Enrique,
Emilio,
Lorenzo,

the three of them frozen:
Enrique by the world of beds;
Emilio by the world of eyes and wounded hands;
Lorenzo by the world of roofless universities.

Lorenzo,
Emilio,
Enrique,

the three of them burned:
Lorenzo by the world of leaves and billiard *****;
Emilio by the world of blood and white pins;
Enrique by the world of the dead and abandoned newspapers.

Lorenzo,
Emilio,
Enrique,
the three of them buried:
Lorenzo in one of Flora's *******;
Emilio in the dead gin forgotten in the glass;
Enrique in the ant, the sea, and the empty eyes of birds.

Lorenzo,
Emilio,
Enrique,
the three in my hands were
three Chinese mountains,
three shadows of a horse,
three landscapes of snow and a cabin of white lilies
by the pigeon coops where the moon lies flat under the rooster.

One
and one
and one,
the three of them mummified,
with the flies of winter,
with the inkwells the dog ****** and the thistle despises,
with the breeze that freezes theh eart of all the mothers,
by the white ruins of Jupiter where drunks snack on death.

Three
and two
and one,
I saw them disappear, crying and singing
into a hen's egg,
into the night that showed its skeleton of tobacco,
into my sorrow full of faces and piercing bone splinters of moon,
into my happiness of whips and notched wheels,
into my breast troubled by pigeons,
into my deserted death with one mistaken wanderer.

I had killed the fifth moon
and the fans and the applause drank water from the fountains.
Hidden away, the warm milk of newborn girls,
shook the roses with a long white sorrow.
Enrique,
Emilio,
Lorenzo,

Diana is hard,
but somtimes she has ******* of clouds.
The white stone can beat in the blood of a deer
and the deer can dream through the eyes of a horse.

When the pure forms sank
under the cri cri of  daisies
I understood they had murdered me.
They searched the cafés and the graveyards and churches,
they opened the wine casks and wardrobes,
they destroyed three skeletons to pull out their gold teeth.
Still they couldn't fine me.
They couldn't?
No. They couldn't.
But they learned the sixth moon fled against the torrent,
and the sea remembered, suddenly,
the names of all her drowned.

A Child’s Story

Hamelin Town’s in Brunswick,
By famous Hanover city;
The river Weser, deep and wide,
Washes its wall on the southern side;
A pleasanter spot you never spied;
But, when begins my ditty,
Almost five hundred years ago,
To see the townsfolk suffer so
From vermin, was a pity.

Rats!
They fought the dogs, and killed the cats,
And bit the babies in the cradles,
And ate the cheeses out of the vats,
And licked the soup from the cook’s own ladles,
Split open the kegs of salted sprats,
Made nests inside men’s Sunday hats,
And even spoiled the women’s chats,
By drowning their speaking
With shrieking and squeaking
In fifty different sharps and flats.

At last the people in a body
To the Town Hall came flocking:
“’Tis clear,” cried they, “our Mayor’s a noddy;
And as for our Corporation—shocking
To think we buy gowns lined with ermine
For dolts that can’t or won’t determine
What’s best to rid us of our vermin!
You hope, because you’re old and obese,
To find in the furry civic robe ease?
Rouse up, Sirs! Give your brains a racking
To find the remedy we’re lacking,
Or, sure as fate, we’ll send you packing!”
At this the Mayor and Corporation
Quaked with a mighty consternation.

An hour they sate in council,
At length the Mayor broke silence:
“For a guilder I’d my ermine gown sell;
I wish I were a mile hence!
It’s easy to bid one rack one’s brain—
I’m sure my poor head aches again
I’ve scratched it so, and all in vain.
Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!”
Just as he said this, what should hap
At the chamber door but a gentle tap?
“Bless us,” cried the Mayor, “what’s that?”
(With the Corporation as he sat,
Looking little though wondrous fat;
Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister
Than a too-long-opened oyster,
Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous
For a plate of turtle green and glutinous)
“Only a scraping of shoes on the mat?
Anything like the sound of a rat
Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!”

“Come in!”—the Mayor cried, looking bigger:
And in did come the strangest figure!
His queer long coat from heel to head
Was half of yellow and half of red;
And he himself was tall and thin,
With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin,
And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin,
No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin,
But lips where smiles went out and in—
There was no guessing his kith and kin!
And nobody could enough admire
The tall man and his quaint attire:
Quoth one: “It’s as my great-grandsire,
Starting up at the Trump of Doom’s tone,
Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!”

He advanced to the council-table:
And, “Please your honours,” said he, “I’m able,
By means of a secret charm, to draw
All creatures living beneath the sun,
That creep or swim or fly or run,
After me so as you never saw!
And I chiefly use my charm
On creatures that do people harm,
The mole and toad and newt and viper;
And people call me the Pied Piper.”
(And here they noticed round his neck
A scarf of red and yellow stripe,
To match with his coat of the selfsame cheque;
And at the scarf’s end hung a pipe;
And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying
As if impatient to be playing
Upon this pipe, as low it dangled
Over his vesture so old-fangled.)
“Yet,” said he, “poor piper as I am,
In Tartary I freed the Cham,
Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats;
I eased in Asia the Nizam
Of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats;
And, as for what your brain bewilders,
If I can rid your town of rats
Will you give me a thousand guilders?”
“One? fifty thousand!”—was the exclamation
Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation.

Into the street the Piper stepped,
Smiling first a little smile,
As if he knew what magic slept
In his quiet pipe the while;
Then, like a musical adept,
To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled,
And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled
Like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled;
And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered,
You heard as if an army muttered;
And the muttering grew to a grumbling;
And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling;
And out of the houses the rats came tumbling.
Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats,
Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats,
Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,
Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,
Cocking tails and pricking whiskers,
Families by tens and dozens,
Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives—
Followed the Piper for their lives.
From street to street he piped advancing,
And step for step they followed dancing,
Until they came to the river Weser,
Wherein all plunged and perished!
- Save one who, stout a Julius Caesar,
Swam across and lived to carry
(As he, the manuscript he cherished)
To Rat-land home his commentary:
Which was, “At the first shrill notes of the pipe
I heard a sound as of scraping tripe,
And putting apples, wondrous ripe,
Into a cider-press’s gripe:
And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards,
And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards,
And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks,
And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks;
And it seemed as if a voice
(Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery
Is breathed) called out ‘Oh, rats, rejoice!
The world is grown to one vast drysaltery!
So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon,
Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!’
And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon,
All ready staved, like a great sun shone
Glorious scarce and inch before me,
Just as methought it said ‘Come, bore me!’
- I found the Weser rolling o’er me.”

You should have heard the Hamelin people
Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple.
“Go,” cried the Mayor, “and get long poles!
Poke out the nests and block up the holes!
Consult with carpenters and builders,
And leave in our town not even a trace
Of the rats!”—when suddenly, up the face
Of the Piper perked in the market-place,
With a, “First, if you please, my thousand guilders!”

