In Veneration of the Cross

In Crucis Venerationem
In grave serene ceremony
On the best Good Friday last
Our Lem processed the solemn Cross
In the rite for which we’d massed

The Cross was made of saplings cut
One of six foot, one of four
Bound together with old twine wound tight
Short over long, a third way down

She laid it on the Chancel floor
She bowed to one adored
Others came and kneeled the same
In reverence to our Holy Lord

Then I approached this relic blessed
Mindful of it’s consecration
I kneeled and with a hand unstressted
I raised it high in veneration

As a Simon of Cyrene
I was glad to take the weight
And belleiving it was true to Rite
I raised it to a great height
That I might share and lighten His load
That I might carry His burden,
I preyed that it were mine to carry too

Dizzy, looking up in my own hands I saw
These simple sticks were no innocent token
But a grievous tool of a mighty oppression
An instrument of Rome’s tyranny by fear
As a stake to the martyrs of olde
As a noose and electric chair to the falsely accused
As a concentration camp to the undesirables of War
Or a white hood to the freedom riders for Civil Rights

I could bear it’s increasing weight no longer
As it slid down on my back
It sought my soul and will to conquer
And power to speak I lacked
My back sealed to a rod too stiff for breath

It hung my arms over it’s arms
Like a yoke across my back the Cross wore me
Intent to weigh me down in stifling subjugation

I wept for the pain of Death, and dying
In the abandoned torment of the cross
With friends and family helpless watching
I thought there all was lost

But though spare, my voice;
"Will you be martyred by faggots?"

Then finding a strength un-natural
I pressed against the rod, I pressed against the staff
I forced the cracking on the bar and then the splintering of the gaff 
Until they rent useless in my hands, overthrown and routed
There I split the Cross to kindling, pnuk and tinder on my knees

I broke the Rirtual that placed the Ritual above the Faith
I broke My Word that no new Word could be The Word
I broke the Faith that this Faith is mine and that Faith is yours
I broke the Law that made the Law above our Love
I broke the Truth that made the only Truth a Politic
I broke the Chain that Chained all of us to servitude
I broke the Contract that Contracted all of us to usury
I broke the Lease that Leased us back our own land
I broke the Mind that Minded what I’d just done
And I broke the Cross that Forswore our obligation
to our neighbors, our brothers, our sisters, our parents and our children
I broke it all, because I Love You. 

De Idefiance Lex Parsimoniae

If I have to name it as a style, I'll call it "Poetic a' Capriccio," which means simply "let's have fun with the meter and form." Also, helping out at Church can yield inspirations unintended.


De Idefiance Lex Parsimoniae
After Mass on Sunday morn
The "Building Committee," or Jon,
Addressed me with concern

"Can you help?"
"What’s gone wrong now?"

"Though it really shouldn’t oughta’
With a new roof on the tower
We have new ways it leaks water
Cause of last nights heavy shower."

Next we tread down in the basement
To a storage room unlatched
Where folding chairs and lumber scraps
Hid a mildewed carpet patch 

I tapped my toe upon it,
"Pish pish pish" grouched back the damp
In a further test I pressed down firm,
Left a whitish dry shoe Stamp

"Is it wet?"
"Look, my foot print’s filling fast."

Him again;
"Underneath this cement stair step
Is a steam pipe I think leaks,
I sure it is from a crack in here
From which this water sneaks."

"Looks dry to me."

"Tuesday, I’ve called a plumber in
To fix an upstairs sink
I’m sure that while he’s here he will,
Confirm it’s what I think."

That step rose to a door, which stuck
And cracked loud when it opened,
Which to my consternation hid
A crypt of desolation

Me;
"Does Dracula in sleep here?"

Stone dust and broken sheet rock planks
Shared my attention with the smell
Of seeping caverrns subterrean
And musty unctions dank 

"We’re under the tower?"
"Those are the steps up to the tower"
"Look at all this water, it’s seeping in through all the stone. It’s a wonder you don’t have stalagtites grown in here. Is it always like this?
"Always when it rains."

To me, the fact of his presumption
Defied an obvious assumption,
I saw that what one can’t debate
Just simply, clearly, I should state

"Take the junk to the dump
Drill a hole for a sump."

But his answer was a stunner,
"Easier, I’ve called the plumber."

WILLIAM The CONQUERER

When I'm lazy, our cat has always known how to knock that book or paper out of my hand.


William the Conqueror
Who's crouched behind my book back wall
Sursurannt on all fours
Is that you Will, with tail raised
As in heraldic colours

I dispatch missives, "Puss, puss puss"
With confidence I’m King.
Yet silence states you won’t discuss
You'll not parlay a thing

Extortion?
Yes, now that’s your game
With Kitty treats be tamed
Your feline senses I will ply
And catapult exactions high.

