They: Poet, speak of truth.
Poet: No poet fails to color the words.
They: Poet, speak of death.
Poet: No poet who writes is dead.
They: Poet, speak of love.
Poet: Do not love like a poet.
They: Poet, speak of grief.
The poet is dumbstruck.
Of Walnuts, Conflicts and Cologne
Not since high school
has cologne been of value to me.
And since I lost my sense of smell,
Heaven smells the same as the tomb.
War has a different nature.
Even if a war is so small
it could be fought inside a walnut,
it would still percolate the chemistry of rotting horseflesh.
Throwing cologne at a war
does not change its stinking complexion,
nor change the way it bends itself,
ever downward, to the lowest terrain.
Would that the friction of conflict
could be soothed with cologne,
hurled by French girls from the parfumerie,
but perfume is a poor lubricant for real enmity.
Better it is confined to the halls of schools,
Great and small. Public, private. Saved for Saturday.
Splashed liberally among those with young noses
some of whom will believe and enlist.
Bumping Heads
A fight broke out between
the hemispheres of my brain.
Like two bickering brothers,
they baited each other over weak spots
known to each since the spark of creation.
“Too old,” goaded the Right.
“Too slow,” said the Left
releasing the inhibiting agent.
“…too…mean,”
said Righty
a bit after
the battle
was lost.
Bottom of the 5th
The housewife rises to her full five-four and
helicopters her rally towel.
“Make my life have meaning,” she screams at the home team.
“Bring joy to the void.”
Her husband secures his BigBeer in its cup holder and He brings himself to his feet as well
but with less urgency.
He puts both hands to his face,
cupped into a megaphone.
“Nepenthe,” he bellows
like the name of the relief pitcher.
And again.
“Nepenthe!”
long and hollow.
I Said “Thank You” to a Spider
Today, in the hot house,
I said “Thank you” to a spider.
She folded two legs across her chest
and tapped the toes of two others.
I said “Thank you” to a spider
and I specified her work
in the hot house,
though I did not mean it
as a loophole, specifically.
I said “Thank you” to a spider
and the fingernail-clicking
of her voice chittered,
“‘Bout damn time.”
Haiku for a global pandemic
I recently joined a FaceBook group called “Haiku for a global pandemic.” Once or twice a day I drop a haiku in that group. I’m going to keep a little collection of them here as well. I’m sure mostly they will be my own, but I’ll put up ones I like with author’s permission. This will be a growing collection through this period of isolation.
4/13/20
Cold Michigan wind
the morning after Easter,
trails strands of somber.
–Steve D. Marsh
4/10/20
My highest highlight:
The most yellow daffodils
Telling Death to wait.
–Steve D. Marsh
My Corona
See, the thing is, Weird Al said not to do this and I’m not even the first. But here’s my version…and a link to the original. But feel free to sing along with my lyrics below. Very 13 year old boy brain stuff.
UPDATE: Friend, Ken Cormier, honored me with this: Please listen.
Oh my little bitty one, bitty bug.
Are you gonna live in some grime, Corona?
Ooh, you make my sneezer run, my sneezer run.
Blow a Kleenex full of slime, Corona
Never gonna stop, give it up.
Such a dirty hand. Always get it up for the touch
of the viral kind. My my my i yi woo.
M M M My Corona
Come a little closer, huh, ah will ya, huh.
Close enough to sneeze in my eyes, Corona.
Keeping you so far away gets to me
Licking down the length my fries, Corona.
Never gonna stop, give it up. Such a dirty hand.
Always get it up for the touch
of the virus guys. My my my i yi woo.
M M M My Corona
M M M My Corona
When you gonna give it to me, give it to me?
It is just a matter of time, Corona
?
Is it just destiny, destiny?
Or is it just a game in my mind, Corona?
Never gonna stop, give it up.
Such a dirty hand. Always get it up for the touch
of the viral kind. My my my i yi woo.
My my my i yi woo.
M M M My Corona
M M M My Corona
M M M My Corona
M M M My Corona
(Apologies to The Knack)
The Parable of the Otter
The otter floats, playfully aware,
on the currents and the tides.
She dives to examine
an interesting stone.
She turns it every way
in the sunshine,
floating on her back.
She flips it away
and finds another.
It, too, is interesting,
turned in the air,
maybe for the first time in a thousand years
or, perhaps, since last week.
It smells of the water.
It slips away.
She does not keep the interesting stones.
They would weigh her down.
She would drown in her sleep.
She darts to the bottom.
She pries a fish from a crevice
and returns to the surface current,
always floating on her back,
enjoying her lunch.
Sometimes she spies a clam.
She also finds the right anvil stone and,
again floating on her back in the currents,
beats the clam on the stone
she balances on her stomach.
It is primal and
it is dinner.
She releases the clam shell and the stone.
One plunges to the bottom.
The other rocks back and forth in descent.
Tomorrow:
different stones,
different clams.
Draining the Swamp
Sent a crocodile to Washington.
They sent that croc back to me.
They said, he can’t get along with anyone.
Sadly, that’s a fact, although he’s a she.
I should have sent my alligator
To chew through the hullabaloo,
‘Cuz a crock just hasn’t a clue
What a real live swampy gator can do.
So I sent them back a gator,
A big ol’ boy to boot.
Made him carry a crock-skin briefcase
While wearing a shark skin suit.
He was supposed to take your retirement
And turn it into a fortune.
Instead he pocketed the cash
And landed a round house on your chin.
He sold us out for a private island
And a cabana made of bamboo.
Turns out a man just hasn’t a clue
What a real live swampy gator will do.
So I just stay out of Washington now.
The dialogue’s been getting hotter.
Some say its the death of civility.
I think it’s something in the water.
Open Window
Sometimes the window opens for a second,
or a split-second.
We catch one glimpse of a past
when we were ignorant,
or spoiled,
or depraved.
For an instant,
as through a camera shutter,
the long march of our life
glints in silvery backlight
and we fall into awareness
(but not consciousness)
of who we are
what we are
what we were.
The shutter clicks,
the window closes
and we know only that we have seen something
true and real
but have no “this-world” reference
to a vision of light so pure
it might be x-rays.
There is no video record,
no text,
no bas relief,
no Daguerreotype.
It remains in ephemeral memory
if we nurture it.
Of course, we can opt for sleep
and let it pass.