Riot

Rebuked by every rock
And waving blade of grass,
The pitchfork-wielding trees
And the white-hot wrath

Of the sun’s fiery torch, 
I cower and fall back 
Behind the castle doors,
And make the latches fast; 

And huddle in a corner, 
And pray the storm will pass; 
And cover up my ears
To mute the breaking glass. 

Matrix

The rain of ones and zeroes 
Beyond the window screen, 
As in a magic mirror, 
Resolved itself at three 

Into a bright but bleary
Bucolic blend of green 
And blue and yellow queries
Of questionable meaning. 

Whispering Gallery

 — St. Paul’s Cathedral, London

The moment they are uttered 
The whispers in this vault 
Flutter up to the ceiling 
Upside-down and fall 

Asleep wrapped in their wings
Like bats, or backwards leaves
Returning to their branches,
And rustle in the breeze. 

Merlin’s Cave

The waves that pried it open this dark maw
Swallows now in a never ending yawn
That stretches from the Haven to West Cove 
Beneath the ruined castle far above. 

The last few rock hewn steps that used to reach 
The threshold at low tide washed out to sea, 
So those who would must clamber carefully 
Down boulders slick with algae to the beach. 

But now the tide is rising, and the sun 
And cave like kindred spirits have begun
To set. Before too long they’ll both be gone, 
And you will say that this is just a song. 

Meditation in an Emergency

Of course it’s sad when someone’s house 
Is burning down, smoke billowing 
From every door and window in
A parody of a girl about 
To blow her lid; of course it is 
No laughing matter; I submit,
However, if among the crowd
Of gawkers in their dressing gowns,
There is a poet, they would be 
Remiss in failing to point out 
The beauty of the cherry red 
And chrome emergency machines
Lining the lane; the flashing lights; 
The iridescent water like 
A rainbow arching from the gleaming 
Nozzles of banana yellow
Hoses; or the ladder leaning 
Up against a passing cloud, 
As if the fellow at the top 
Right now, we’re bartering with God. 

Black Frock Coat

Fluttering out around him 
Bat-like as he leapt 
Dramatically from balcony 
To stage and staggered; swept 

Up off of his knees 
As he raised his dagger high,
Declaiming to the audience, 
“Forever thus to tyrants!”

Streaming like a flag 
Retreating from the fray
As turning on his heels he fled
The bloody scene, afraid;

Clinging to his back
As he galloped through the night; 
Pillowed underneath his head 
In dawn’s unblinking light;

Spattered with his blood 
Beneath a burning barn;
Spread out, useless, like his hands 
That day at Garret’s farm. 

On an Antique Iron Wall Sconce

Out of this basket    a bright bouquet
Of orange fire    like flowers flamed
Each day at dusk    in days of old. 
Now only the rose    of rust remains,
Whose parched petals    peel away 
And fall to the floor    in russet flakes 
The next strong wind    will sweep away. 

Chauvet

Emerging like a sculpture 
From a canvas carved from stone,
A herd of charcoal horses churns 
The dust to blood and bones.

The torchlight this illusion 
Makes even clearer still, 
As from the flames the tossing manes 
Appear to gather will.

They thunder past on hooves 
Whose clap has not been heard 
Since darkness rode the mountain down 
In clouds of snorting earth. 

Job Description

Is easily distracted, lazy, prone 
To flights of fancy; can’t be counted on; 
Is often sullen, selfish and withdrawn;
Has few friends and prefers to play alone;
Skips classes often; never turns in homework;
Is overly and quite overtly fond 
Of members of the other sex; responds 
To criticism poorly; takes a tone 
Of disrespect with elders, which includes 
All teachers; has no use for institutions 
Of higher learning; steadfastly refuses 
To take direction; does not follow rules; 
Lies outright or exaggerates the truth;
Obsesses over meaningless minutiae. 

Orphans

Written after viewing the “Acoustic America” exhibit at the Musical Instruments Museum.

Supine in their cases;
Propped upright on stands; 
Suspended in the air like wraiths; 
Or in the outstretched hands 

Of fragile racks, the fiddles, 
Banjos, mandolins, 
Guitars with nicknames, basses, little 
Ukuleles limned 

In legend long for players 
To cradle them and sing,
And teach them how to say their prayers, 
And brush their knotted strings. 

Tumbleweed

Perambulating cloud
Of dust and tangles going down 
The sidewalk like a brawling crowd 
In comic strips, or Charlie Brown’s 
Buddy Pig-Pen now.

MS. Found Throttled

Dear Sir, there is a gentleman you know 
Beside me here, at Ryan’s Fourth Ward polls, 
Who goes by the cognomen Edgar Poe.

Admitted 5 pm on 3 October. 
As soon as I was able, I went over. 
Excitable . . . delirious . . . not sober. 

Saturday night commences calling, “O
Reynolds! Reynolds! Reynolds!” until say oh
Three o’clock Sunday morning, when he goes 

Into a stupor endlessly misquoted. 
Perhaps this current leads to the South Pole. 
Of course, there is no certain way . . . oh no. 

October’s War

Season of butterflies 
Colliding in mid-air
And spiraling to earth 
To smolder brightly there; 

Of noxious clouds of gnats
One can’t help but inhale, 
And army ants erupting 
Like lava from their hills;

Of humming, barbed-wire hedges
Electrified by bees, 
And grasshopper grenades 
Exploding at your feet; 

And after dark the sirens
Trembling through the night 
Of crickets crouched in crumbling 
Shelters out of sight. 

Chandelier

An errant piece of chandelier 
I almost missed it was so clear
Lay in the road this morning,
Like a giant crystal tear 
A cloud had brushed away the night before.

 
I picked it up and held it to the light 
To see if I could strike 
A rainbow, but all I 
Saw was a shard of sky
Multiplied a dozen times
Hanging in the sun on the other side.