Old man of the new South,
champion of losers,
poet of prose,
one hundred candles are not enough.

On this date born
before Adam fell,
you saw the serpent
and lived to tell.

You tell it so well
even the ding-**** bell
won’t silence your still-talking
ever-prevailing inexhaustible voice,*

as doom itself is drowned
by the sound of a civilization
gathering round
the only candle worthy of your day:

the sun.

We’re tired of reaching for the tempered dream,
of stretching days and getting squeezed by years,
and bored with the swaggers, the pushes and shoves
of people in rushes to get somewhere,
like hogs in a slaughterhouse hoping to eat.

We’d sooner starve alone in the lively air
than follow billions to a frigid doom.
Why chase the wind when we can turn and face it?
Why measure time by the mirror in our room,
when we can follow earth, sun, stars and moon?

Melville's voyages among the South Seas
truly commenced with his treatment by pen
of those friendly tribes he cherished no less
than the not less primitive hordes at home.

But those who embarked on his ship of the sea
repudiated his ship of the mind
as it sailed for frontiers never beheld
in pursuit of the whale and immortal time.

I think I know what life is for,
and yet I cannot live for that.
I'm forced to wear a different hat
when weather changes are extreme;
otherwise, I'd grow too poor
to realize a distant dream.

The dream is of a frozen sea
that suddenly begins to melt —
violent tremors soon are felt
by starving souls aboard a ship,
who gasp in wonder when they see
an island grow beneath the ship.

So while I'm freezing I must eat
and wear the hat that warms my head.
I must commit my days to bread
to keep my strength, my vision clear
upon the ground below my feet,
which may be far, or may be near.

We sat at the edge and watched the wind
and talked of things we thought about,
safe for the moment beyond the world’s stare,
secure in a love we dared to share
in spite of those who harbored doubt,
heedless of those who called love sin.

We haunted a place where ghosts depend
on outcast lovers to cheer them up,
for surely ghosts could understand
the fiery force at our command,
while they were cold, with empty cups,
as ours overflowed with life again.

But even the living succumb to true love,
and after a while, the world came to us.

The man who died
in the Bornean jungle
dropped his mind
in a nylon pack.

“Call me mad,
but here I am.
Don’t expect me
home again.”

It carefully drifted
down the river
he’d labored up
a learned explorer.

“Children -- love --
wife too ...
Mud -- bugs --
headhunters --”

He did us honor if
only because
he said what he could
from where he was.

The apple rumbled down the aisle
          and stopped beside a boot.
The groom beheld its crimson glow
          and stooped to get the fruit.

The bride could not resist a bite
          when tempted by the groom.
The juice ran down her comely face
          like nectar on a bloom.

The groom ate of the fruit as well
          in solidarity
with her with whom he vowed to share
          the knowledge from the tree.

The guests did cheer but did not hear
          the serpent's sneering hiss.
The apple soon would take its toll
          beginning with a kiss.