A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue;
So did the Corporation too.
For council dinners made rare havoc
With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock;
And half the money would replenish
Their cellar’s biggest **** with Rhenish.
To pay this sum to a wandering fellow
With a gypsy coat of red and yellow!
“Beside,” quoth the Mayor with a knowing wink,
“Our business was done at the river’s brink;
We saw with our eyes the vermin sink,
And what’s dead can’t come to life, I think.
So, friend, we’re not the folks to shrink
From the duty of giving you something for drink,
And a matter of money to put in your poke;
But, as for the guilders, what we spoke
Of them, as you very well know, was in joke.
Beside, our losses have made us thrifty.
A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!”

The Piper’s face fell, and he cried
“No trifling! I can’t wait, beside!
I’ve promised to visit by dinner-time
Bagdat, and accept the prime
Of the Head Cook’s pottage, all he’s rich in,
For having left, in the Calip’s kitchen,
Of a nest of scorpions no survivor—
With him I proved no bargain-driver,
With you, don’t think I’ll bate a stiver!
And folks who put me in a passion
May find me pipe to another fashion.”

“How?” cried the Mayor, “d’ye think I’ll brook
Being worse treated than a Cook?
Insulted by a lazy ribald
With idle pipe and vesture piebald?
You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst,
Blow your pipe there till you burst!”

Once more he stepped into the street;
And to his lips again
Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane;
And ere he blew three notes (such sweet
Soft notes as yet musician’s cunning
Never gave the enraptured air)
There was a rustling, that seemed like a bustling
Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling,
Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,
Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering,
And, like fowls in a farmyard when barley is scattering,
Out came the children running.
All the little boys and girls,
With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,
And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls,
Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after
The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.

The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood
As if they were changed into blocks of wood,
Unable to move a step, or cry
To the children merrily skipping by—
And could only follow with the eye
That joyous crowd at the Piper’s back.
But how the Mayor was on the rack,
And the wretched Council’s bosoms beat,
As the Piper turned from the High Street
To where the Weser rolled its waters
Right in the way of their sons and daughters!
However he turned from South to West,
And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed,
And after him the children pressed;
Great was the joy in every breast.
“He never can cross that mighty top!
He’s forced to let the piping drop,
And we shall see our children stop!”
When, lo, as they reached the mountain’s side,
A wondrous portal opened wide,
As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed;
And the Piper advanced and the children followed,
And when all were in to the very last,
The door in the mountain-side shut fast.
Did I say, all? No! One was lame,
And could not dance the whole of the way;
And in after years, if you would blame
His sadness, he was used to say,—
“It’s dull in our town since my playmates left!
I can’t forget that I’m bereft
Of all the pleasant sights they see,
Which the Piper also promised me:
For he led us, he said, to a joyous land,
Joining the town and just at hand,
Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew,
And flowers put forth a fairer hue,
And everything was strange and new;
The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here,
And their dogs outran our fallow deer,
And honey-bees had lost their stings,
And horses were born with eagles’ wings:
And just as I became assured
My lame foot would be speedily cured,
The music stopped and I stood still,
And found myself outside the Hill,
Left alone against my will,
To go now limping as before,
And never hear of that country more!”

Alas, alas for Hamelin!
There came into many a burgher’s pate
A text which says, that Heaven’s Gate
Opes to the Rich at as easy rate
As the needle’s eye takes a camel in!
The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South,
To offer the Piper, by word of mouth,
Wherever it was men’s lot to find him,
Silver and gold to his heart’s content,
If he’d only return the way he went,
And bring the children behind him.
But when they saw ’twas a lost endeavour,
And Piper and dancers were gone for ever,
They made a decree that lawyers never
Should think their records dated duly
If, after the day of the month and year,
These words did not as well appear,
“And so long after what happened here
On the Twenty-second of July,
Thirteen hundred and seventy-six”:
And the better in memory to fix
The place of the children’s last retreat,
They called it, the Pied Piper’s Street—
Where any one playing on pipe or tabor
Was sure for the future to lose his labour.
Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern
To shock with mirth a street so solemn;
But opposite the place of the cavern
They wrote the story on a column,
And on the great Church-Window painted
The same, to make the world acquainted
How their children were stolen away;
And there it stands to this very day.
And I must not omit to say
That in Transylvania there’s a tribe
Of alien people that ascribe
The outlandish ways and dress
On which their neighbours lay such stress,
To their fathers and mothers having risen
Out of some subterraneous prison
Into which they were trepanned
Long time ago in a mighty band
Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land,
But how or why, they don’t understand.

So, *****, let you and me be wipers
Of scores out with all men—especially pipers:
And, whether they pipe us free, from rats or from mice,
If we’ve promised them aught, let us keep our promise.

That second time they hunted me
From hill to plain, from shore to sea,
And Austria, hounding far and wide
Her blood-hounds through the countryside,
Breathed hot and instant on my trace,—
I made six days a hiding-place
Of that dry green old aqueduct
Where I and Charles, when boys, have plucked
The fire-flies from the roof above,
Bright creeping throuoh the moss they love.
—How long it seems since Charles was lost!
Six days the soldiers crossed and crossed
The country in my very sight;
And when that peril ceased at night,
The sky broke out in red dismay
With signal-fires; well, there I lay
Close covered o’er in my recess,
Up to the neck in ferns and cress,
Thinking on Metternich our friend,
And Charles’s miserable end,
And much beside, two days; the third,
Hunger o’ercame me when I heard
The peasants from the village go
To work among the maize; you know,
With us, in Lombardy, they bring
Provisions packed on mules, a string
With little bells that cheer their task,
And casks, and boughs on every cask
To keep the sun’s heat from the wine;
These I let pass in jingling line,
And, close on them, dear noisy crew,
The peasants from the village too;
For at the very rear would troop
Their wives and sisters in a group
To help, I knew; when these had passed,
I threw my glove to strike the last,
Taking the chance: she did not start,
Much less cry out, but stooped apart
One instant, rapidly glanced round,
And saw me beckon from the ground;
A wild bush grows and hides my crypt,
She picked my glove up while she stripped
A branch off, then rejoined the rest
With that; my glove lay in her breast:
Then I drew breath: they disappeared;
It was for Italy I feared.

An hour, and she returned alone
Exactly where my glove was thrown.
Meanwhile come many thoughts; on me
Rested the hopes of Italy;
I had devised a certain tale
Which, when ’twas told her, could not fail
Persuade a peasant of its truth;
I meant to call a freak of youth
This hiding, and give hopes of pay,
And no temptation to betray.
But when I saw that woman’s face,
Its calm simplicity of grace,
Our Italy’s own attitude
In which she walked thus far, and stood,
Planting each naked foot so firm,
To crush the snake and spare the worm—
At first sight of her eyes, I said,
“I am that man upon whose head
They fix the price, because I hate
The Austrians over us: the State
Will give you gold—oh, gold so much,
If you betray me to their clutch!
And be your death, for aught I know,
If once they find you saved their foe.
Now, you must bring me food and drink,
And also paper, pen, and ink,
And carry safe what I shall write
To Padua, which you’ll reach at night
Before the Duomo shuts; go in,
And wait till Tenebrae begin;
Walk to the Third Confessional,
Between the pillar and the wall,
And Kneeling whisper whence comes peace?
Say it a second time; then cease;
And if the voice inside returns,
From Christ and Freedom: what concerns
The cause of Peace?—for answer, slip
My letter where you placed your lip;
Then come back happy we have done
Our mother service—I, the son,
As you daughter of our land!”

