Second Time Around

I can’t think of a reason to rewrite;

Once upon a poem is quite enough

For me.  I rarely look with pleasure,

So rewriting, copying out, editing

Are all exercises in self-flagellation,

And if that is my penchant, whipping,

I would rather it be by an honest

Lash, not my mean-spirited toad

Of an interior critic, or you.

I can’t think of many things improved

By repetition or editing.  Sometimes,

The poems ends up better, but I do not.

Most things are not as good, as fresh,

As lethal the second time around,

Including me.  Take me once, and resist

The impulse to say “again”.  Believe me,

The mystery of that first uncertain scrying

Is seldom equalled by the clarified vision.

Published in: on September 27, 2012 at 5:19 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Lost girl…2.

Yes. In typical fashion, I post Lost girl…2, before Lost girl.  Live with it.  This one comes from a revelation this morning.  I saw this lovely creature float into the coffee shop.  Perfect in every way.  Then I looked at her face…utterly without character.  Blancmange.    Not surprising.  She was, in fairness, young.  Life had not had its chance to sculpt her soul with its usual deft, but blunt knife.  In anticipation of that, I wrote this.   Yes, ‘the full catastrophe’ comes from Zorba the Greek, it is in my quotes I like page.  Don’t bother blaming me.  I am impervious.  And I know where you live. The Lost Girl

Luckier

Dirty blonde hair,

Dark grey hoodie,

Little breasts,

Spots on her

Perfectly oval face,

Green eyes,

Graceful lips,

Smooth legs,

Tidy bottom,

White short shorts.

 

My wife looks at her,

Looks at me;

“She

Is young enough

To be your granddaughter.”

“But,

She isn’t my granddaughter,

Is she.”

 

My wife smiles,

Shakes her head.

 

No hope for me.

 

The girl

Loads a cardboard tray,

Turns.

I catch her eye and smile,

She turns away,

With a shy, small smile.

 

She, I think,

Is almost used to this.

 

I watch the white short shorts,

As she carries the tray,

To people luckier than I was

At her age.

Published in: on September 4, 2012 at 6:24 pm  Leave a Comment  
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The Lord’s Day

Three young Sunday girls,

in their black tights,

with their equally tight

and splendid bottoms

sit near me.

One stands,

the aforementioned splendour

almost in my face.

(It is the Lord’s Day,

and all that is holy

is realized.

Praise be!)

I came in this morning

a long-time agnostic,

or chicken atheist,

what you will,

yet here,

displayed before me

the surest evidence

of divine grace,

the final argument,

the unassailable logic,

hidden,

as all mysteries must be.

What heights would I strive for!

What agonies endure!

In true and happy hope

of an unveiling!

When I looked again,

they had gone,

and I sat,

illuminated,

dazed with the memory,

and wielding

an inadequate pen.

Forgive me.

Published in: on September 2, 2012 at 5:01 pm  Comments (1)  
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Little Kids

Little kids,

really little kids,

like, toddlerish kids

always see too much.

I’ll be just sitting,

and some honey cruises in

with her living doll

(what she always wanted

a live doll!)

and she, the mom

has huge eyes,

and a nice walk.

And the kid looks at me,

screws up its mouth,

and starts sniffling,

and I know it is saying

“keep your distance, dude,

she’s mine

for now.”

Or some guy comes in

goo-ing over his rugrat,

and they are so sweet

my teeth ache,

and the r.-r. looks at me

with more studiousness,

than I have ever managed,

then smiles,

hugely,

victoriously,

with that

“you’ll be decrepit

before I’m old enough!”

look.

Published in: on September 1, 2012 at 4:21 pm  Leave a Comment  
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