou in Hell,

who dwelled in Heaven's grace . . . then fell;

what child of man who crawls couldst miss

thy trident's hand in all of this?

To think thou once wore angel's wings,

and now to Earth such Hell thou brings.

Though God's sweet lambs all cry for grief,

still thou wouldst eat thy pork and beef!

"Upon the monk, on God's own priest,

upon the guru's fat didst feast;

a lamb, a camel—then a cow,

but ham eluded thee so thou

didst stick the rabbi 'pon thy fork,

but still thy tongue wast shy of pork;

and so, in spite, when all was done,

thou thought to bite . . . the pretty nun!

"So thou 'cooked up' this gigolo

to look, like Christ, simpatico!

The nun, of all her sense bereft

—oh! white thence turned instead of left.

This gigolo her heart so kissed

that she—the 'Bridge to Glory!'—missed;

sank 'neath the Tiber, never crossed,

both nun and moral fiber—lost!

"O Father, thou who gave us birth,

who gave us Heaven, gave us Earth;

who gives us life, then gives us breath;

who gives us strife, then gives us death.

Thou mak'st us what we are and then,

thou tak'st us all—we know not when,

for all our ailings, sins, and flaws,

and all our failings of thy laws.

"O dear Celestial God on High,

pray hear a Sage's humble cry:

Our faith hast put thee to the test,

but thou direct'st as thou seest best.

Each holy face, fast-driven to pain

for Heaven's grace, hast striven in vain.

Oh, who so wise couldst then foresee

that none wouldst rise to chauffeur thee?"

The Sage caressed the Cup and pressed

its gilded splendour to his breast.

So saintly was his well-feigned smile,

no words of his deigned speak of guile.

"Lord, bless their souls, where'er they be,

and if they are more blest than me,

then—praise thee!—may their faith be kissed!

Let us pray for every atheist."

Epilogue:

The sun set . . . and once more did rise,

but sore were lit God's Roman skies;

for not one bell sweet-tolled the air,

nor stirred one soul in Peter's Square.

Where Heaven's grace had been denied,

no face was seen, no voice did bide;

upon the stage in Roman graph,

some sage had carved this epitaph:

O Rome—hear! what's been whispered round:

'The Sage was seen going underground.

The hole was dark, the host was grim

—seven ghostly souls accompanied him!

Some say it's legend mated with

pure unsubstantiated myth.

And yet, O Rome, this, too, they say:

'They slew their vows along the way

—it's true!' they swear, 'Since two that day,

the gods—the gods themselves!—do pray.'

And so our tale, while yet it's terse,

draws to a close the Sage's verse.

Was he so wise? Did he speak true?

Did he speak lies as others do?

O Sage romancer—is it so?

O Rome, one answer's all I know:

If ever the gods themselves did pray,

'tis sure they did that Roman day.

46

The Guru King of Orange

and the Avocado Queen

He was coming off a fast out in the desert, he was lean,

heading hell-bent down the highway for the orange groves in Greene.

Not a calorie had passed his lips in five and twenty days.

His thirst was dire, his soul on fire, his hunger was ablaze.

There was naught but sand and cactus for a hundred miles around,

and the highway lay a flat black ribbon, scorching on the ground.

Yet the faster he would travel, still his mind raced on ahead

to the golden fruit whose liquid loot was faith on which he fed.

But it wasn't hunger drove him, something passionately more

fixed his eyes on the horizon and his foot upon the floor.

He was burning to disseminate his 'Gurulosophy.'

The wind blew hot, his face grew taut, his beard flew long and free.

Then through the shimmering heatwaves such a vision did appear.

As more the distance narrowed, so the dim mirage grew clear.

"Just keep on going, you mystic fool!" his guardian angel cried.

He hit the brakes, left two black snakes, and pulled up by her side.

"I'm the Guru King of Orange—and I'm California-bound,

and I can drink more o.j. any day than any man around.

My 'Gurulosophy' is simple, very uncomplex:

Raw food inside, pure thoughts in mind—and abstinence in sex."

"Well, I'm pleased to meet you, King, why, this is such a nice surprise,"

as she oozed in front beside him all her comely, queenly size.

"It seems that we're both bluebloods—yes, it's fate that we should meet.

But, Hon! you're such a slim one—don't you get enough to eat?

"No, you'd never know that I was once a slender, lovely teen;

so ripe and tender that they picked me 'Avocado Queen.'

My subjects now abuse me and my 'Royalty' debate:

'Did they pick you for your beauty—or the number that you ate?' "

"Take heed, my Queen, for oftentimes the truth is cloaked in jest;

we live on one third that we eat—the doctors on the rest.

