I like to dine on shrimp at times
To peel away the fitted shell
To put my lips to that sweet meat
Breathe in the swelling, tempting smell

I like the sauce it sometimes sports
To have upon my tongue its taste–
And should I feast upon some shrimp
I’d linger; I would heed no haste

Such succulence is savored best
When it is taken leisurely
With bosom company along
Who hope to dine at length with me

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To scribing tasks, I set my hand again
As I have done at times since those years when
I thought myself advanced well in my ken
And looked at others as if from on high.
The years since passed have given that the lie,
Have shown such haughtiness was but a cry
A child voiced in the woods when left alone
That called not help, but made those nearby prone
To staying far away. The years have shown
That haughty cry did all too well its task,
And now, when it might be that I ask
For aid or comfort, show a thinner mask,
I am refused. But this is only just;
I have thus trained, and thus do this, I must.

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She sent me a message
Let me know that someone we’d known
Someone I’d worked with
Had retired
And we chatted for a while afterward
She noting that she was going
Up for a job
Me noting that I have one
Each remarking that things are going well
And they are
And it was good to be back in touch

There is some talk of getting together again
Marking the decades that have passed since we met
Since we parted
Some of us staying where we had been
Others flying away
Still others lingering around for a time until
Circumstances changed and we were
Called away to other lives

They aren’t bad words to have said or heard
Even as the years have passed and
Paths have been trod that will never open again
There is some comfort in being recalled
Fondly enough to be seen again

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Harken and hear how the old poet sang,
The Heodening hearth-man Heorrenda replaced,
Of troubles that took place in times ere his own,
Found in them and faith for himself some ease,
Knowledge that nobody is not without troubles,
And others will often endure far worse,
Recited a refrain that rings down the years.

Dear child, delightful in all of my days,
Cold is the comfort in moments of conflict
That words can work, however well made,
But better a blanket that bears the night’s chill
When put on than none, for when it is worn
And the longer it’s lifted, the less is the cold,
The greater the gain of good warmth in it.

My body has borne that blanket not seldom,
Sought for solace in scribe-works of old
And makings of words from more modern days.
It gave to me gifts, the greatest I have,
And treasures far truer than troubles in life,
Even the evils that evince themselves.
Those passed away; so too may this one.

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Sitting in a comfortable enough chair and
Looking out the window at the
Sun-drenched world that
Basks in glowing warmth while I
Feel my skin prickle ever so slightly at the
Thermostat’s setting not quite getting it right because
My desk is just too far away from it

The sudden chime rings out and
I lean forward from where I had been leaning back
Looking outside in an idle moment now gone by and
Reminded that there are tasks before me that
Only I can do
Because there is nobody else here
And I set myself to them once again

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You want me just to dance and sing,
To gather up the words and string
Them into some melodious thing,
An ornament to ears

You want me to apply my art,
Such as it is, to take your part,
Such as it is, and help you start
To wipe away your tears

You want for me to write your verse
And lay down lines you will rehearse
To break through talk that’s all too terse,
The words becoming spears

You want me to do many things
With words: to plead, to shout, to sing,
To tilt and take the hanging ring;
I’ve wanted it for years

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When wordsmiths no more will wonders attest;
Pen-pushers finding their pages no longer,
Leaving off leaf-work, the labor of scribes
Put forth as prayers in previous days;
When singers are silent, their stages left empty;
And all that emerges in every art
Is a mishmash made up of masters since lost,
Nothing new coming, noting made fresh;
Will people weep and wail in their mourning,
Start forming seas from their souls’ windows,
Or will they instead, inured to the injury
Done them for dollars in deepening hoards,
Grin and go on and gladly set by
What once they valued, held worthy as treasures?
Might well those many, motion eschewing,
Sigh once and settle, sullen in mind,
Fearing to fight, fates accepting
That others will offer, put off their own?

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So many of the threads show blue where
Some might have expected to see red
Looking again on something seen in August days
And first in February
But time and distance have shown that
The blue is a better color
The threads more tightly woven and
The fabric better fitted
Than any other hue
To cover the yellow underlying it all

It hangs on display yet
Showing to all the world
For whatever reason
Even though few eyes will look
And those that do are often bored
Searching soon enough for
More dynamism
Which is hardly hard to find

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Somehow, the wrinkled citrus thrown away
By many hands still stands in light of day
And rocks as many look on in dismay
At thoughts that its foul roots still spread and sprout,
That they yet linger, that none can rip out
Each shoot that springs up from the soil. No doubt
Remains that that invasive plant endures,
That, festering, it for itself secures
A foothold, fed by dozens of manures
That many yet will all too gladly spread.
They shovel out what falls from every head
Among them, feast, and think themselves well fed.
No wonder, then, such stink is in the air
As leaves behind all hog-farms in compare.

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