A new Cluster Of Poems, September 2020

 

Monuments and Emoluments

 

Here they are, the walking dead, the zombies,

on every beach this summer, at drinking binges,

at churches where they wave their arms, like bees

colliding in an orgiastic hive, midges

dancing in the heat, bellowing below

the surface of a lake surrounded by flames,

tramping boots, weighed down, not solo

but absorbed into each other’s fears, no names

or restful emoluments, only hated slogans,

slurs and salivary threats, like cats

arched into shards of spite, so shogans

and viking marauders invaded peaceful lands,

with mocking songs and blood upon their hands.

 

 

 

 

Torchlit Parades

 

Their weapons secretly contagious secrete

A virus spiked with crowns, a thing unknown,

And when they congregate, surround the street,

They wear the banners marked with black and brown,

The twisted symbol of their ancient leader—

The beast from deep below the earth—the voice

Of their unconscious animosities, the seeder

Of archaic fears, the source of terrible noise:

The pressure of their weight weighs upon the necks

Of children choked, run down, heads cracked apart,

Of missiles spewed across the land—amid the wrecks

And ruins of democracy and dried residue of heart

And soul, no longer resonating, but still

As sacred nights and lonely shepherds on a hill.

 

 

 

 

Κόλλυβα: Colliva

 

Gracious me, run to ground, like a rabbit

Down its hole, dark congested resting place,

Where nothing is as it should be, the habit

Of a lifetime foiled and soiled, not by a hare

Or even a turtle, just the new technology,

With its jangling jargon—the human race

Has been confounded and confused, laid bare

By infants and their mice, a great tautology,

Where icons on the iconostasis face

Away from worshippers, exhausted, ensnared,

Whose only nourishment is colliva,

The scraps of funerals in wonderland,

Tidbits of Lilliputian minds and Gullivers,

Like code-words secretly inscribed by hands

Deformed in trials of microscopic brands.

 

 

 

The Turkeysnipe

 

Oh you proud and pard and turkeysnipe
Draw out your sword and fight.
Pull out your purse and pay.
For satisfaction I will have before you go away.

 

They came dancing across the bridge, crashing feet

And clashing wooden sticks, chanting the songs

Of ancient days, interlocking knots,

Then calling for room, gallons of room.

So in comes one, and another, from street

And darkness into the light to right the wrongs

And mend the broken hearts. The’re lots

Of things to think as they perform, like a loom

That shuttles in and out of reality.

From faraway farms across the sea,

From magical dreams beneath the soil,

Together the magic of life and death are woven,

Surpassing the doctors’ skill, they toil

To resurrect the hero, pulled from the oven

As a newly-baked gingerbread man, a foil

To the dreaded turkeysnipe caked in oil.

 

 

The Mystery of Cupules

 

The sound is dreadful just below the falls,

Thunderous, obliterating all else, and where

A thousand years ago the giants dwelt,

The pictures tell of life and death. Who crawls

Along the ledges now cannot hear

Yet feels the ancient sounds as glaciers melt:

And with his crystal adze he gouges out

A tunnel in the rhythmic rock, enough

To climb inside his dreams, again and then

Again, until he disappears, and stands. We shout

Our greetings but he does not remember us, tough

Brothers of another age, and when

We return to our families, they wait—but out

Of nowhere he draws the stories of the giants

Who sing the silent songs inside the other world;

So in another thousand years, the child who plants

The cupule in the rock beside the river of ice

Will climb inside the first, his visions hurled

Against the mysteries of darkness, thus twice

And twice again to the very end of time

We bring our brothers home to dance and mime.

 

 

 

Eppie in the Tole ‘Ole

 

All summed up in a moment without punishment,

Black-face comedy in a weaver’s cabin, love

In mischief, grief in panic, when life is spent,

There’s no surer way to resolution, of

That certain collapsing sense of duty. Bent

Into a million twisting ways, wings of a dove

In flight from some angelic nest to tent

Of meeting in the desert, a treasure trove

Of miracles and mysteries, the scent

Of balm in the blackened bread and cindered clove,

Cinnamon and myrrh. Out of the coal hole

Stole the voice of innocence, feigning love,

While all the while the gargle of a troll.