A march like crunching denotes something
But scratch scratch rumblings where you brood
Do not belie appeasement, but
A feral Burhham Wood!

On Guard!
Above the spine crease mid my book,
Rises a quinate paw,
Five grappling claws lodge in the crook
Campaign tools so medieval

O Awesome Kitt, Colossus Cat,
My volume you tear down
My castle wall and ramparts all
Defenseless too, I fall

Your charge would make King Henry pause
Crossing my novel draw
Which spans this token moat– my lap,
And I will no more scrap

Recumbent with naught to avail
I pray for heavenly rest
While you raise up your victory tail
Your flag upon my chest

Am I slain?
"Surrender!" with your eyes you purr
I must concede this siege of fur.

(A tickle on the ears)
"Hello William."

DEATH CAME ON TUESDAY

Reading Saturdays WSJ, there's an article on a new bio of Martin Gardner, a mathematician, logician and weekly columnist whose hobby was debunking fraudsters.
It also mentions this logical fallacy, which I have shamelessly stolen and dressed up for my Episcopal Church friends.

But I would ask you, is this really a poem? If so where's the dif btw poetry and sparse chopped up prose? (In defense, I might mention last Thursday I heard readings from Richard Blanco, last January's Inaugural poet. He read for an hour and 20 min, and there was not a rhyme or an iamb to be heard.)
Anyway;


DEATH CAME ON TUESDAY


While about his Crusade, the Immortal I, the Knight of Lore, met his Lord’s man upon the way

"Has my Lord called for me, servant of the doomed?"

"Sir, He has not. Tho He sent me. He bid me hear your Peace."

"Why speak I my Peace when my Lord has not called for me?"

"Of that, He bid me say He will upon call upon thee, on a day by the end of next week."

"Which day?"

"He will not say. Like a thief in the night, my Master’s word is he shall come upon a day, but a day of which you shall not know."

"Why so?"

"He has not told me, Sir. I believe he enjoys a mans folly."

"Is it folly to avoid one’s doom?"

"All men surely think not, Sir."

The Knight of Lore, the Immortal I, thought so;

"I believe, by reason, he cannot come on Saturday, for Saturday is the end of next week, and if he has not come by Friday then I will know he comes on Saturday, which defies his word."

"Would seem certainly so Sir."

"And further by reason, he cannot come on Friday, for as we know he will not come on Saturday, and if yet I live on Thursday I shall know he comes Friday, which again defies his word."

"Would seem certainly so Sir."

"And by greater reason, by logic, such holds true for every day of next week. It is proved he cannot come a Saturday, nor can he a Friday. On Wednesday I shall know he cannot  come a Thursday, by Tuesday so of Wednesday, by Monday of Tuesday, Sunday of Monday and by today not tomorrow."
 
"Would seem certainly so Sir."

"So it is proved, by reason, by thought, by logic, my Lord will not come. I have nothing to fear, and for no reason I shall not say my Peace.
And as for you, nuisance servant… I bid you leave me on my way."

"As most men do, Sir."

MOTHER NATURE'S KID

I've been re-writing this for more than a week and it's good enough. A bit Suessical, a bit pompous, but enough.
In a meditation on learning poetics (meter, rhyme, poetic forms) it occurs to me it seems like learning to tie sailors knots. Boy Scouts all learn to tie knots.
Yet, instead, like amateurs, who can manage OK with jute, hemp, or clothesline, accomplished poets can do the same with strands of thin gossamer spider web, or thick wound base harp strings.
They don't klunk, they sing easy.
A distinction I've yet to claim.

MOTHER NATURE'S KID
           (inspired by Micheal J Bugeja)

Climbing uphill to blueberry fields
My son takes two steps to catch up with my one
From lifes trials and horrors I have tried to shield him,
Yet what harm can a day picking blueberries weild?

"I have heard that some bears often come to this patch."
"Bears?" asked my son, tipping his head to scratch
His young mind dreaming awe, like he wanted to greet’em
I said,
"There’ve been tracks seen ‘round some of the bushes they’ve eaten."

"Not to worry," I added, "For while Nature seems close,
Yet she’ll stay far away, out of reach, not to fear,
I doubt there’s a chance there are real bears near."

"Real bears!"

We ascended the hill to a lush boundless field
When our path split to arms boasting Nature’s great yield
Where backdropped by views of blue mountains off south,
I can already taste Nature’s gifts in my mouth

"This bush looks picked over," so we walk on some more.
Then in jest with a start I quick stop and I point

"Look here, bear tracks!"
  Kid looks "?"
"Oh, no, just a dog. Thery’re a dogs, just my joke."

