—for Eleni, always there
In the worst of ways you were always
Under one rug or the other,
Murmuring and wondering just
What to do with yourself when
Her uplifting spirit
Got wind of you and swept
You off your feet
At the speed of light,
And dragged your sorry lot
Onto a pied magic carpet
Traveling untrammeled through
Eons of uncharted space.
In blackened hearths, remnants
Of old growth
Sizzled to a crisp, still
Glowing embers
Ashing to ashes, dust
To dust in an ever-swirling,
Resurrecting myth.
You’ll have noticed by now,
When the stars are right,
Nothing looks to go wrong.
Pay them constant homage then
If you wish to see the light
Right proper thorough,
Even through the now
Darkling before you
Night.
There are scores
Of normal
Activities you could have
Been gifted to do
In this life apart
From the peculiar
One of writing poetry—
Being transfixed at the sight
Of fluff accumulating
Between the folds
Of an otiose navel
Will never count
As one of them.
The next time
You sit
Down to write
Whatever comes up, think
Of what Mary Shelley created*
In just one night,
And make sure
Your head is
Firmly in place,
All bolts fitted
Tight and no
More stripped
Threads or loose
Stitches; then and only then
Can you say all aboard
the mystery
Train, so step lightly all
My grotesque friends!
*Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus
