New Poetry

Eschatology

The little time that we have left

Before our mortal race, I fear,

Renders planet Earth bereft

Of us, grows shorter every year.

Anger, greed, and stupid mind

Are far too prevalent among us.

Too easily does humankind

Fall subject to their threefold fungus.

Yet in the midst of all of this

Compassion never goes away

Completely. Nor does wisdom miss

A single chance to have its say.

And as we hurtle on in blindness

Toward the day we won’t exist,

Intelligence and blessed kindness

Paradoxically persist.

After it’s all over we’ll

Discover they were what was real.

Exercise #5

Call to mind someone

You’re inclined to hate 
(This won’t cure that, 
So don’t expect it), 
And identify the qualities in  
Him or her that make it so. 
Then, for each of those traits,  
Imagine what its attractive 
Opposite might be: 
For stinginess: generosity; 
For hatred: kindness; For 
ignorance: intelligence; 
For offensive body odor: 
Scent of jasmine.

Then, imagine a toggle switch
That you can use to turn the odious 
Attribute into its delightful opposite:
Duplicity into honesty,
Selfishness into self-emptying 
Hurtfulness into compassion, 
Bad taste in clothes into
A knack for accessorizing.
Then practice switching the
Imaginary switch off and on
For a while. 
That’s all.

Rite

Several years before testosterone made men of us,

The boys in my school observed a ritual to invoke the

Advent of that hormone by pantomiming what they

Imagined manhood would be: They picked fights.

Indignation would be aroused in one of them in response

To something another boy had done--though the act was

Often nothing more than a perceived intolerable attitude--

And the offending lad would get “called out.”

Avoiding the fight was out of the question, once the

Calling out had transpired, and the object of the challenge

Had no choice but to appear at the designated time and place

Where the test of proto-masculinity would ensue.

As my coevals generally regarded me as something other

than a man-to-be, I reasonably expected to avoid the rite--

And I surely would have, if it hadn’t been for Rodney Halstead,

Who, one day, called me out, to the surprise of all.

The vigor of his irritation overshadowed any confusion

About its cause, and, trembling, I met him in the appointed alley

After school that day, where the conflict was resolved in moments:

He grabbed me lightly. I gave up. He seemed satisfied.

Only after he’d picked up his books and started home, our

Spectators trailing behind, did I get it: that this calling out had been

Intended as gift to an inferior boy who would ever after be able to say he’d

had a fight. And I don’t think my memory is fabricating

The smile of good will that we shared for the rest of

Our school days every time we passed in the hall.

A subtle memorial of that extraordinary

Act of kindness.

A Wish for 2017

May noble ignorance on us dawn

Like crabgrass in a virtuous lawn.

A “kick me” sign upon one’s back.

A typo in an almanac.

And in perceiving this may we

Be certain that discovery

Will follow of much further blindness.

Let us, therefore, act with kindness.

Felinicide 2017

(After Mumonkan case 14)

Nansen cut the hapless cat

In two: “Meeowww!” (and that was that).

No monk from either hall, I heard,

Could come up with a saving word.

And Joshu, being nowhere near,

Was not of any help, I fear.

Seven hundred years of strife

Have passed since Nansen raised his knife,

And, musing on this case, I see

That all its roles are played by me:

Nansen, Joshu, and the rest,

And all the monks, both east and west.

But most of all, I am the cat

Who got sliced up (and that was that).

The master scorned my plaintive screeching

Better to convey a teaching,

And though this cat was not consulted,

Insight, after all, resulted.

If such a fate should be my lot:

To die thus when I’d rather not

To help convey a turning word

That might not otherwise be heard,

I pray this martyrdom to be

A blessing for the world and me.

6:30 AM, Dunkin’ Donuts

As light began to brighten the sky,

Two young men, heads bowed over

Their Bibles and coffees, squinted

So hard in prayer that their furrowed

Brows seemed to me to pump their

Petitions up toward heaven.

Meanwhile, God,

Standing at the counter waiting

For his apple fritter, cast a benevolent

Glance in their direction. Impressed by their sincerity

He meant to ponder an appropriate response,

But, as it happened, that was the moment the earth’s

Rotation revealed the sun in all its startling

Splendor, and God’s good intention slipped his mind.

Thanking the counter lady, he headed out to his car.

“Amen,” The lads intoned in unison,

Opening their eyes and snapping on their to-go lids.

Having no idea they’d just missed him.

If God Were an Orange

Say God was an orange.

There’d be no need to discuss

Its glorious flavor until the moment

Someone or other declared it to taste

Just like chicken. At which point the need

For discussion would arise with some urgency,

Words like sweet, fragrant, and acidic

Would be offered, and though

They’d be sufficient for countering

The poultry claim, they’d still fall

Absurdly short. And you can bet

That some good intentioned fellow

Would then take those three words

To be so perfect an expression of orange

That tasting was no longer really necessary,

And he’d write a song about it too.

God, it turns out, is indeed an orange:

A word that rhymes with no other word.

That secretly rhymes with every word.