Some might ascribe some
Supernatural importance to this day
That sees eagles fly for miles in the evening
A spooky day in spooky season
Though not so much as might have been
Were the moon but new or full

From where I sit in open stands
It’s a Friday night like any other
Bright lights shining as the band plays
And there’s always the hope they
Will not suddenly be cut off
No matter what number the day

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There was rain in the middle of the afternoon that
Did more than tamp down the dust of summer days that
Gathered amid the heat of staring at Helios too long while
Aestas danced her dance again and
Theros strutted about unclad and
Auxo and Damia were upstage and marking whose eyes followed them

The gutters filled and street-sides flowed
Asphalt made to mirror the lights passing by and
The hanging curtains from on high as
Thunder rumbled that was not just the semis streaking past
Jake complaining despite being told to shut his mouth
Every drop is dear, every one praised as a gift

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Claudia’s husband never bestrode these hills
Having many of his own to tread
But his time has held sway upon them
During which time they have burned yet again
Feeling their immolation in annual tribute
To glories long gone and a long way from here

In truth that those here know in their flesh
The name of the ruler doesn’t matter
The weather will do what it does without regard
For those upon whom the sun shines brightly
Upon whom the rain will refuse to fall
And Aestas is yet dancing

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They said many a time that
There never was a turd
So hot
That it didn’t cool down

They neglected to mention
How many people
Would stand around
With ice and fans ready

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Staring at the reams of work others have done
Knowing that I must master it all
That I must do so swiftly
Daunts the eyes and grips the heart

There is no other option
No other way to do the work
Than to do the work
And I remember I was once well trained

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She performs so exuberantly
Every time she is in residence here
Shining brightly on the pale stage with its
Crooked wooden pillars and its
Fading verdant hangings
And the audience sweats in the lights held aloft

Those in attendance at her show
Must like what they get from her
Year after year
Seeming to invite her again and again
Although she rarely varies her set-list
And there are complaints when she does

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How great the ill that Stupid God has wrought
All through its avatars, as might be thought,
And great the sorrow from those in it caught
Who sought to make their world a better place!
Yet though they strive, the ill still grows apace,
And still of hope there seems but little trace,
A scanty path that leads through looming wood
And by stark cliffs. Who would follow it should
Be wary as they work to do some good
Yet in a world, not fallen, diving down
Into the Stupid God; it tries to drown
Out light and thought and wisdom. Who can sound
The depths to which the Stupid God will sink?
O, none will find the bottom, so I think.

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I sometimes daydream of the cleansing flame
Calling in at the house I have made my home and
Poor guest, bringing no gift
Feasting past fulfillment not only on
What I would lay out for any at my door
Whom I would welcome in
But also on what I keep from my visitors
Things of which I am but a custodian
Keeping them for worthier hands than mine
Heirlooms laid up for those few I see
Who will come after or have arrived
Little enough of a legacy without
Flapping red tongues being put to it

It is not that I am eager
To lose so much
The results of the work of years
Decades
And not only mine
But the notion of starting again
Doing it right
This time
Has appeal
And a clean break is better than a ragged as
Leaves bone protruding through skin
Shards moving through flesh
Tearing and hemorrhaging
Killing in pain and quiet from within

I am not looking for matches
Brimstone striking to cauterize the wound
Or even for the knife to
Make the cut
But
I know where the cutlery is
And my whetstone is well used
And the matchbook is not so far from my hand as all that

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I write to leave a record of my days
I write in hopes of earning people’s praise
I write that I might delight and amaze
All those who read the lines I leave each time
I put a pen to paper, whether rhymes,
Alliteration, free verse, prose, and I’m
Yet pleased to have the time to write I need.
That voice that says I’m privileged, I heed,
For having time to sit and write and read
Is luxury that many, sadly, lack.
It may well be that I remain a hack
Despite the written pages that I stack
On shelves of wood and bits and bytes, but still
I write, and as I do, I yet do thrill.

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The due date was stamped in
Red ink, only the
Fourth such stamp to mark the
Slip stuck into the
Back of the book
And more than a decade
After the last one

Seeing the spread, I
Have to wonder who
Bought this book for the
Library in the first place
Who read it before I did
Who will read it next
And if they and I got
Something like the same thing
From doing much the same thing
Years apart

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