Three Blasphemous Poems

 

Tropical Holiday

The bubble may soon be extended to Rarotonga.

What a joy to contemplate, splashing in the seas,

Snoozing in the sun, sipping oranges.

Our lives may not get healthier or much longer,

But we will frolic with the sand fleas

And watch the ugly, giant Chinese dredges

Bringing progress to these tropical climes.

I can say anything outrageous if it rhymes

And toss in archaic, obscure or obsolete terms,

Knowing the welkin never bends to my will

And phlogiston scorches my ears and eyes

But never enough to blind me or make me deaf:

Out of the ether, either way, there spill

Ideas as clichés or neologisms to make you squirm,

Lying here dreaming, on the Cook Islands burning sand,

While oceans away I hear the old worm

Of unintended cacophany, and then and…

 

 

A Squashed Salamander

 

High in the Adirondacks there is a little lake,

And a stream and a cabin and a quiet place to fish,

And a small box, now rotting, where salamanders swam,

And a winter full of ice and memories,

And a picture in my mind from very long ago,

And voice that is silent and a feeling gone numb,

And the dread of a world long lost and undone, that

It is better forgotten, denied and rejected, like the sun

That hides under the mountain and will not awake

With the seasons or the melting of snow, or the moon

That lolls in the clouds, and pulls into itself the night

With its silence and breathlessness, and I won’t return

Ever, nor can I remember why. The salamander

Is drowned and crushed and fills up the box, its

Dreams gone, its life undone and forgotten, too.

 

 

 

Songs of The Rock Artist

 

We were watching carefully, waiting for the thing

that lives inside the rock to show itself,

and we placed our hands on the surface, sprayed the coal

we were chewing in anticipation over the spot,

and so forever our print embraces the voice,

and then we made the marks with ochre, behind

where we would shape the outlines of a horse,

then cover it with our energy, so tightly bind

it to our thoughts and dreams. Next season

I held my son on my shoulders, let him

grasp the double thrust of our existence

with his handprint on the ceiling. So every

generation will return to stare deeply into the eyes

of the creatures, through which the voices come

from deep on the other side where we are resting,

peeking into your darkness, singing the songs

of the original mothers who brought us into the light,

lit our candles, taught us to make shadows

and dance to the silent music of their ancient breath.

One horse or tiger flickers around the corridors,

coming towards us in a hundred lines, to roar

a warning and calm us down, accept the life

that binds us into families down the ages,

some great artists, others magical sages,

all inhabitants of the caverns on either side.