Three mornings more, she took her stand
In the same place, with the same eyes:
I was no surer of sunrise
Than of her coming: we conferred
Of her own prospects, and I heard
She had a lover—stout and tall,
She said—then let her eyelids fall,
“He could do much”—as if some doubt
Entered her heart,—then, passing out,
“She could not speak for others—who
Had other thoughts; herself she knew:”
And so she brought me drink and food.
After four days, the scouts pursued
Another path: at last arrived
The help my Paduan friends contrived
To furnish me: she brought the news:
For the first time I could not choose
But kiss her hand and lay my own
Upon her head—”This faith was shown
To Italy, our mother;—she
Uses my hand and blesses thee!”
She followed down to the seashore;
I left and never saw her more.

How very long since I have thought
Concerning—much less wished for—aught
Beside the good of Italy,
For which I live and mean to die!
I never was in love; and since
Charles proved false, nothing could convince
My inmost heart I had a friend;
However, if I pleased to spend
Real wishes on myself—say, Three—
I know at least what one should be;
I would grasp Metternich until
I felt his red wet throat distil
In blood through these two hands; and next,
—Nor much for that am I perplexed—
Charles, perjured traitor, for his part,
Should die slow of a broken heart
Under his new employers; last
—Ah, there, what should I wish? For fast
Do I grow old and out of strength.—
If I resolved to seek at length
My father’s house again, how scared
They all would look, and unprepared!
My brothers live in Austria’s pay
—Disowned me long ago, men say;
And all my early mates who used
To praise me so—perhaps induced
More than one early step of mine—
Are turning wise; while some opine
“Freedom grows License,” some suspect
“Haste breeds Delay,” and recollect
They always said, such premature
Beginnings never could endure!
So, with a sullen “All’s for best,”
The land seems settling to its rest.
I think, then, I should wish to stand
This evening in that dear, lost land,
Over the sea the thousand miles,
And know if yet that woman smiles
With the calm smile; some little farm
She lives in there, no doubt; what harm
If I sate on the door-side bench,
And, while her spindle made a trench
Fantastically in the dust,
Inquired of all her fortunes—just
Her children’s ages and their names,
And what may be the husband’s aims
For each of them—I’d talk this out,
And sit there, for and hour about,
Then kiss her hand once more, and lay
Mine on her head, and go my way.

So much for idle wishing—how
It steals the time! To business now.

