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.

 

THE FAMILIAR

  

Peek-a-boo, old friend! I see

you’ve waxed yourself to the full,

beside the right triangle

of the Best Buys store this evening.

 

You dance upon the phone poles

beside me on the highway,

and pole-vault with the aerial

when I turn the steering wheel.

 

Tonight before I doze off,

you’re peering thru venetian blinds,

where shadows stripe the shoulders

of the woman lying next to me.