UNWANTED OFFER
Brrrrrrrrrrrrrg
The phone rang
The telephone solicitor
Wanted a contribution to charity
I said
I am a very wealthy man
I have hundreds of poems to
offer
Give me your name and address
And Ill send them all to you
No no
He said
That’s not what we’re after
Your financial support
Would be greatly appreciated
Au contraire
I replied
I could not give you straw
When I have gold to offer
Now, your address?
He hung up on me
NO MATTER
Oh, who will trust a poet—
No matter how he pleads
That his poetic musings
Are just what you may need?
You trust the man of science,
For he can show the way
That flies can walk on water
And ride upon the waves.
We all can trust our bankers,
As long as our accounts
Are yielding compound interest—
No room for any doubt.
A doctor writes prescriptions
When illness takes its toll.
Pick up your bed and walk now—
Your faith has made you whole.
Who serves the Fascist
side
As lawman for the
lawless?
Yes, everyone must
hide
From one who
follows orders
To terrorize or
kill
Without a qualm or
question,
Without a pang of
guilt.
All people who
resist him
Will stagger from
his gun,
No matter what they
stand for—
No matter if they
run.
And should you
disbelieve this,
And trust him to do
right
No matter what the
wrong is,
Why not step in his
sights?
FACE AGAINST THE WALL
They found it in the company
trash can,
That photo of an unknown,
smiling man--
And used it in a grisly sort
of game,
To give that harmless face a
clever name.
They taped him to the
concrete office wall,
And mocked him with a
scribbled list of all
Humiliating names they could
address--
And made their sport into a
vile contest.
Oh, how they laughed at their
display of wit,
As twenty or more lines were
filled with it!
And with each vicious jibe,
their hearts were chained
Like Ferris wheels to their
revolving brains.
For where such cruel levity
has grown,
They gather who cannot go
forth alone
To face the moral nature of
their acts.
Instead, they hunt for
pleasure in the trash.
But at an alley’s dead end
across town,
Nobody heard for hours the
shrill sound
Of infant terror in a plastic
bag,
Among the headless dolls and
toxic rags.
They found him when the time
was far too late,
And shuddered at this vision
of their fate.
A dead end is a place where
grown men crawl,
Their laughter choked, and
face against the wall.
TWELVE STEP PROGRAM
One hundred Cedar Waxwings
Devouring winterberries
Beside the sewage treatment plant,
So hearty and so merry!
In choirs they perch, just singing
Their constant, high pitched tune,
Their pointed crests expressing
All phases of the moon.
Contentedly they roost where
For me is bitter cold,
Allowing me to sidle close
While peering from below.
I’ve known them to pass berries
Branch downward, taking turns
At gulping the fermented fruit—
So much they never learn!
For choked on the choke cherries,
Or other fruit they’ve found,
They teeter-totter drunkenly
And tumble to the ground—
Unless one thinks to proffer
Ones haberdashery,
To catch the greedy little sots
Before they hit the street.
Without a Twelve Step Program,
They live “one day at a time.”
Their lack of moderation, though,
Should bring our own to mind.
TO LONGFELLOW
There was a time when poetry was found
Throughout this land, in parlors far and wide,
And actually was read; while side by side
Sat families and friends all gathered round
To hear your words. This practice was held sound,
Not an anomaly, as ‘tis today--
For the electric image now holds sway,
And poetry lies crippled on the ground.
Return to us, O Longfellow, to teach
Once more the liberal arts in our sad schools,
Where poetry is gibberish or trite!
You showed us that the
Can be applied to us afresh, despite
Our quest for novelties beyond our reach.
