The bespectacled one is out flying his kite,
losing his house keys, adding some weight.
Surely this storm will make the diary.
Poor Richard is, of course, asleep early,
dreaming of swimming the English Channel.
While Franklin’s urethra has been acting up
ever since his strained militia stint.
And these damned buckle shoes don’t fare
well in the warm Philadelphia mud.
Light is reigning down in plunging coverlets of gold
around the cradle.
Someone passed a bowl of blood-thick soup among the group;
where is the ladle?
I am here in Bethlehem. I was dragged along by them.
I have gone to much expense purchasing this frankincense.
But no one seems to care if I exist.
If I slipped away would I be missed?
I don’t know why everyone’s gone wild
over some damned ring around this child.
I got the wise man blues again.
Two guys woke me up at ten.
Had to give my camel water;
had to leave my wife and daughter;
follow some star to the savior.
I’m not used to weird behavior.
Wound up here amongst these strangers;
I don’t often frequent mangers.
Guess it happens every now and then.
I got them wise man blues once again.
All I want for Christmas is a gun,
just like little Ralphie, except real.
Armor-piercing bullets would be fun,
and a barrel made of polished steel.
Santa, bring me ammo clips,
body targets, liquor nips.
Arm me for a firefight.
A silencer would be all right.
Shoulder holster would be cool.
Rapid fire killing tool.
I’ll get a license, keep it legal,
swear upon the U.S. eagle.
And I’ll only use it to defend.
I’ll never kill a relative or friend.
N & I had an ice orchestrated tandem fall
as we walked uphill to the car this icy morning.
I’d scraped the hard-ice film off of the car,
but didn’t realize how slippery the ground remained.
Leading N uphill, hand-in-hand, she went down first
and took me with her after a moment’s hesitation
(when I thought I could pull it all back together).
So there we were, on the ice, on our knees,
she, amazingly, unhurt, just downed.
And I tried to readjust, but now I was tractionless in my flip-flops,
she, remarkably, calm, and we orchestrated a ten minute rescue
which, eventually, ended with me pulling her in on a door mat like a sled,
and her crawling into the porch. Where she sat for another ten minutes
laughing and extremely grateful she was not further hurt.
So her breakfast/shopping trip with godmother Anne was cancelled
and we bruised took pain relievers and went to bed.
Awoke both in good spirits (we had high-fived upon arriving indoors)
and have spent the day with cuddling cats and stored-up food.
I’ll venture out tomorrow, in better weather, for food and grog.
N, whose end was some last minute shopping, said,
when down on the ground, "anyone not covered will get checks. "
God bless you, Tiny Tim. God bless you Queen Victoria (in secret).
Happy holiday to you and yours (and any spirits not covered in this message)!
Whose dusty boots are those,
standing at attention
in the car stripped of its plumage
near the desecrated rag?
The ground, so hard in the winter sun,
a pellet in the soft heart
of a warm-breathing deer,
masks death with a facade of glory,
and a worm, frozen to the wood
of an old tree’s casket,
falls without a sound as tribute.
Hubless tires, like so many
travelled eyes among shapes
in this graveyard above the brookpond,
stare at the sky, unspinning,
perhaps forever; and, in their shadow
a stalwart weed pokes its tongue
through the jagged mouth of a rusted can,
mocking the symbiotic plan.
Below, the water, robbed of beauty,
mirroring the hillside’s desolation,
drains drip by drip and drip back toward the heart.
On the last day of October,
I caught the water lilies crying.
Not too long thereafter came the ice.