Doves on the Wing

Charcoal grey storm clouds gather 
Winged scraps of white paper scatter 

Figures of speech past 
World on verge 

Of being blown away. 

Old Jim Crow

Now, what say you and me 
Just talk, boy—you see, 

It ain’t nothin’ but a heavy 
Line of black 

Iron forged into a wedge, 
Fitted with a crow 

Like claw at one end 
That’s proved 

Well worth its mettle, down 
Right useful for prying 

And pulling out nails, too. 

Halcyon Days of Yore, 2010 BC*

1. 

Hey, Alaric--

  

It’s deep winter down here 
In Hellas and we’re in 
A run of magic 

 
Weather a wee bit of what I wager 
Your frigid, hard-up barbarians would love 
To bask in while they rape and plunder. 

2. 

Our assets, you say?

Hear those panpipes? Another of our classic 
Clear spring days, flocks of immaculate sheep 
And she-goats bleating in the meadows 
And behind the susurrating hedges--
Would you believe it?—a tangible

Cornucopia of bestial fornicating fauns! 



*Before the Crisis 

Exile and the Kingdom

In hiding, you think 
The world is no longer with you, 

But here again you are mistaken— 
It’s gone where there is no more I. 

Nipped in the Bud

Hang it all, I say— 
One sure-fire way to cure 
That monstrous poetic 

Longing for posterity is to choke 
The issue in its infancy, leaving 
One more stubborn stillborn poet 

Decomposing in the air!