O, Stupid God, cast not your eyes on me!
Put your attentions where I will not be;
Mark not the path by which I from you flee!
I seek to pass in peace beyond your reach,
Who once would gladly learn and gladly teach,
And that I do so freely, I beseech
You, just for this; I ask no other thing.
I know that even this request will bring
Attention to me from whom your praises sing,
And their cacophonies will wound the ears,
As I have learned from far too many years
Of hearing them, and shedding many tears.
I have no more to shed, so let me go.
I can go quietly; no one need know.

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Wielded by many, a wonder awaits,
Hidden and hanging, held within trousers
Or placed in a purse, potent in old wisdom.
At one end open, erect when in hand,
Of old, the remains of assaults upon Ansers
And Brantas; anew, it boasts of balls’ actions
By fountains fathered, that famous thing.
Again and as often, it emerges
To greet the world, gleeful, by going
Near to a naked thing, prompted by need
To make pregnant the prone one placed well in view.
Let one who has wisdom wield such a thing;
Let one who has insight say what it is.

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I have a job
I do it well
I offer service
I do not sell
But every day
I see new things
And wonder what
Each of them brings
Thinking about
How to earn more
But I don’t change
My life’s a bore

I don’t complain
I just observe
I’m better off
Than I deserve
I do good work
I’m in fair shape
The barrel’s bottom
I do not scrape
Though I still look
At what appears
As I have done
Too many years

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I am not some darkened lamp
Standing sullenly in the silent street
Glowering as the gloom gathers around me
Oh, no
I already burn
And there is always more fuel on which I can feast
Always more at which to flame and rage
One more spark making little difference

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So much of so many lives
Exist only in the ether anymore
The exchange of bits across fiber optic lines and
Through radio waves pervading the spaces
Between ourselves and between our ears
And when those lives end
Their echoes resound in that same ether
Not only the GNU for PTerry but also
Prosaically
The words of others left behind
Posts to social media sites and
Tributes and the like on obituary pages

I’ve written no few of them
Some for people I never met but
Whose works mattered for me
Giving them my own works in meager exchange for
What I had from them
Some for people I knew more or less well
Whose lives had been part of my own
Offering for them some small part of what I have left
Knowing that it was not enough
That it never is enough
Because there is no such thing as Enough
In such matters
And it often takes a death to remind people of it

Some of them
Not necessarily the most recent ones
Remain where I can find them
Without too much effort
Those tombstones well tended
But some
Take some more work to find again
Either in the archives that the courts have let
Something like hatchets hack away at
Or in other searching through
Message boards decaying into decrepitude
More quickly than my body has been failing me
As all bodies eventually do
Hence the need for such things as this
And some
Not necessarily the oldest among them
Falter and fail
Links breaking with the passage of time
Not always much of it
Even measured against the brevity of
One person’s life

Even knowing that
Every echo fades into silence
Given long enough
I worry that
Someday
Someone will press
Delete

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Nigh on twenty years ago
A squalling infant threw her tantrum
Tearing at the baubles and silks one grand old lady wore
Leaving them scattered and shattered and tattered
Never to be made whole again
Because the skills that sewed such things together are not to be found anymore
There’s not enough profit in it

More recently
Another tantrum raged–
Uglier for being close to beauty–
Echoed through the hollers on high
And the older ladies there were not as well prepared
Nor yet so richly appointed, though not less good
Not less worthy of love or of support
But there’s probably still not enough profit in helping them

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Snap to attention
Horns to the ready
Follow the cadence
The drummers beat steady
Draw a deep breath
The atmosphere heady
Step onto the field once again

The minutes will pass
As you stride on the field
Turning and blowing
As you deftly wield
Your horns and your flags
For this, you are steeled
Step off of the field once again

The waiting is worse
The results are told
The fires that burned
Begin to grow cold
But their embers will linger
Give warmth to the old
Who would step on the field once again

March on to victory
And may Is await!

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A murder descended on the young woman
Plumage bleached badly and out of symmetry
And I had no interest in seeing a spill after
I had already drunk my Earl Grey
Such carnage as I am certain befell after I left is
All too familiar to me
No rounds’ whistles so shrill as demands to
Speak to a manager who isn’t on site
And my tinnitus is too damned loud as it is

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O precious treasure incomparable,
O ground and root from which all virtue springs,
O excellent and well commendable,
Praised rightly over many other things,
Of lack of you, the poet sadly sings!
What student, led to wisdom by kind guide,
And drinking deeply from where it up springs,
Can in that draught not feel some sense of pride?
What teacher, watching as the student stoops
And makes to rise again, will not delight
In welcoming that one into the group
That long has stood in love of learning’s light?
Now, though one candle’s guttered into night,
The tapers others bear were by it lit
And carry it’s flame, with it fuel their sight
As they go far afield, as well befits.
One flame, at least, burns yet, and through long years
Has traveled far from its old kindling place.
Who bears it listens yet, and lately hears
Of what who lit his taper had to face,
Of how he faced it who his life had graced
With kind compassion, more than could be earned,
With faith in him he hopes was not misplaced:
What he gladly taught, he gladly learned.

The herald of the Stupid God remains
Who by strange trumpets sounds the stranger strains
That echo well in empty hearts and brains
And fills them, over-combed and by paint sprayed,
With vigor that leaves lookers-on dismayed
At how they have been and still are betrayed.
Yet them the Stupid God has sickened, too,
Because all that they–and I–can think to do
Yet is bemoan their state, not carry through
Some act or deed that might something avail.
There is no act that seems it would prevail,
Save those which prices far too high entail
Than they would pay, could they them well afford–
They would cost much for far too small a hoard.

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