The Weight

Up in the village 
Watching my wife doting 
On her mother sliding quickly 
Downhill into oblivious senility, 
I cannot but recall how 
Many times she’d made 
The long haul from the village 
To that little summer garden 
Two twisting miles straight 
Down to the gorgeous 
Gorge and back, a straw 
Basket in each hand laden 
With freshly-harvested vegetables 
And hauling more often than not, 
The latest of her six 
Children in a sling 
Across her now 
Bent-over back, 
And looking on all 
That had to be 
Done each day as inevitable 
As the sun rising and setting 
And never once asking why 
It had to be that way. 

Intangible Air of Reciprocity

The wind believes 

It has an aura 
As long as the pines 

Long to hear it. 

Straight from the Horse's Mouth: Huuklyeand Cinquor on Why Valéry Is Still Valid

One thing is clear 
In your work, dude— 
This insistence on purity 

Validates absolutely nothing, 
For nothing is pure 
And it’s certainly not 

Unadulterated horseshit. 


Moderator’s comments: "Hi-ho, Cinquor away!"


 

One Way or Another, Wisdom Grows on One with Age

My father was old enough 
To be my grandfather 

And I too young to know 
It made no difference. 

Mendicants Toeing the Capitalist Line

Don’t breathe a word— 
You can’t see it but that 
Rucksack on your back 
Has just enough 
To carry you through 
Another day, 
But no need to worry— 
That other beggar 
With a rucksack 
Just like yours 
Walking before you 
Will never give you away.