We dig our graves with teeth of gold, and occupy them soon;

Cut short our lives with silver-plated fork and knife and spoon."

"But, my dear and meager majesty, I suffer for your health;

of flesh, you have a paucity—and I have such a wealth!"

With that she reached into her folds and conjured with a flair,

a smooth ripe creamy, dark and dreamy alligator pear.

"Fear not, my regal consort, keep your precious gift in hand,

for a greater glory waits for me unto the promised land."

The King then put the ragtop Royal Carriage to the test,

and the forces of four hundred horses charged into the west.

The Queen said, "All this talk of food has whetted my desire,

and I fear I must indulge in something to put out the fire."

As quickly as she'd summoned up the alligator pear,

she bit it twice, and in a trice, no longer was it there.

But rather than put out the flames this merely added fuel,

and a crimson blush suffused her like a polished royal jewel.

Once more into her ample bosom did the monarch reach,

and from her size soon realized a pomme tart and a peach.

When these were gone, to prove the hand is quicker than the eye,

the Queen produced a cheeze soufflé, a chocolate pecan pie,

warm toast with orange marmalade, clam chowder in a cup;

but these reserves were just hors d'oeuvres—the Queen was warming up!

Again and then again she plumbed her ample treasure chest

for the culinary pearls the King once pleasured in with zest.

All riches from her larder she'd seductively display,

then with smacks and drools these tantalizing jewels were tucked away.

To say the King was thus aroused would understate the case,

for pain of hunger laced with lust was etched upon his face.

His pre-(and carefree) Guru days were sweetly indiscreet.

How could she know, still much less show, those sins he'd loved to eat?

And yet the most entrancing sight his eyes would dare relate,

she grew slimmer, more romancing with each morsel that she ate.

Well, surely just one little taste his Guru mind can't fear.

He drew her nigh, she drew a sigh. He wined and dined her ear.

She gave herself in offering, he wavered not that day.

Each tempting dish she proffered him was flavored with foreplay.

But now the old conundrum stirred and raised it's head anew:

Could potent great both have his potentate—and eat it too?

With each consuming conquest lust had made him realize

the object of his dual love was so reduced in size.

Down and down and down she went, consumed by love's desire,

and the flesh she spent with each descent just took the Guru higher.

A smorgasbord of rich delights unto his plate was piled,

and in a feeding frenzy now, his appetite was wild.

He tried to hold it back but in one last climactic scene,

could not restrain, made past her reign: Farewell...my lovely Queen.

From somewhere deep in space and time into his mind was borne

a strident and discordant wail so much like an . . . AIRHORN!

His sleeping eyes flew open just in time to see what's real,

and hear the rush, and feel the crush, of thirty tons of steel.

As the ragtop was compacted in a shattering, screaming roar,

the Guru King of Orange calmly mused one moment more:

"There's no doubt I'll survive this, though my body it might maim,

but I see my Gurulosophy will never be the same."

47

The Perfect Persimmon

I once met a pert and persnickety person

perversely pursuing the perfect persimmon:

from Perth up to Persia, Peru and then Pershing,

Sir Percival Perkins loved 'pers' more than women.

Perhaps he, per piece, my persimmons, will purchase!

I perched on my pearly-white pergola gate.

But perfidious Percy purloined them—on purpose!

Perniciously—all!—non permissionly—ate!

"What percentage, pursuant to my peradventure,"

he perpended out loud, most percipiently,

"would pertain to this permanent 'perfect per'-clencher

if 'perfect per' perquisites fell not to me?"

Perplexed and perturbed by this perky persona,

I trolled for perspective, some pertinent clue.

So Percy pursed up his lips like a piranha,

turned purple, perspired, and purported his view:

"My name is Sir Percival Perseus Perkins;

my purpose, to purloin the perfect persimmon

whose perfume's persuasive—like feminine persons,

but sweeter, pervasive—more . . . perfect than women!"

"Your percept of Persia is purblind, Sir Percy,"

I purr to persuade him. "Now Persia's Iran.

Your purview perpetuates this controversy;

purveys you as quite an impertinent man!"

"Peremptory perjury!" percolates Percy,

"Percentiles of perverts all persecute me;

Persevere per—per diem!—permit me no mercy!

Let them purge all perdition!—they won't permute me!"

Perforce struck his final perfervid percussion,

Permeating my pervious periphery;

My perception lay perforate per the concussion!

"—And you may take my persiflage personally!"

So Percy persists in his perambulations,

perchance to perceive his most perfect persimmon;

perusing the purlieus of all persian nations.

Sir Percival Perkins loves 'pers' more than women.

48

The Poet Tess

A poet fair, by name of Tess,

prayed to the Muses all to "...bless

—so bear, each lyric patroness,

my name, my rhyme,

that both—on winged Immortalness—

shall outlive Time."