Euryclea now went upstairs laughing to tell her mistress that her
dear husband had come home. Her aged knees became young again and
her feet were nimble for joy as she went up to her mistress and bent
over her head to speak to her. “Wake up Penelope, my dear child,”
she exclaimed, “and see with your own eyes something that you have
been wanting this long time past. Ulysses has at last indeed come home
again, and has killed the suitors who were giving so much trouble in
his house, eating up his estate and ill-treating his son.”
  “My good nurse,” answered Penelope, “you must be mad. The gods
sometimes send some very sensible people out of their minds, and
make foolish people become sensible. This is what they must have
been doing to you; for you always used to be a reasonable person.
Why should you thus mock me when I have trouble enough already-
talking such nonsense, and waking me up out of a sweet sleep that
had taken possession of my eyes and closed them? I have never slept so
soundly from the day my poor husband went to that city with the
ill-omened name. Go back again into the women’s room; if it had been
any one else, who had woke me up to bring me such absurd news I should
have sent her away with a severe scolding. As it is, your age shall
protect you.”
  “My dear child,” answered Euryclea, “I am not mocking you. It is
quite true as I tell you that Ulysses is come home again. He was the
stranger whom they all kept on treating so badly in the cloister.
Telemachus knew all the time that he was come back, but kept his
father’s secret that he might have his revenge on all these wicked
people.
  Then Penelope sprang up from her couch, threw her arms round
Euryclea, and wept for joy. “But my dear nurse,” said she, “explain
this to me; if he has really come home as you say, how did he manage
to overcome the wicked suitors single handed, seeing what a number
of them there always were?”
  “I was not there,” answered Euryclea, “and do not know; I only heard
them groaning while they were being killed. We sat crouching and
huddled up in a corner of the women’s room with the doors closed, till
your son came to fetch me because his father sent him. Then I found
Ulysses standing over the corpses that were lying on the ground all
round him, one on top of the other. You would have enjoyed it if you
could have seen him standing there all bespattered with blood and
filth, and looking just like a lion. But the corpses are now all piled
up in the gatehouse that is in the outer court, and Ulysses has lit
a great fire to purify the house with sulphur. He has sent me to
call you, so come with me that you may both be happy together after
all; for now at last the desire of your heart has been fulfilled; your
husband is come home to find both wife and son alive and well, and
to take his revenge in his own house on the suitors who behaved so
badly to him.”
  “‘My dear nurse,” said Penelope, “do not exult too confidently
over all this. You know how delighted every one would be to see
Ulysses come home—more particularly myself, and the son who has
been born to both of us; but what you tell me cannot be really true.
It is some god who is angry with the suitors for their great
wickedness, and has made an end of them; for they respected no man
in the whole world, neither rich nor poor, who came near them, who
came near them, and they have come to a bad end in consequence of
their iniquity. Ulysses is dead far away from the Achaean land; he
will never return home again.”
  Then nurse Euryclea said, “My child, what are you talking about? but
you were all hard of belief and have made up your mind that your
husband is never coming, although he is in the house and by his own
fire side at this very moment. Besides I can give you another proof;
when I was washing him I perceived the scar which the wild boar gave
him, and I wanted to tell you about it, but in his wisdom he would not
let me, and clapped his hands over my mouth; so come with me and I
will make this bargain with you—if I am deceiving you, you may have
me killed by the most cruel death you can think of.”
  “My dear nurse,” said Penelope, “however wise you may be you can
hardly fathom the counsels of the gods. Nevertheless, we will go in
search of my son, that I may see the corpses of the suitors, and the
man who has killed them.”
  On this she came down from her upper room, and while doing so she
considered whether she should keep at a distance from her husband
and question him, or whether she should at once go up to him and
embrace him. When, however, she had crossed the stone floor of the
cloister, she sat down opposite Ulysses by the fire, against the
wall at right angles [to that by which she had entered], while Ulysses
sat near one of the bearing-posts, looking upon the ground, and
waiting to see what his wife would say to him when she saw him. For
a long time she sat silent and as one lost in amazement. At one moment
she looked him full in the face, but then again directly, she was
misled by his shabby clothes and failed to recognize him, till
Telemachus began to reproach her and said:
  “Mother—but you are so hard that I cannot call you by such a
name—why do you keep away from my father in this way? Why do you
not sit by his side and begin talking to him and asking him questions?
No other woman could bear to keep away from her husband when he had
come back to her after twenty years of absence, and after having
gone through so much; but your heart always was as hard as a stone.”
  Penelope answered, “My son, I am so lost in astonishment that I
can find no words in which either to ask questions or to answer
them. I cannot even look him straight in the face. Still, if he really
is Ulysses come back to his own home again, we shall get to understand
one another better by and by, for there are tokens with which we two
are alone acquainted, and which are hidden from all others.”
  Ulysses smiled at this, and said to Telemachus, “Let your mother put
me to any proof she likes; she will make up her mind about it
presently. She rejects me for the moment and believes me to be
somebody else, because I am covered with dirt and have such bad
clothes on; let us, however, consider what we had better do next. When
one man has killed another, even though he was not one who would leave
many friends to take up his quarrel, the man who has killed him must
still say good bye to his friends and fly the country; whereas we have
been killing the stay of a whole town, and all the picked youth of
Ithaca. I would have you consider this matter.”
  “Look to it yourself, father,” answered Telemachus, “for they say
you are the wisest counsellor in the world, and that there is no other
mortal man who can compare with you. We will follow you with right
good will, nor shall you find us fail you in so far as our strength
holds out.”
  “I will say what I think will be best,” answered Ulysses. “First
wash and put your shirts on; tell the maids also to go to their own
room and dress; Phemius shall then strike up a dance tune on his lyre,
so that if people outside hear, or any of the neighbours, or some
one going along the street happens to notice it, they may think
there is a wedding in the house, and no rumours about the death of the
suitors will get about in the town, before we can escape to the
woods upon my own land. Once there, we will settle which of the
courses heaven vouchsafes us shall seem wisest.”
  Thus did he speak, and they did even as he had said. First they
washed and put their shirts on, while the women got ready. Then
Phemius took his lyre and set them all longing for sweet song and
stately dance. The house re-echoed with the sound of men and women
dancing, and the people outside said, “I suppose the queen has been
getting married at last. She ought to be ashamed of herself for not
continuing to protect her husband’s property until he comes home.”
  This was what they said, but they did not know what it was that
had been happening. The upper servant Eurynome washed and anointed
Ulysses in his own house and gave him a shirt and cloak, while Minerva
made him look taller and stronger than before; she also made the
hair grow thick on the top of his head, and flow down in curls like
hyacinth blossoms; she glorified him about the head and shoulders just
as a skilful workman who has studied art of all kinds under Vulcan
or Minerva—and his work is full of beauty—enriches a piece of silver
plate by gilding it. He came from the bath looking like one of the
immortals, and sat down opposite his wife on the seat he had left. “My
dear,” said he, “heaven has endowed you with a heart more unyielding
than woman ever yet had. No other woman could bear to keep away from
her husband when he had come back to her after twenty years of
absence, and after having gone through so much. But come, nurse, get a
bed ready for me; I will sleep alone, for this woman has a heart as
hard as iron.”
  “My dear,” answered Penelope, “I have no wish to set myself up,
nor to depreciate you; but I am not struck by your appearance, for I
very well remember what kind of a man you were when you set sail
from Ithaca. Nevertheless, Euryclea, take his bed outside the bed
chamber that he himself built. Bring the bed outside this room, and
put bedding upon it with fleeces, good coverlets, and blankets.”
  She said this to try him, but Ulysses was very angry and said,
“Wife, I am much displeased at what you have just been saying. Who has
been taking my bed from the place in which I left it? He must have
found it a hard task, no matter how skilled a workman he was, unless
some god came and helped him to shift it. There is no man living,
however strong and in his prime, who could move it from its place, for
it is a marvellous curiosity which I made with my very own hands.
There was a young olive growing within the precincts of the house,
in full vigour, and about as thick as a bearing-post. I built my
room round this with strong walls of stone and a roof to cover them,
and I made the doors strong and well-fitting. Then I cut off the top
boughs of the olive tree and left the stump standing. This I dressed
roughly from the root upwards and then worked with carpenter’s tools
well and skilfully, straightening my work by drawing a line on the
wood, and making it into a bed-prop. I then bored a hole down the
middle, and made it the centre-post of my bed, at which I worked
till I had finished it, inlaying it with gold and silver; after this I
stretched a hide of crimson leather from one side of it to the
other. So you see I know all about it, and I desire to learn whether
it is still there, or whether any one has been removing it by
cutting down the olive tree at its roots.”
  When she heard the sure proofs Ulysses now gave her, she fairly
broke down. She flew weeping to his side, flung her arms about his
neck, and kissed him. “Do not be angry with me Ulysses,” she cried,
“you, who are the wisest of mankind. We have suffered, both of us.
Heaven has denied us the happiness of spending our youth, and of
growing old, together; do not then be aggrieved or take it amiss
that I did not embrace you thus as soon as I saw you. I have been
shuddering all the time through fear that someone might come here
and deceive me with a lying story; for there are many very wicked
people going about. Jove’s daughter Helen would never have yielded
herself to a man from a foreign country, if she had known that the
sons of Achaeans would come after her and bring her back. Heaven put
it in her heart to do wrong, and she gave no thought to that sin,
which has been the source of all our sorrows. Now, however, that you
have convinced me by showing that you know all about our bed (which no
human being has ever seen but you and I and a single maid servant, the
daughter of Actor, who was given me by my father on my marriage, and
who keeps the doors of our room) hard of belief though I have been I
can mistrust no longer.”
  Then Ulysses in his turn melted, and wept as he clasped his dear and
faithful wife to his *****. As the sight of land is welcome to men who
are swimming towards the shore, when Neptune has wrecked their ship
with the fury of his winds and waves—a few alone reach the land,
and these, covered with brine, are thankful when they find
themselves on firm ground and out of danger—even so was her husband
welcome to her as she looked upon him, and she could not tear her
two fair arms from about his neck. Indeed they would have gone on
indulging their sorrow till rosy-fingered morn appeared, had not
Minerva determined otherwise, and held night back in the far west,
while she would not suffer Dawn to leave Oceanus, nor to yoke the
two steeds Lampus and Phaethon that bear her onward to break the day
upon mankind.
  At last, however, Ulysses said, “Wife, we have not yet reached the
end of our troubles. I have an unknown amount of toil still to
undergo. It is long and difficult, but I must go through with it,
for thus the shade of Teiresias prophesied concerning me, on the day
when I went down into Hades to ask about my return and that of my
companions. But now let us go to bed, that we may lie down and enjoy
the blessed boon of sleep.”
  “You shall go to bed as soon as you please,” replied Penelope,
“now that the gods have sent you home to your own good house and to
your country. But as heaven has put it in your mind to speak of it,
tell me about the task that lies before you. I shall have to hear
about it later, so it is better that I should be told at once.”
  “My dear,” answered Ulysses, “why should you press me to tell you?
Still, I will not conceal it from you, though you will not like BOOK
it. I do not like it myself, for Teiresias bade me travel far and
wide, carrying an oar, till I came to a country where the people
have never heard of the sea, and do not even mix salt with their food.
They know nothing about ships, nor oars that are as the wings of a
ship. He gave me this certain token which I will not hide from you. He
said that a wayfarer should meet me and ask me whether it was a
winnowing shovel that I had on my shoulder. On this, I was to fix my
oar in the ground and sacrifice a ram, a bull, and a boar to
Neptune; after which I was to go home and offer hecatombs to all the
gods in heaven, one after the other. As for myself, he said that death
should come to me from the sea, and that my life should ebb away
very gently when I was full of years and peace of mind, and my
people should bless me. All this, he said, should surely come to
pass.”
  And Penelope said, “If the gods are going to vouchsafe you a happier
time in your old age, you may hope then to have some respite from
misfortune.”
  Thus did they converse. Meanwhile Eurynome and the nurse took
torches and made the bed ready with soft coverlets; as soon as they
had laid them, the nurse went back into the house to go to her rest,
leaving the bed chamber woman Eurynome to show Ulysses and Penelope to
bed by torch light. When she had conducted them to their room she went
back, and they then came joyfully to the rites of their own old bed.
Telemachus, Philoetius, and the swineherd now left off dancing, and
made the women leave off also. They then laid themselves down to sleep
in the cloisters.
  When Ulysses and Penelope had had their fill of love they fell
talking with one another. She told him how much she had had to bear in
seeing the house filled with a crowd of wicked suitors who had
killed so many sheep and oxen on her account, and had drunk so many
casks of wine. Ulysses in his turn told her what he had suffered,
and how much trouble he had himself given to other people. He told her
everything, and she was so delighted to listen that she never went
to sleep till he had ended his whole story.
  He began with his victory over the Cicons, and how he thence reached
the fertile land of the Lotus-eaters. He told her all about the
Cyclops and how he had punished him for having so ruthlessly eaten his
brave comrades; how he then went on to ******, who received him
hospitably and furthered him on his way, but even so he

