They say
Who still say such things–
A shrinking population as
Mom and Dad buy the farm
And some corporation buys the farm–
Make hay while the sun shines
And I am glad
For now
At least
The sky is clear and bright
And the green is swelling
But some rainfall would be welcome
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Leaving aside the stereotypes–
Because we really ought to leave aside the stereotypes,
There being no excuse for not doing better since
There is no excuse for not knowing better,
This day and age being what they are,
And the information being yet available
Despite the efforts of some to purge the archives
And of others to artificially intercede–
There are serpents in the land that need chasing out,
Even if they were welcomed here by colors
Not associated with some third king or another
Is there some saint waiting to stand beside
A new Brigid, a new Colmcille,
Enslaved somewhere and tending sheep,
Looking for a sign that all will be well–
Some boars rooting around for acorns and truffles, perhaps–
An emblem in the heavens that betokens
Glories yet to come when
Evil is all chased away?
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I look around from where I sit and write,
Consider what emerges in my sight,
And shudder in disgust that covers fright.
I know that more and worse is yet to come
Of what parades in an uneven pace,
Swallows up the music, fills the space
With clamor, posts an ugly painted face
On every wall, leaves truth-speaking dumb.
The numbers swell that join the thronging crowd,
And each new member makes the din more loud
That trumpets peril, is of evil proud,
And strives towards zero for its final sum.
I say what I can say. To what avail
I do not know; I doubt I can prevail.
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They say
You have to fill your own cup
Before you can pour for another
But I
Am already full
Too full
And what my cup holds
Nobody should drink
No
I seek always
To be less full
To be more empty
So I can accept
What others must pour out
Because
If it hits the ground
Sinks into the water table
It will poison all the wells
And the waters are already bitter enough
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My heart is hot within me now as I
But look about and see how matters lie,
But look about and see lifted on high
What should be low, see how they it exult
Who, gleeful, join the Stupid God’s foul cult,
And see with no great insight the result
That must proceed from out their worship’s course.
I scream into the wind until I, hoarse,
Am blown away by all the gathered force
That thronging fools all rushing in exert,
Not at all caring that they themselves hurt
So long as they inflict their held desert
On those they have been told that they should hate.
To fend them off…it is now far too late.
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She does not often deal in verse
Says she finds it indulgent and obtuse
As must who write it write it
So when she wrote a poem for our girl
Three iambic tetrameter couplets
I marked it
She said
The Muse spoke to her
Even if her ears were clogged with wax
But I think she was worried
That I might too ineptly handle
A fresh cotton swab
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As this old month comes to its end,
And we’re encouraged not to spend,
I wonder who will buck the trend
And throw their paychecks away.
I can well guess at who’ll do so,
Can guess well where their cash will go;
It takes no genius such to know.
Might as well throw us away.
An echo of an older voice
Truer in the hearing again than in the first speaking
Called out once again
Asking for help
Just a few words of praise
To help find fulfillment
And such safety as the world offers anymore
But not where she is
Not where I am
How could I say no?
I never did before
Even when the voice doing the asking
Was not the voice that truly was
And should not the greater honesty
Now find the greater reward?
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One less than a full dozen years have passed
And one full year since I’ve sat to the task
Of writing verse that will for her praise pass–
And she deserves much praise! Her smiling face,
The shining heart that underlies it, grace
In winning and in losing, all these trace
Her path thus far, her way to walk yet light.
I still confess I feel for her some fright
And worry for her in each falling night,
Yet in each day that comes that she remains,
Her presence is a balm against the pains
The world inflicts, and as she greater gains
In love and kindness, knowledge, wisdom, joy,
My world is all the better, all upbuoyed.
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Should I rise to the bait laid out long ago,
Make myself some fishy thing,
Mouth groping after a dangling worm
Left wet and limp in the world?
That I am not the catch then sought,
Not what should be shown struggling in net,
I’m well aware, as all those are
Who see me and think for a moment.
Yet somehow, still, I’ve been tickled out,
Drawn from under hanging banks
Into the sun and gasping air
By gentle hands, ineptly kissing.
I am not done. I speak not well
Forbidding mourning and weeping alike,
But I am brought to a good end,
Being laid where I now am.
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Elliott RWI 