In naught but thigh-long auburn hair

Tess legged astride her piebald mare

whose back and rump, like Tess, were bare,

both moved to trot,

along the spring-leafed thoroughfare

to Camelot.

The air, like Tess, felt soft in May,

warm sunlight on her hair made play,

and Poesy, the mare, was gay;

each beauty spot

au naturelle along the way

to Camelot.

Twilight there and then was falling,

Destiny was calling, calling,

Fame, oh, Fame so all-enthralling,

Tess made dare,

to ride out naked, young, and sprawling

'stride her mare.

But the road to Immortality

was sown with immorality,

for hid behind each poet tree

a lusty Pun.

Soon Tess was very shocked to see

what John had Donne.

Smiling, Tess continued riding,

Oh! and how her eyes were widing

when new member stepped from hiding

with a word.

He gave it to her, bold John Dryden:

Good! was heard.

The blushing bardess, waxing mellow,

hushed to hear the next tree's "Hell-o!

—Wadsworth, Henry!" was his bellow

and his name.

Tess flushed the more for how Longfellow

got his fame.

But faith! our Tess was getting sore;

a part of her cried, "Nevermore!

Oh, Edgar, please, I do implore,

pray hear my plea!"

Quoth raving Edgar Allan "More!"

She: "Poe-etry!"

Gingerly was Tess ascending

Poesy with night descending,

but her passion soon was mending

pain of day;

and humming sweetly, soon was wending

moonlit way.

More lustful yet, now came across her,

fresh from Canterbury, Chaucer.

What a tale Geoff thought to toss her

(on the grass).

"Are not such tales against the law, sir!

—Oh!—such brass!"

Romantic now our Tess inclined,

and so she sought a kindred mind;

she dreamed, and he with her reclined

upon green earth.

And she, for he was sweet, refined,

got her Wordsworth.

On, out popped Rob and Lizzie Browning,

he a-smiling, she a-frowning;

Tess, bold Robert, soon was downing

with amor;

yet Liz, for Tess's unsmooth crowning,

got full sore.

"Oh, my! oh, me! oh, me! oh, my!

Oh, I must rest—or I shall die!

This poetry is so . . . so . . . (sigh)

—so trying me!

that I shall lay—no, I shall lie

down by this tree."

"Oh, dear of dears, what humble tears

—the Stratford Bard to me appears;

he holds my eyes as he my ears,

I'll downward glance.

Knight William—goodness sakes!—your speare's,

your speare's—a lance!"

Done, Tess rode on. "Yet my heart yearns

—for love! as low to high land turns."

"I'll gi'e ye, lassie, all Love earns

—in guid Scots lilt!"

"Ohh, Robbie, dear! it burns, it Burns

beneath your kilt!"

Came then our Tess upon that pond

of which she was, in truth, so fond.

"Oh, Henry, so sweet does your bond

Concord with me,

all poetry within me's spawned

—yes, Thoreauly!

"Oh, I'm impassioned, I'm on fire,

Love's minstrels—lift me, higher, higher!

To Mount Olympus I aspire,

my Muse to see!

What poet-tricks must I acquire?

—No-o-o!—Chastity?

"O Camelot, wherefore you now?

I oft was ridden neath many a bough;

and I've learned who, and when—and how!

but still not where.

Is Camelot a castle—Ow!—

I've built in air?

"But whose face this from times of yore?

I swear it to be Love's encore:

he's had his way with me before,

this poet blade!

Oh I've—and for it I am sore—

a circle made!

"O poets great, oh, poets all,

I to your words—and deeds!—did fall,

yet comes not Fame to me withal,

for all you swear:

'A Poetess—in Poets' Hall?

we cannot bear!'

"O Camelot, my heart is achen:

Fame's unborne me, fame-forsaken,

poets, my chaste love, have taken

for all time.

Immortalness I'll have no stake in

for my rhyme."

A wiser Tess, spent and forlorn,

lay down upon the dewey morn;

then Dante ("Gabriel!") blew his horn,

truth, in her, dwelled:

"A poet, Tess, is made—not borne!"

And so she swelled.

49

Twilight

Why should I love a light halfway

between the brightest part of day

and most the darkest part of night,

that's not the dark I love, nor bright,

when, just because they chance to meet,

become one for a moment fleet,

and fall in love, and there betroth,

they lend me, briefly, best of both?

What is this half-light to me

that shows me but a half degree

of each I fully love to see?

And why should I, this interplay

of light and dark, this Claude Monet

impressionism, love halfway?

50

What Care I?

What care I to bridge the miles

between me and my true love's smiles?

Are smiles not fading passions brief

that so soon make of time a thief?