After the whipping he crawled into bed,
Accepting the harsh fact with no great weeping.
How funny uncle's hat had looked striped red!
He chuckled silently. The moon came, sweeping
A black, frayed rag of tattered cloud before
In scorning; very pure and pale she seemed,
Flooding his bed with radiance. On the floor
Fat motes danced. He sobbed, closed his eyes and dreamed.

Warm sand flowed round him. Blurts of crimson light
Splashed the white grains like blood. Past the cave's mouth
Shone with a large, fierce splendor, wildly bright,
The crooked constellations of the South;
Here the Cross swung; and there, affronting Mars,
The Centaur stormed aside a froth of stars.
Within, great casks, like wattled aldermen,
Sighed of enormous feasts, and cloth of gold
Glowed on the walls like hot desire. Again,
Beside webbed purples from some galleon's hold,
A black chest bore the skull and bones in white
Above a scrawled "Gunpowder!" By the flames,
Decked out in crimson, gemmed with syenite,
Hailing their fellows with outrageous names,
The pirates sat and diced. Their eyes were moons.
"Doubloons!" they said. The words crashed gold. "Doubloons!"

Facades rise in memory.
Paint peels, marble columns lean,
Rain drowns piazzas.
The bridge of sighs moans in sorrow.
Windows stare sightless into the past.
Cats remember the rustling of silk,
jeweled hands tending morsels,
magenta robes, the cloaked,
the caped, flash of daggers in starlight,
the glory on sun drenched Sundays
when church bells summoned the faithful.

Morning sun bounces off golden domes,
water shimmers a crisp mother of pearl.
Gondolieri untie boats from painted poles,
swiftly ferry their fares in narrow vessels,
pass through the shadows of bridges.
Navigate the water webbing the city,
pass slow laboring barges with overflowing loads.
White seagulls crisscross an expanse of blue.
Shouted greetings echo.

In the white palace, laced with marble columns,
painted ceilings in wood paneled rooms tell stories.
Rich and poor bow to the Republic’s justice.
Doges in pointed hats, crimson robes,
cast fate from bejeweled hands.
Ornate basilicas, simple stone chapels, ensnare sinners.
Priests give absolution behind velvet curtains
in musty confessionals reeking of secrets.
Jews marked in red hats hurry to the ghetto.

On the dock fishermen spill their iridescent catch
from hulls of brightly painted boats.
Merchants shout of silk and salamanders in markets.
Women fill woven baskets with foreign colored bounty,
peaches beckon with pink cheeks,
grapes make sweet promises, purple plums tantalize.
Sun inhales musty smells, exhales sweet scents of basil
jasmine, mint, a woman’s sweet odor of lavender lingers.
Dogs lick cobblestones, savor every rancid morsel.
Window sills host lazy eyed cats.

Goats bloated with milk make their way,
pass baying sheep herded to slaughter
by burly men in soiled leather aprons.
Top sail schooners from far away shores,
carved bare breasted mermaids at their bow,
unload treasures. Silk and spices, chained trunks,
casks of sweet wine, gold will fill coffers.

Vines dig roots deep into walls, cling in crevasses,
perfume courtyards with intoxicating smells.
A flock of small yellow birds alight from rose bushes,
drink from a tiered fountain.
Cascades of faceted crystal spills
from the mouths of carved fishes,
stone maidens’ urns. They display their charms,
smile wistfully, wish away pigeons perched on their heads.
Lovers pass, exchange furtive glances, dream of night.

Dark sweaty men push a barge with a coffin
draped in gold threaded brocade, blood red roses.
A priest at the bow, a cross encased with jewels
catches the light in a blinding reflection.
Altar boys swing shiny vessels, incense permeates the air.
High voices intone monotonous chants.
Mourners follow in gondolas, sway in a rhythm of grief.
Black silk shines. Under veils tears streak
white chalked faces, red lips know of secrets.

Celebrants toast a newly wedded couple
with sweet scented deep ruby red wine.
Boar roasts, seasoned with sage, rosemary and thyme.
Round loaves of bread crust in a brick oven.
Pairs spill into the street, dance a joyful pavane,
pounding the cobblestones to the sound of tambourines.
They freeze in a moment in silence,
watch the funeral procession,
make the sign of the cross, return to their feast.

Now canals choke in mud.
fight ruin in oil slick stagnant waters.
Palazzos put on a false-face,
prostitutes heavily painted.
Greedy currents lick at foundations,
slowly swallow remains,
**** them into hostile marshes.

The Campanile rings the hour.


Cristina Umpfenbach-Smyth     July 2010

Storms of oblivion cloud my mind

As I battle to moor my inner conscience

Life was once an abundance of hope

Defeated & beaten by reckless dreams.

Embittered storms that ravage seas

Darkened clouds that strike with fear

With lowered heads we fight in vain

But waters always find a flaw.

-

Deep inside and further down

Visions of guilt burn through my mind

Release the pain in a barge of gold

But left to sail these waters alone.

Confused I wait upon my berth

Entangled doubts that weave my mind

Careless I drift alone and forlorn

As I battle the waves that engulf my soul.

-

Thursdays child was marked from birth

But shoes of stone have held him back

In a struggle of life that ponders deep

Where waters flow and never cease

Desperate times bring wish well friends

Brazen words and reckless deeds

Consume a passion that passes time

Yet plates lay bare & casks run dry.

My organs need aligning      
To my mind's meandering tract.
Irrespective if she loved me,
I should have loved her back.  

August 1st 1994

What do you want from me? I am not just,
As you desire; I am not whole or part
Of your antiquity. I know I must
Deplete my ore of you; I must depart,
If only to withstand the judgment call
That I should sober mine my soul. I dig
But find my land possesses naught but pall
Shrouds, wrecked by empty casks and crowded brigs.
‘Tis only with the passing time and flight:
When I long to belong, when I am blind
With *****, stupefied and brain-dead bright,
That Scotland, you invade my winding mind.
The question haunts as dreich as my desire.
My constant drunken dream will ne’er expire.

