Now turgid grows the Stupid God once more.
It bloats, and seeks to make the world its whore.
Who prostitute themselves thus, I abhor.
Now, if they wish to sell themselves, they may,
And peddle themselves for their pimp each day,
For otherwise, of course, I would not say.
What I will rail against is how their deeds
Force me to bend to their cult leader’s needs,
Force me the citrus avatar to heed
Whose hands are far too small to hold to all
That Stupid God through sphinct’ring lips will call
Into its own domain. I’m not its thrall,
Not yet; I hope that I will never be,
Despite the legions of such thralls I see.

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That time of year
Is nearly here
When folks do things
For those held dear,
And every year,
It’s long been clear,
Some will struggle,
Wracked with fear
That they, through sheer
Folly, near
Will miss their mark
And bring forth tears.

I know it well,
And I can tell
Who find themselves
In that small hell;
I hear them yell
In fear. I sell
At least one way
To ring the bell,
Escape that hell
And the death-knell
Relationship’s;
I do it well.

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The temperature is mild
A few clouds are in the sky
There is a gentle breeze
And yet I stand as if
The thunderstorm broke upon me
And the August sun has sat in my skin
Struggling against a northern gale

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I looked up from where
I hunched over pages
As I had done many times before
In that place and others
To see her
Smiling as she bounded toward me
Arms open
Heart open
Delighting in where she was
Who she was with

I walked with her
Where I had walked before
Before she was with me
Before she was
Spoke to her of days gone by
When things were otherwise
Before we thought the world changed
When I had walked before
Told her tales I had been told
Told her tales I had not told
Because they were not tales when they happened to me

I stopped where I had stopped before
Stood and looked at what was still there
Saw what had been built since
Saw what was no longer
Saw myself as I once was
Saw myself as I then was
Neither ever as she was
Standing beside me
Walking beside me
Asking questions
Darting about
Shining in the sunlight
Plumage iridescent
Hints of contrasting colors
Brilliant hues yet to come
Peeking through in words

I carried such colors once
Delighted in them
Did in them deeds in which I took pride
Shed them for others
I have since doffed
Leaving me drab and dull
As I ever was
Because I did not show many brilliant feathers then
Not needing them
Thinking I did not need to be in the race
Plodding along stolidly being all I could do
All I could think to do
All I thought I needed
And I was left behind
So far that I cannot see the path they took
Whom I stood beside at the starting line

She is just now warming up
Saying she might join the marathon
Because she heard my answers
Because she walked with me
Because she stood with me
Because she listened to the tales I told
Because when she bounded up
Smiling
I looked up from where I
Hunched over pages
I smiled
Too
And that was something different from before

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Side three, number three
A bird-like wondered work
Played over the speaker that speaks back when you speak to it
And it kept getting interrupted
Few of the eight and a half minutes not suffering some pause
And not even with the bad excuse of placing an advertisement
For something that had been spoken in the speaker’s presence

I can only think
The notion that
This world was made for all men
Upsets some men
Who sit on the other side of that speaker
Even while there are still some
Who think it right

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I did not expect to win the race
My heavy legs long since slowed
And I never ran so quickly, anyway
I had not expected a new Usain
Bolting by me

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As I sit, rolling dice and telling lies,
And listening to others who surprise
With insights, comments, schemes that they devise,
The joys of years gone by return to mind.
The days between have, in the main, been kind,
Although there’s been enough mischance to find
For those who care to look, as I oft do.
Despite my pleasures and how they accrue,
My eyes will search for sorrows old and new,
My hands will feel for wounds and search out scars
And read in them the past as futures, stars;
Each line I see therein, today’s joy mars.
The dice, and stories others with them tell,
Fall as they will. I pray that they roll well.

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The page, not empty, calls again to me,
To put my pen upon it, thus to see
What work can yield. I cannot from it flee,
That task which waits for such work as my hands
Can do. Such ever are my life’s demands
That I can rarely simply sit or stand,
But must rush to and fro as lizards dart,
To new tasks turning with each beat of heart
And hoping to address each with some art.
With pen in hand, I feel my tightening grip
Upon the shaft; I see my ink to drip
And hope that I let no task thusly slip
Without my doing well what I must do.
I must so hope if I can get me through.

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I struggle to shrug off the sloth of past weeks,
How the holidays heaped upon me,
Weighted with wonder at a world seeking joy.

A tree is yet trimmed, its trinkets retaining
Though lights have been lost that lingered through years,
Glimmers now gone, their gifts now bestowed.

Work now awaits, the world resuming,
And where it is winter, the weather declines,
Giving out gray and stifling glee.

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