I travel the world in style these days –
I’ve seen the temple in Dendere’s sands
And Machu Picchu’s terraces
That step the hills like theaters
And khrushchobas in the streets of Tomsk
And Westminster Palace on the Thames
And Cuidad Juarez’ tin roofed shacks
And San Francisco’s homeless jacks.
A traveler in space and time –
And I don’t have to spend a dime!
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I really like that word – penultimate.
I heard it on my little radio.
It flowers off the tongue and gently struts
Across the stage just like a baby doe.
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Struggling to mute all the blood sucking banter that seeks
To drain my final dram of mother wit and sister sense,
I lose the battle and the war, then reek
Of beer and Henry Rose and cheap incense.
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I work it all out – those living room dreams,
Muting commercials with Shangri-la streams;
Watching the Giants pound on the A’s;
And feeling the breeze of fans these days.
Shaw’s penthouse hut isn’t for me.
I need some distractions to set me free!
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She sits there, rocking in her rocker with eyes
Fan-glued to her movie while the news
Drones and flashes on the Samsung – where guys
And girls pontificate their vogue-ish views.
It’s the twenty first century battle royal:
Dreamland drama versus Gadsden coil –
The streaming laptop versus cable spoil.
I looked at Stephen far below – his comrades
All around him, arm in arm as lads
Go streaming to a devil’s fare salon.
Then looking up again I just kept on
Running.
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You astound me all – thirteen souls
Now dead and bound, your dusty voices lost
To time and trifles, buried beneath coals
That once burned brightly – now just dross –
Bookended scribbles on the mantlepiece –
Forgotten rhymesters finding little peace.
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With snake charmed beauty moving thought and pen,
She wanders through the village streets again,
Kissing fiery coal along the way –
Lips on lips of blackish stone and clay.
And yet she is a goddess in her world –
A veritable paragon unfurled.
A demon love embraced by devil elves –
An ancient love and worship of themselves.
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Millay
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Leaves in leaves, plucked and placed within
The pages of my old and yellowed book
As remembrance tokens long ago,
When someone gently turned each thought in time
And stopped to thank the Author for His rhyme.
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Of all the old and craggy restaurants in town,
this one has greatly portioned breakfasts for the thrifty.
The seating is epically painful;
the tables boast a hodgepodge of 60’s era throwaways;
the decor is antique smelling, disordered, a real mélange;
all the coffee cups look like thrift store bought mugs with sayings on them;
the help is down-home, grizzle-laced, and foul-mouthed;
and you have to brave the chaotically stacked foodstuffs, stacked pots and pans on shelves,
and narrow hallway to get to the one and only restroom after turning left,
then right down a dimly lit hallway.
It’s a real adventure waiting for the not so faint of heart or weak stomached folk.
But I can get all the coffee I want, an old local paper to read,
and an English muffin for $5.00!
Field of Vision 