Where do we go from here? What is to come
Of me within you, in you, here and now?
The solitary plight in one man’s sum
Of rhyme and reason creases on my brow.
I, sweat in winter outcast by the self,
Must sit. I crouch and crawl from bed to bowl.
This box is stutter stained by glass, the serf
My conscience specified, to catch the soul’s
Transfusion red to street. It drips and slides,
It split my very sides when sadness swept
So close. Dear Scotland, will I ever hide
The condemnation, nailing my inept
Existence? Will I ever find the time?
Dear Scotland please prepare my earthbound lime.

It did, and I did, one after the first.
And now the long time that I walk upon
Has thrown itself, is gone. The wayside burst.
Yet blind, I still conceived my setting sun.
Lone looped black celluloid, I circled, fed
Upon the axle of my own demise,
So many times in dry feet, airborne led
(To a) dishevelled Scotland, spread for absent eyes.
Undressed: acceptant in the throes of musk,
The tear comes shuddering. The chasm wails;
The dales of concrete weep from dawn till dusk.
Yet my visage of sickened eyelets fails.
If Scotland is to eye, my wounded knee:
Then tomb my head in Boston, let it be.
Because,
You loved me with a broken quill clutched tight
Into your hand. My blind eyes reacted to
The sound of greyness in your voice. A flight
And fancy ploy: the essence of a truth.
As memories of eggshelled sojourns waltzed
To Spain and back my tip-skin touched the soul
Of spirit taste, on foot, which cracked beneath
Another sole. My role had shifted poles.
Yet then, in linened white and Boston bright
Disdain, I worshiped, nay, I bled the thought
Of rain on cobbled Ahston Lane. To fight
The want was useless. Now, to the fight, I float.
A ghost in life, I crawled the clouds for miles,
To shake my Scotland’s hand and reconcile.






Barry Miller-Cole 2011

Old wood and brick walls made it
seem like the place called home
and we met a few strangers. She
wore a floral patterned dress and
me a combination of smoky greys.
The jukebox caused feet to dance
as musky bourbon casks ran dry.

The days blur together: fog
and moisture run off of the docks
with sunrise providing a flash
of hope that something will change.
But sunset rips change from
our callused hands that
don’t even blister anymore.

Algae green waves crash onto
the black rocks of the ocean,
the sea foam caps inviting my feet
to dance into the unknown depths
of the sea. A petite fishing boat
cuts through the fog and we meet
face-to-face.

Flowers blowing in the wind
give me a flash of hope something
will change. She offers a weak smile
and is gone as fast as she appeared.
Gone - it happens so quickly; the
wind picked up and my feet decided
to dance. Fall down, never get up again.

You say I love not, ‘cause I do not play
  Still with your curls, and kiss the time away.
  You blame me, too, because I can’t devise
  Some sport to please those babies in your eyes;—
By love’s religion, I must here confess it,
  The most I love, when I the least express it.
  Small griefs find tongues; full casks are never found
  To give, if any, yet but little sound.
Deep waters noiseless are; and this we know,
  That chiding streams betray small depth below.
  So when love speechless is, she doth express
  A depth in love, and that depth bottomless.
Now since my love is tongueless, know me such,
  Who speak but little, ‘cause I love so much.

Appalachian Alchemists
Weaving Gold from farmer's grist
Whiskey Stills
and Copper Pills
Magick Wyrm cools vapor mists

Shine down from a Whiskey Moon
Silver Gift and Nature's Boon
Corn Cob Wands
and Thumper Pots
Mountain Spells from Summers' June

Lightning flash in jar of White
Burning Soul, distilled delight
Mountain Streams
yield Moonshine Beams
Corn-fed Wizards, dark of night

Wisdom cast in Silver hues
Blessing born of Mountain Dews
Love's Desire
from Smoke and Fire
Ancient kin-folk's hidden brews

Inspiration Distillate
Poet's Draught, inebriate
Charcoal Casks
and Secret Flasks
Of this Spirit, Celebrate

I am a cube in a dark chocolate bar
seasoned with a milky white
continent of courses
collision of cultures
chili and chill wind season
in overcoats of global ambitions.
Born in the barracks of colonial masters
who took their women from tribal backwaters
of empire. These beauties succeeded
in conquering their Masters
in the art of warfare in bed and beyond.

say what you will
I carry the cost of all completion
and show the combination of colours
on my skin
burnt in the sun of these wars and conquests
all six of us soldiers.

we took his language and her complete
abandonment to beauty grew in the night
of knowing the white ruled the rainbow
and hard liquor while the dark bred the boldness
or so. (Mama said)

we, as children of different cultures
in a  potpourri of pertinence
got licked, kicked, bruised and burped
cooked and laid as chocolates always do.
But we grew in mamas wonder of the world
at large, while Dad knew all the blends of single malt
maidens from the highlands of his birth.

as happy children, aware of hard work and toil
we rose faster than the fumes of spirits
and set about travelling the shores of net profits
and university empires instead.

Mama laughed when we told her
of the worlds and wonders we had conquered
and how the colour of our skin spoke for us.

Dad knew all about peg measures
and pork chops, fork, spoon  and gunpowder conquests
as hollow as his casks of wine
and maturing as slow as his wisdom.
Mama only knew the meaning of knowledge
with no degrees.

God bless them both
as they sit around a table
in that great place in the beyond
and discuss chocolate bars
skin and colourful wrapping
of all six cubes!

I am Anglo-Indian.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

The Politician

Has he kept his word?

Kept to promises you heard?

Are you satisfied? Let down?

Waiting to see what comes round?

These choices voiced, unvoiced

From voters of the officers new crowned.



To those who vote by rote or call

To those who vote at all:

Has he or she distorted vows

To overpower and devour:

Double thought through double-think?



Misconstruing and misstating,

Skewed with bias filled with hating.

Stinking skills to sell and buy,

To peddle lies which sink a country –

Even if potentially –



Are the aides, incomes denied,

Who stand to profit on the sly,

Men in masks, men in power

Hidden men, men of the hour,

How will tasks now basked in

At whose call flasks, casks are drunk from:

Will affairs of state be slunk from?



This a call to politician;

Call to listen;

He or she just person

In the end.



The Politician 2.28.2017

Our Times, Our Culture II;

Arlene Corwin

The ants wave their antenna in anticipation
the bee's do their work in the name of propagation
and as the steamed cake is taken out of the oven
on hilltops the witches hide in secret caverns

The Jackdaw sings to the four winds
thrones are toppled of ancient kings
all the cities slumber ready to wake
when the topping is poured on the magic cake

Toadstools of tales will pop up from the soil
kettles around this aged land will start to boil
the children that have never grown old
will grow with mutuality beings so bold

All the casks from sea wreaked ships
will cast mariners *** onto their lips
for all that do dwell here so await
that wondrous sweet, the magic cake

By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

By NeonSolaris
© 2013 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)

rosetta spoke like a lucent pharaoh;
deciphering decree's decadence
into bronze skin heiroglypics

a body like a mastaba - corchis lips locked
with burnt up flesh remains
and worms and umber sand
mixed in nectar drank from ancient artifacts
she **** beetles and they drink my blood

we find ourselves
stored inside casks for eternity

They're the burning coal
In the satiated winter morning
With snow falling on the ground
And the fire burning with vigour

They're like the veins
On the creepy swollen leaves
Falling down from trees in autumn
Being crushed beneath those dreams

They're like the casks of wine
Left open on the street
Flowing into the sewer
Dissembling people's thoughts

They're like grains of sand
In one hourglass
There for each other
Together Breaking the ravages of time.