Then when we arrive at the rise of a knoll
I give my son all we had brought, just a bowl
For blueberries

And we reach out,
We reach out and pick berries, blue berries
Plump berrys, purple berries, blueberries
Toasted sweet by sunbeams sent by late summer’s sun

Some we eat, some yeah!
Some we put in the bowl, yeah yeah!
Some go straight in our mouths. "Mum h’eah!" he says
"Mum-yah!"

Soon my fingers are purple, and so are my son’s
And a lot seemed to have ended up on his hands
And a lot seemed to have ended up on his shirt,
And a lot seemed to have ended up on his face
Like a purple blue minstrel
"Yeah, blueberries!"
"Blueberries yeah!"

While gathering I began to explain things to him

"You know, it’s such a pleasure to pick fresh fruit, fresh food.
Sometimes we forget how important it is to find local fresh food
So much of what we eat is packaged, transported thousands of miles
Preserved, salted or frozen without nutrition or flavor

Sugar added, chemicals added, preserved with BHA
And pesticides, pesticides! Pesticides will make you sick
You’ll get cancer from pesticides!

"In third world countries," I continue, "So called third world countries,
Actually the two-thirds world countries if you really know what you’re talking about
People eat incects all the time. ‘Good source of pro-teanne!’
That’s what an old woman I used to rake leaves for to used to say
Sometimes, when I accidentally inhaled a gnat
"‘Good source of pro-teanne!’"

But he’d stopped picking berries and stared agog on his arm
Where a lady bug crawled, slowly crawled, without harm
Just above his elbow.

"Look, Daddy, buggy!"

She was small, a red dot, like a candy you see on paper in dime stores
Or a strawberry truffle too royal to be dipt in chocolate
Sweet red delicious black spots
Made full, bursting full, from the harvest of aphids on blueberry leaves
Just as we have become from the fruit

My eyes rose skyward, and I gathered in awe for the flavored rainbow of our land
The spinach and kale vistas of our majestic forests virgin
Candied by the early lemon yellow leaves of Fall
By mountain Autumn’s tart raspberry stripes
By spooned over clouds of white cream
Floating on a blueberry yogurt sky

O wondrous Mother, your suckling bare breasts are ever so close
Yet tauntingly, ever, just ever that far out of reach
That the unnatural store shelf is just always the closer

Mother, will you not feed us?
Mother, why Mother, Mother, must you taunt us like so many weaning babes?

Then my dream was disturbed by my giggling son,
So I turned back to hug him, at first finding him gone
Till I noticed him deep in blue bushes care
Where he held up his arm, his pink arm now was - bare

"Look Daddy, I ate the bug!"

"Alright. But don’t tell your Mother."

THE 3 LIMERICKS OF FLUFFY AND THE FRIDGE

Of course a poem like this deserves a picture of Fluffy in situ, but she doesn't (or perhaps refuses to) understand posing, and these were the best she'd consent to.

THE 3 LIMERICKS OF FLUFFY AND THE FRIDGE

Whenever I open our ‘fridge door,
She runs up meowing loudly for more
Her old owner, long passed,
Treated her to repasts,
That our Fluffy once did so adore. 

Once again she pleads “Meow?” without telling.
My dear Fluff, there is no need for yelling,
I’d be bug in your ear
If you’d just tell me dear
What memory could it be that you’re smelling?

Is it fish or some milk, or some stinky old cheese?
Time and time and again you’ve had these,
Yet each time you turn nose
Thinking what no one knows,
My dear Fluff, could you just tell me please?

NONSENSE WITH PANTS.

Yesterday I went to the library and found a big fat green collection of Edward Lear.
This was the result.

NONSENSE WITH PANTS

There once was a man who never went out.
“If you keep sitting there,” said his friend, “they’ll wear out,
Those pants are not made for just sitting around in.
Fine fabric needs air, Sir, not a constant bum groundin’.”

Yet the man did not move until late afternoon,
Then the words of his friend filled him dreading with gloom.

“How do I know what state these old drawers just might be in,
With my ass underneath, there is no way of seein’.
What I need’s a hand mirror, then I can rightly see 'em,
Then I’ll know if they need patchin', sewin', or mendin.’”

So he looked all about for his private hand mirror,
Yet as he could not find it, he got worked up in a fear, or….

He thought to ask his friend.
“Have you seen my hand mirror?”
“Yes, I put it on the lawn, at the end of the steps.”
"?”

Without pondering more he walked out to the door,
Then he walked down the steps, grabbed the mirror and saw…

“They look fine,” he said.
His friend stood in the door.
“You’ll admit you’re outside now, you’re wearing your pants.
There to fore, as I said, and I state, ‘they’re worn out.’”