Such Are the Poems

Such Are The Poems

I like the poems of yesteryear
The poems of ‘twas, and yon, and ere,
The poems whose ol’ archaic tongue
Was in its prime, and lo, e’er young.
Their tales were spun of days of yore
In silhouettes and shadows more,
Of wondrous things and myths of fame
Plucked from a fair and dainty dame.

She softly sang the chorus sweet
And gathered sparrows at her feet
And oh, she sang it o’er and o’er,
To us, who then, this poem’s for.
What e’er betide, I then must say
I like to let her have her way
To lure me to that time beyond
Inside the poems of which I’m fond.

I then embrace her bosom dear
And hold her close and tender near,
As I recite with her the rhyme
That thitherto I pulled from time,
And lay my head upon her breast
To find some solace and some rest.
Such are the poems of yesteryear
The poems of ‘twas, and yon, and ere.

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Big Oaks and Red Barns

Big oaks, red barns, and boisterous clouds,
Cows, chicken coops, and playful, watchful dogs.
Rows of soy and corn or wheat, at other times alfalfa,
With other skies in other fields,
But still big oaks and red barns.

Waving breezes over golden wheat swaying,
Children playing fills my ears with lowing cows,
And dogs darting, barking, wagging tails in the sunshine,
At other times quiet, with cold stubble fields,
But still big oaks and red barns.

Meandering streams through meadows,
Glens and knolls and fields,
And other fields of rows of corn,
Tall and dry, ready to pluck
When fall comes brilliant in its splendor
To dazzle with orange hues and reds and golds
And brighter yellows with limer greens,
And deep dark purples midst crunchy browns
That hiss and rustle in the crisp wind,
Between big oaks and red barns.

With flitting leaves, the big oaks sway way up top
And acorns clack clack as they fall on the barn,
Inside they thunder with echo,
As squirrels, also flitting, chase nuts and seeds
Under clearer skies on other days,
But they hide on rainy days, with billowed, blackened clouds,
When lightning crashes and the air brims and sizzles,
At other times in other skies,
But still big oaks and red barns.

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The Same

Part I: The Dilemma

By-and-by banality,
Commencing triviality,
Dispensing consummation minus blame,
Admitting that the flesh remains the same.

High-strung technicality,
Infinite finality,
Smothering bright Utopian flame,
Admitting that the mind remains the same.

Immense this human burden of debasing shame,
Throughout the bulk of time it has remained,

I had no name
The day I came.
We all remain the same.

Part II: The Solution

Incredible reality
Renewing true totality
Igniting passion’s fervent inner you
Realizing that the spirit lives anew.

Immense the human burden of debasing shame
Throughout the bulk of time the plan sustained,

He took our blame,
Gave us his name,
And now I’m not the same.

         Part I 1980 (before)/Part II 2006 (after)

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Fowl Ending

As the sun slices the morning mist
Above the reeds and grassy blades
Fly nobly ducks of mallard green
Within, without the glades.
What is there, a double take
Other ducks swim on the lake.
Let’s go near and see these friends
And on a layer of air descends
Come swooping low, they’re only wood
The shaking reeds, this isn’t good.
So near the blind, in fits and bends,
And BLAM–
         The poem ends.

     *      *      *

Condor

The condor flies away to time beyond.
It flies by night or day, and ever on.
Flying into twilight, then it’s gone.

Condors sleeping ever faster
Thinking of the denser days of old,
When birds, to men, unknown, untold,
Unseen, not sparse or few,
Went freely, never sleeping much.

Them noble condors flew.

The condor was on the verge of extinction in the late 70s. They have made somewhat of a comeback.

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The Hound and the Hawk

You gawk at the Hawk
And balk at the chalk
While you pound on the ground in the mound.
Your hole is dug deep,
Your foot you can’t keep,
You smack at the crack of that sound.

For the fat of the bat
Hits the hide for a ride
And the shriek of the crowd gives it wings.
Overhead it does soar
As it changes the score,
Oh the grand in that slam how it stings.

For your pitch it did hang,
And your side felt the pang
As the Hawk with dead eyes made the swing.
With his might he took flight
Out of sight in the night,
The ball and the Hawk on a wing.

He cleaned up the bases
Without any traces,
And tipped his cap on his round.
Your team had begun it,
But his team had won it,
For one slip of the Hound on the mound.

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