And what care I to leap the sea

that keeps her heart from touching me?

Are hearts not each a beating thing

a fleeting happiness does bring?

What is time or tide to me

whilst I embrace her memory?

And what care I to mountains scale

that jealously, her sight, curtail?

Is sight not but a wink of eye

that with a blink does quickly die?

What mountain is of such high grade

to not, before remembrance, fade?

So what care I though rough winds blow

and drown her voice, so soft and low?

Is voice not but a moment's sigh

that cannot Silence long deny?

What wind can wrong love's longing ears

as long as sweet remembrance hears?

So what care I to near her be

whilst I hold dear her memory?

And what care I to you confess

the falseness of my carelessness?

51

Wild Wildflowers

O wild wildflowers that bloom in the spring

—how I wish I were wild like you!

to be wild with your each feral coloring,

every nuance, shade, tint, tone, and hue.

As wild as your spectral abandoning,

let my verses be wild, like you.

Let each passion, each feeling, have freedom to sing,

as your colors, so wild, bright, and true.

O wild wildflowers that sing in my heart

—let us sing! wildly now, me and you;

before late summer's sun soon bids us part;

before you must bid me adieu.

As your sweet wild faces now sing in my heart,

let my heart sing to you, wild and free;

let my words be the wild lyric counterpart

to your vernal art—oh, let them be

as savage as your love of sunshine;

as reckless as your love of rain;

as moonstruck as your love of moonshine;

as rabid as you in the main;

as passionate as is your pollen;

as rampant and free as your seed,

which, into my heart's earth, has fallen,

as wanton and mad as love's deed.

As unfettered as is your spirit;

as untamed as your spring-pulsing heart;

as wild as your joy not to fear it;

as restless as your roots to start;

as fevered as your love of freedom;

as fierce as your love of the bee;

—God, as sweet as your scents now to me come;

oh, as wild might I be—and as free!

O wild wildflowers that bloom in the spring

—how I blossom in spirit with you!

How rejoices my heart to release every thing

chill winter froze up in me, blue.

O wild wildflowers, in wild shimmerings

—let us dance!—wildly now—me and you;

Let us sing! while our season such joy to us brings,

while our hearts beat so wildly and true.

52

Would You, Mary?

Would you, Mary, marry me,

if I should, to your fondness, be?

Would you leave me never, never?

and love me for ever, ever?

Would you carry, carry mine

should I, for yours, my name consign?

Should I give you pleasure, pleasure,

would you, me, then treasure, treasure?

Would you tarry, tarry not

if, lovestruck, I, your ring, forgot?

Since I was not clever, clever,

would you, from me, sever, sever?

If I brought you flowers, flowers,

could we once more be avowers?

Would you, Mary, marry me,

if I should, to your fondness, be?

53

Your Rose

I give to you a rose, my love,

a rose I shall not hew;

far rather would I nurture it,

as, I, my love for you.

Your rose, from life, shall not depart,

so you, my love, shall know

that in the garden of my heart,

two roses sweetly grow.

Author

Canadian by birth, expatriate by climate, David Madison is an inveterate idyller who idylls his time away writing idylls, that is, narrative poems, especially longer ones, such as "The Witch of Sulphur Mountain: The Supernatural Life of Agnes Baron, Meher Baba's Beloved Watchdog."

And yet, as if being an inveterate idyller were not enough to recommend him to you, he is also a tireless fabulist, meaning, a fabulous writer. But if you've had the novel pleasure of reading his first published book, "Ms. Spinster's Novel Grammar: More Novel Yet Her Punctation, Spelling, Style . . . ," you already know that. Each of the 330 tales illustrating a rule is written in the manner of a fable, "a short narrative making an edifying or cautionary point, often employing as characters animals that speak and act like humans." He is a permanent resident of Belize, which, being situated below Mexico on the Caribbean Sea, is fabulous in its own right. But one look at a map will undeceive you: it is nowhere near as fabulous as he is. When he's not being fabulous, in one sense, he spends the remainder of his waking hours answering the question What qualifies you to write a grammar book? His ready answer, marvelous for its concision, is that he has some five more years of school learning than Mark Twain, and far fewer cats. While those two seeming disqualifications are sinking in, he is quick to emphasize that he correctly said far fewer, not far less cats.

Copyright

Copyright © 2019 David Madison

Smashwords Edition

Written by David Madison

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review. Any members of educational institutions wishing to photocopy excerpts for classroom use, or others who would like to obtain permission, should send their inquiries to the publisher at dmadison@spinlady.net . Scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author's intellectual property. Thank you for respecting the author's rights.

David Madison

P.O Box 257

San Ignacio, Belize

Central America

dmadison@spinlady.net
