Topgear, Fer Real! — a poem

musepic

Bad news crew on a road trip,

not slowing for the infrequent dip;
out drop-top cruising on a starry
night.  Passing

wheatfields, crows startle,
parrots gossip, the humming-
bird drinks from thorns — time

flies.  Though we melted
down the enslaving clocks
in honor of unreality —

we have time on our side.
The crazed Spaniard riding
shotgun calls out directions
to the driver. “Quel?” He lends
an ear, but does not comply.

And the two women enthroned
in the back seat are keeping

their peace.

So, this is my first response to TheSundayMuse (Sunday Muse #131), and my first response to any prompt in a long time.  At least, my first that I’ve bother to post.

This piece only plays well if you know the players well.

About to Snap — a poem

(Image: © NASA, ESA and the Hubble Heritage Team (STScI/AURA)-ESA/Hubble Collaboration.)

The universe is stretched too thin.
We listen for the resounding snap.
Scientists are baffled; poets laugh.
Philosophers gear up for a sudden freeze.

Dark matter we’ve covered; dark energy, too.
Neither can be captured, seen or weighed;
but once hypothesized, theorized, it’s proven
unless and until the next best theory butts in —
and still a theory lives… a proven theory.

Tonight I waste little thought matter,
dark thoughts on cosmological diddling.

My universe is stretched

as far as she will go.

https://www.quantamagazine.org/a-new-cosmic-tension-the-universe-might-be-too-thin-20200908/

In Search of the Lost Couplet — a poem

A hard night; mind won’t rest.
At the grocery in search
of consolation in a Napa Valley plonk,
some accompanying gnosh.

A whim, I opt for a New York red —
“Five Finger Discount.”
Lake Region humor, no doubt.
Triscuits and a Wisconsin Brie.
God help me!

Back to the cottage to compose.
Or to slowly do the converse.

…very slowly.

An Outlook Occluded — a poem for Independence Day

IMG_0324

 

A Full Buck Moon about to rise,
and this the 4th of July — celebrated
most years as a day of unity —
but now we have two anthems.

Will we soon have one for every color?

And our country, the States United
(if you can grasp the infernal irony)
is all but torn asunder.

Florida is setting
new bars, contracting
a novel virus.

We’re either second or third.

Those who aren’t fighting the race wars
are arguing over wearing masks and distances.

And, damn it, the sky is clouded;
overcast, like it would be for a launch.

 

 

When a Poet Passes — a poem

Paul-Laurence-Dunbar (2)

for Firestone Feinberg

Our plesance heir is all vane glory,
This fals warld is bot transitory,
The flesche is brukle, the Fend is sle;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

— William Dunbar
“Lament for the Makers”

 

His breath stopped
yet not his voice — it lives
within others and others to come.

Or perhaps it flies
on the Springtime wind
into the budding trees of May.

It will be heard
when leaves are full
green, or in Autumn’s dry whisper.

And, yes, even as Winter laughs
at our collective frailty.

The voice of a maker echoes
in protest, in pleasure — the shouts
of children at play;
of lovers at odds;
of those who wish to be heard
over the chaotic noise they have caged
within that sings, “The fear of death confounds me!”

His breath has stopped.
His voice has joined
the chorus of the makaris —

“I se that makaris amang the laif
Playis heir ther pageant, syne gois to graif;
Sparit is nocht ther faculte….”

 

Less Than Normal — a poem

What did I find when I ventured
out today? Bite-sized memories strewn
across the surface of our pond.

Thoughts brought
to light — a feeding
frenzy of guilts.

I look up to the clouds
into a mother-shaped hole.

Thirty years abandoned.

The promised
rain never appears.

The storms headed south.

Only a drop blown in a north wind.

Meditations of Sophie, Our Dog, Who Has Recently Lost Her Ability To Hear — a poem

Sophie (2)

Sophie

 

I can’t find their sounds —
sniffed everywhere.

They have hidden their voices.
I watch as they move
their muzzles; but nothing.

How am I to know?

They smell the same, but are not
talking to me.

No scent of anger.

No scent of play.

No sense I make
of this.

* * *

Okay, so as much as we love her, our Sophie never showed signs of enjoying us: our voices, our music, anything we did that kept her from her naps. She’s probably happy (if a tad confused) by our silences.

No Real Reflection On Me — a poem

hand

photo by Charley

 

I have taught
my morning mirror to lie;
a sidelong glance,
a winning smile —
“Goodbye.  Adieu!”
My day is dressed
and all my success
is ensured
by my deceiving eyes.

But the camera,
the webcam,
my cellphone selfie —
like a vampire
I’ll not reflect
on them
and their persistent truths.

Tonight I’ll bear
the inner image
to heart.
Tonight I’ll rest,
get an early start, having
breakfast, coffee,
and my morning lie.