Half the day wasted in dreams,
Fines to pay,
Night spent looking for sense, it seems,
Everything has changed but routine is the same,
Late at night on my way home
Dogs bark like guys act out dominance, adding depth and tone,
Egos seem bottomless,
Time lapse of mishaps,
Right and wrong, lost deep in my sub conscious,
Write all night long, streets full of alcoholics,
As they stumble past,
In the parks echo’s of humble laughs,

These are,
Shark infested waters,
Most decent fish in the sea have already been hooked,
Some controlling like borders,
It's been more than twice since I've looked,
Frogger got squashed on the road
Tried to cut the corners,

Lead dagger pierces my mind,
Thoughts spill out like the blood of a tragedy,
Snap back to life,
Junkies stabbing at my reality,
Notes over my apathy for change,
I drop words like a rock off a balcony,
Needles in the back lanes,
Wine casks lay, as empty as my wallet,
Real hunger, no games,
On the search for dollars,
But don't want to be locked in chains,
And living in the complete squalor.

We went to live in Smuggler’s Cove
Near a cave, right on the beach,
Where once they’d hidden ill-gotten gains
In the cave, and out of reach.
The locals said two hundred years
Since the smugglers came ashore,
Carrying casks of Spanish wine
And a chest of gold moidores.

Led by a man called One-Eye Red
For the only one he’d got,
He’d lost the other, the locals said,
To a random pistol shot,
He wore a patch on the missing eye
For the wind blew in at the hole,
And froze his brain till he went insane
When the winter winds were cold.

He hung with Sally, a thatcher’s wife
Who would meet him in the cove,
And he would sample her plain delights
Till the time came round to rove.
She kept lookout on the cliff top there
For a glimpse of Revenue Men,
And would fire her flintlock pistol where
She had thought she’d sighted them.

My wife, her name was Sally too
And I’d rib her there in jest,
‘You’d better not hug a smuggler, Sally,
Dressed only in your vest.’
We’d laugh back then in those early days
As we worked to settle in,
But sensed some dread foreboding there,
In the air from old past sin.

It came on strong in the winter time
When the cove was filled with mist,
The mouth of the cave was grim and dark
It would almost seem possessed,
Then Sally started to walk at night
As the waves crashed into the shore,
She said she needed to beat the fright
That she’d suffered from times before.

I’d watch her walk to the darkened cave
Then halt to stare in the mouth,
It opened onto the northern shore
Then she’d turn, and wander south,
She’d come back shivering, pale and wan
And would warm up by the fire,
Then come out with the strangest thing
That it filled her with desire.

She’d strip right off by the glowing hearth
And I’m not one to complain,
She’d not been so very down to earth
Since the Lord invented rain,
Then one night when the mist was thick
I could barely see the cave,
When a ghostly figure stepped from the sea
And walked all over my grave.

Then Sally turned and she spoke to him
As my stomach churned inside,
They walked together into the cave
Like a bridegroom and a bride,
I left the cottage, the door ajar
And I ran down to the beach,
But when I got to the mouth of the cave,
Sally was out of reach.

Sally was out of reach that day
And has been each day since,
The phantom that walked her into the cave
Was One-Eye Red at a pinch.
I called and called for her to come back,
I even tried to insist,
But all that I’ve seen on a winter’s night
Are their shadows, abroad in the mist.

David Lewis Paget

I age my poems
in dark musty cellar
'till they mellow and moan
begging to be brought to light

I bury them there
in oaken casks, stained purple
flavoring them full of
funky terroir

Abandoned on a shelf in
old green glass
imprisoned by cork
unlabeled

I age my poems
banished 'till rhyme ripens
in dim hopes one day
they'll tickle someone's tongue

Look around you,
A world of fraud.
All these lies
Deserve an applaud.

You hide yourselves
With thick fake masks,
Dropping the ensemble
In the safety of your casks.

You plead for reality
Yet do so cloaked.
Open your eyes,
This fate, you've evoked.

To the few
Vulnerable and bare,
I have a favor to ask
If you truly care.

So those of you
Free of feign and guilt
I ask that you tear down
What we have built.

High atop shining mountains,
Where Gods glint as they spy
On wanting mortals, cast in heat
And toil, in heavens that are always
Basked by sun and days of grape,
That flow from the endless pour
Of golden casks, give mirth to always
Blue veins as they revel in mighty
Perfection and beauty, enameled
With imperishable face and statuary
Form, who thunder above feathery
Cloud, rumbling beyond all earthly
Ken and dream— in these heavens,
Is there myth only of desire?

Or do they yearn in cradle sleep,
As all those landed babes in need
Of mercies and fable, do gods shape
Subtle creations with the music of love,
Of blood in a touch, of dawn and hope
In the flowering of family and learning?
Can the gleaming child ever know needs
As they are met, held by eyes and lip,
The windy caress of kiss and nod
And rarest time as it wanes?

On radiant, fabled Olympus, where
Eagles, golden in the sun, only rake
The rims of Elysium as they song glide
So effortlessly, unlike the perilous, shy,
Wandering tribes basely set so far below,
The sun clad Titans home eternal, who always
Are held, perpetual in ever engulf of skies, rest
Starry, in their sparkling, immortal cloaks
Of milky cosmos and ambrosial aethers.

Above the murmuring clamours
Of the under strays and dogs of plain
And sea, do chose children of light ever
Quake or shudder in awe, never moved,
Or are they but weilders of storm and fierce
Lightning strikes, burnishing in judgement flame,
Never to be struck by leaves that come in fires of autumn,
Such monumental peace in a seasons turn, the simple joinings,
Of lovers, by a hearth, by a road, by rush of mountain streams?
In high heavens do even the Gods not dream
Of deep, down, sole earthly pleasures?

.
High atop shining mountains,
Where Gods glint as they spy
On wanting mortals, cast in heat
And toil, in heavens that are always
Basked by sun and days of grape,
That flow from the endless pour
Of golden casks, give mirth to always
Blue veins as they revel in mighty
Perfection and beauty, enameled
With imperishable face and statuary
Form, who thunder above feathery
Cloud, rumbling beyond all earthly
Ken and dream— in these heavens,
Is there myth only of desire?

Or do they yearn in cradle sleep,
As all those landed babes in need
Of mercies and fable, do gods shape
Subtle creations with the music of love,
Of blood in a touch, of dawn and hope
In the flowering of family and learning?
Can the gleaming child ever know needs
As they are met, held by eyes and lip,
The windy caress of kiss and nod
And rarest time as it wanes?

