TOO MUCH BLUES

 

Too much freedom,

Too many choices;

Too much to heed

From too many voices.

 

Too much consciousness,

Too much thinking;

Too many hunches

And too many inklings.

 

Soon you lose touch:

Too much is too much.

 

Too many factories,

Too many plans;

Too much supply

And too much demand.

 

Too much to buy

And too much to sell;

Too many doors

With too many bells.

 

Who can you trust?

Too much is too much.

 

Too many applicants,

Too many jobs;

Too many options

For too many mobs.

 

Too many values,

Too many lifestyles;

Too many roads

Stretching too many miles.

 

Ashes and dust:

Too much is too much.

 

Too many visions,

Too many schemes;

Too many ways

And too many means.

 

Too many channels,

Too many clues;

Too much to gain

And too much to lose.

 

You gasp and clutch:

Too much is too much.

 

RICHARD THE THIRD’S HUMP            

  

You can step off the train at Penrith,

And the first thing that you see might be

The ruins of Strickland’s Tower--

Or the McDonalds’ golden arches besieging

The hungry ghosts in the castle’s keep,

Urging them to lay down their shields,

And get in line for a Happy Meal

Of flesh they need not see dismembered.

 

O Stalwart bastion against the Scottish raids!

The roots of bracken, feckless feet of tourists

Disintegrate the sandstone into red dust

That swirls about the advertising campaign

Squatting heavily upon our shoulders,

Like the hump of Richard the Third--

Leaving us to rehearse that role,

And exit the scene tragically.

 

CHRISTINA’S WORLD

  

He labored on that wintry hill for months,

And contemplated her in her pink dress:

Her crippled arms and hands against the grass,

Just like a faded lobster shell or conch

You might find on a beach somewhere. Her strength

Has ebbed forever from the useless legs

That drag behind her, trailing like the dregs

Drained back into the bottle from one’s mouth.

 

She never reaches home across the field

That mocks her with the world’s infirmity

With which desire claws and crawls to be,

Yet faints before a gulf that is too wide

To conquer. Framed against the ashen sky,

The farmhouse stares away from what she feels.

 

IMPEACH THE MOON

  

They were out to press charges

As soon as it appeared,

Waxing its way thru the turbulent airwaves.

 

But the Moon had no substance,

And was always changing:

They wanted to nip its growth in the bud,

Before it became all things to all men.

 

They accused it of stealing their sunlight,

Accused it of anything they could devise:

The tides were too low, or too high;

There were too many loonies out on the street;

Too many cars parked on Lovers’ Lane.

 

Any rumor was good enough

For the Special Prosecutor.

He pointed his finger at the Moon

And screamed, “High Crimes and Misdemeanors!”

 

There was hardly time enough

For them to put their case together.

They had to find or make up something

That would blind the billion eyes

That watched its phases with such wonder.

 

Yes, they needed a conviction,

Before the cursed thing slipped away

And disappeared beyond Reasonable Doubt—

And they would have to start all over again,

Investigating their revenge

In the unimpeachable dark of the Moon.

 

CENTERVILLE

 

 Seven pink flamingos,

one for each day of the week,

smirk at every passerby

commuting through your town.

 

Every Halloween they don,

(just for the “hello-ween” of it!),

those ghostly pillowcases cut

with holes for their painted eyes—

 

mimicking trick-or-treaters,

who wander on their candied ways

to doorsteps where their names are known,

despite their best disguise.

 

     EXECUTIVE PRIVILEGE

 

 From dwelling seventeen years under ground

Emerge Cicadas; though unlike the bears,

Whose appetites are keen from lying bound

In hibernation less than half the year.

These insects feed on roots the livelong while

It takes to raise our children to High School;

Keener than adolescents to beguile

The season with romantic interludes--

And much more focused. Rising from the earth

They beat the eardrums with their venous wings,

While news reporters weary us to death

With recipes to cook and eat the things.

(Our Governor himself has fancied them

As colored like the flag of Maryland!)

 

          EAGLE LAKE VIEWED FROM

CADILLAC MOUNTAIN, MOUNT DESERT

  

This oil on paperboard, by Frederick Church,

Is like a window facing toward the west.

A cross of light descends toward the crest

Of tiny Mount Katadhin--out of reach

Of eye and mind, where Nature is not etched

Upon the time and space of Intellect,

And thus composed aesthetically, and set

In order, as the German sages teach.

 

This evening, through this window, Eagle Lake

Spreads deep and clear; quiescent and yet wild.

Before us comes a mother, whose boy child

Descends the ruddy rocks and spiny brake--

While she alone sits gazing down below

At worlds of airy bubbles that she blows.