"murmering" poems
Wilson and Pilcer and Snack stood before the zoo elephant.
Wilson said, "What is its name? Is it from Asia or Africa? Who feeds
it? Is it a he or a she? How old is it? Do they have twins? How much does
it cost to feed? How much does it weigh? If it dies, how much will another
one cost? If it dies, what will they use the bones, the fat, and the hide
for? What use is it besides to look at?"
Pilcer didn't have any questions; he was murmering to himself, "It's
a house by itself, walls and windows, the ears came from tall cornfields,
by God; the architect of those legs was a workman, by God; he stands like
a bridge out across the deep water; the face is sad and the eyes are kind;
I know elephants are good to babies."
Snack looked up and down and at last said to himself, "He's a tough
son-of-a-gun outside and I'll bet he's got a strong heart, I'll bet he's
strong as a copper-riveted boiler inside."
They didn't put up any arguments.
They didn't throw anything in each other's faces.
Three men saw the elephant three ways
And let it go at that.
They didn't spoil a sunny Sunday afternoon;
"Sunday comes only once a week," they told each other.
15k
late at night
when you want to sleep
and you can't
bear to surrender
press the strange button
disguised in your remote control
and your little television will flicker
with an odd and greyish picture
and you can hear my voice
and see another moment for a world--
pearls of wood tinkling
a wild woman hacking through a jungle of words
uncovering swirls
of teacups and curls
and tiny grey horses
sprouting antlers of moss
and dancers and jokers
and portraits of loss
each one of these threaded
through the path of destruction
she's hacking her way through
your television
while murmering
oh so quietly
then turn off the image
and lie down and rest
reassured by the knowledge
that out there in the world
there's something just as deranged
as you feel in your chest
and it's there as a gift of
tiny horses in teacups
for you if
you can find it.
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 4:39 AM UTC
The glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armor against Fate;
Death lays his icy hands on kings:
Sceptre and Crown
Must tumble down
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and *****
Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they ****
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still:
Early or late
They stoop to fate
And must give up their murmering breath
When they, pale captives, creep to death.
The garlands wither on your brow;
Then boast no more your mighty deeds!
Upon death's purple alter now
See where the victor-victim bleeds.
Your heads must come
To the cold tomb:
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet and blossom in their dust.
-James Shirley
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 9:36 PM UTC
Was it a flock of starlings
or mistle thrushes
I saw murmuring for a moment
in the dark sky?
Realizing they were actually starlings
not mistle thrushes
I deleted them
from my mind
and watched as the starlings continued their orbit
to a warmer county
Dec 20, 2019
Dec 20, 2019 at 6:01 AM UTC