On radiant, fabled Olympus, where
Eagles, golden in the sun, only rake
The rims of Elysium as they song glide
So effortlessly, unlike the perilous, shy,
Wandering tribes basely set so far below,
The sun clad Titans home eternal, who always
Are held, perpetual in ever engulf of skies, rest
Starry, in their sparkling, immortal cloaks
Of milky cosmos and ambrosial aethers.

Above the murmuring clamours
Of the under strays and dogs of plain
And sea, do chose children of light ever
Quake or shudder in awe, never moved,
Or are they but weilders of storm and fierce
Lightning strikes, burnishing in judgement flame,
Never to be struck by leaves that come in fires of autumn,
Such monumental peace in a seasons turn, the simple joinings,
Of lovers, by a hearth, by a road, by rush of mountain streams?
In high heavens do even the Gods not dream
Of deep, down, sole earthly pleasures?

The Politician

This to those who vote by rote
Or vote by call -
To those who vote at all:

Has he kept his word?
Kept to promises you heard?
Are you satisfied, let down?
Waiting to see what goes round:
(Several choices
Of the voices
Voting for the offices
Meant to be filled.)

Has he gone back on his vows -
Contradictory or harmful now?
Double thought through double-think?
Does it stink, prepared to sink
A land with aids, advisors, incomes
Sly, and on the side?

How will issues relevant be dealt with?
How will tasks be basked in
By the men
In power,
Typically men of the hour;
At their call, flasks, casks to drink from:
State affairs for one to think from!

The Politician 2.27.2017
Our Times, Our Culture II;
Arlene Corwin

and that's  because the yachts of time have sailed

I failed to keep them in the port
they caught the early tide to slide
across the wide blue sea
and somewhere deep inside the hold against the bulkhead where the *** is kept and where a thousand ****** slept and dreamt of Blackbeards gold
I sold my innocence for grog.

To dog my days I could have cut and clicked or sliced and picked a thousand ways to die

I chose to close my mind and find escape in the escape
heady tasks among the empty casks and empty eyes that eyed me
across the wide
blue sea.

These were the sailing ships

I saw them on some movie clips

nations within nations without limit of the land.

We get old
some will find the gold
some will search a lifetime
finding life in time
and
the yachts will sail away.

with lies i'd prefer to believe
than the reality

with snow i swept
rather than the dust i kicked

with another layer of skin
i have no need for this

with the promises kept
rather than the betrayals

with ***** that only touched casks
rather than the wine that touched lips

in water (it's honest)
rather than earth (it lies)

with a thousand soft whispers
not the empty threats

with the love i once felt
rather than the violence i know

and etch on the tombstone
"it's about ******* time!"

Last April I was facing radical surgery that would entail the amputation of an arm at the shoulder & the removal of 4 ribs. The odds of survival were slim but still I wanted to be, for my mail man, the best unlicensed surgeon ever.

.
High atop shining mountains,
Where Gods glint as they spy
On wanting mortals, cast in heat
And toil, in heavens that are always
Basked by sun and days of grape,
That flow from the endless pour
Of golden casks, give mirth to always
Blue veins as they revel in mighty
Perfection and beauty, enameled
With imperishable face and statuary
Form, who thunder above feathery
Cloud, rumbling beyond all earthly
Ken and dream— in these heavens,
Is there myth only of desire?

Or do they yearn in cradle sleep,
As all those landed babes in need
Of mercies and fable, do gods shape
Subtle creations with the music of love,
Of blood in a touch, of dawn and hope
In the flowering of family and learning?
Can the gleaming child ever know needs
As they are met, held by eyes and lip,
The windy caress of kiss and nod
And rarest time as it wanes?

On radiant, fabled Olympus, where
Eagles, golden in the sun, only rake
The rims of Elysium as they song glide
So effortlessly, unlike the perilous, shy,
Wandering tribes basely set so far below,
The sun clad Titans home eternal, who always
Are held, perpetual in ever engulf of skies, rest
Starry, in their sparkling, immortal cloaks
Of milky cosmos and ambrosial aethers.

Above the murmuring clamours
Of the under strays and dogs of plain
And sea, do chose children of light ever
Quake or shudder in awe, never moved,
Or are they but wielders of storm and fierce
Lightning strikes, burnishing in judgement flame,
Never to be struck by leaves that come in fires of autumn,
Such monumental peace in a seasons turn, the simple joinings,
Of lovers, by a hearth, by a road, by rush of mountain streams?
In high heavens do even the Gods not dream
Of deep, down, sole earthly pleasures?
.

It is not somewhere over the rainbow
beyond Mother's breath or
in the devices of ancient
or modern hands bereft

we touch it in our pathos
and empathy from
time to time
through a shallow fading
gravel bed
filtering a bitter water table perhaps

whilst the tender leaf of spring feels it
in the autumn of unconditional
acceptance of the inevitable
morning frost
cold relentless rains
and colourful leaves
falling to their death
in beauty

so far removed from our bipedal posturing
and upright positioning at the computer
desk knowing there is no mystery here
no wild cry in the night
only electronic and organic
bleeps and drones and

aw! there… I heard it again

a lost chord
a missing link
that the wild
creatures understand
of what we sometimes feel nearer in our shared limbic
brain seldom penetrated through
our domineering eyes planted firmly in front
of the gray dross from an eternal fire

we spend our given time on
this planet trying to douse when the rest
of creation knows the need for its
purification and leaps willingly into its
all-consuming heart as we
live in fear of the unknown
and of fear itself

keeping us estranged from the cosmic mysterium which provokes us to awaken
to the wondrous eternal
which will
alter our deluded consciousness
to see what has been seen through the
unknown eons to help us take to the fire

we only catch a whiff of in the twilight
of our hopes and selfless dreams
so we will rise through the
dry brown leaves of our once tender
green vision of an ever-changing universe
which whispers louder and louder in our darkness
until we cease our chatter and
learn to listen to the serene silence
of an eternal vibration heightening

morphing less organic much more
ethereal spiritual crawling further and further
from the pulse of the earth
as we shed thickened skin which
once replaced thin soft unprotected flesh
needing protection from extraneous
sources to cover what should have been

eternally naked bare to the elements
not limited to a frail carcass which
will ultimately be left behind as we
transform into our individual eternal temples to
join in worship with the rest of creation
to be the living offering
at the foot of the
eternal voice ineffable
not waiting to be obeyed
in mass procession but

as individual as one spark igniting
a plot of trees newly released as mystery
revealed ever so slightly in the wake of
the burial of earthbound mind steeped in
temporal ancient tradition fermented in
oak casks which were made to remain
and grow in their ****** state

as we hear distant yet distinct whispers of
the origin of our human calling above and beyond
Thoreau's distant drummer’s near silent tremors of the
most ancient rhythms now mostly echoes as we
march to
and follow our own drummer
leading the way back home

as we at times seem to distinctly
hear original rhythm's calling
as we try so earnestly to
respond like a dying sea
longing to once again sway
to the beckoning moon

often keeping in step
with our
own inner drummer who
is always trying to keep
time by asking

"are we prepared to give
in to what we will
inevitably meet in the end?"

there's a
monster that they make of me,
but they're in the dim light
in casks of shadows.