Wish of a Kitchen Maid

Is that my loved one coming
    through the mart,
to start the leaden drumming
    of my heart?

Is that him on his Shire's
    back so high?
The spark of my desire's
    flame-blue eye?

Are those the corded thews
    of his arms,
and that the lady who's
    won his charms

with plumpness in the bodice
    laced up tight,
which drew his blue eye's notice
    yesternight?

Indeed, it is the bitch.
    See there, he
dismounts and salves his itch
    with very

indiscreet and copious
    long kisses,
and gestures that make obvious
    who is his

lucky and young lover.
    Now, heart, ease.
The dream we had is over,
    so stop, please.



10.10.13

Glad Piper

For Ian Anderson, a lifelong inspiration and hero

 Piping gay through glade and glen
 with stag and hare he leaps,
 lifting his knee while bird and bee
 their company he keeps.

 The moon his lady and his love,
 the sun his golden king;
 earth his garden, God his Warden,
 watching everything.

 White his hair and green his eye
 his beard long and silver;
 bright with glee his melody
 that ripples like a river.

 Mired with mud his leathern boot,
 his tunic caked with dust;
 Black his belt as a panther's pelt,
 his cap as red as rust.

 Old as a star, mad as the wind,
 with bounce and bound he hies;
 swift as a viper, the Glad Piper
 flips his flute as he flies.

10.4.2013

The White King and the Black

The White King sate on his throne,
  around him good company;
but he dwelled on another one,
  who would not let his heart be free.
Take heed, for it shall be shown
  whom that other wight could be.

Far deep in the frozen south
  where wind and snow bite hard,
like fangs of a wild boar's mouth,
  yet leave a man unscarred,
there lived a people uncouth
  whom the world's peace had marred.

This race was not inhuman,
  at least not in flesh nor form,
but lived by ways uncommon:
  they were swift to raise an arm
on friend as well as foeman,
  thrilled to offend or harm.

These queer folk had a leader,
  he was known as the Black King,
although his kingdom was whiter
  than even the downy swan's wing.
Be assured, he was bent on slaughter,
  and less of a man than a thing,

a thing that with spear or axe          
  would slay like a machine,
his heart as lifeless as wax,
  naught but cogs and wheels within;
and with that breath at your backs
  a chill crawls under the skin.

On such the White King pondered.
  As he tired, his grim thoughts strayed.
He fell asleep, and he wandered,
  in a dream, through a masquerade,
where all looked upon him, and wondered
  which side of the board he played.




9.21.13

Ancient Conflict

"Whence came the Great Spirit?
upon whose breast
did He His strength inherit?
At who's behest
Did He come in the sky
and claim that I am I ?"

The doubting warrior queried.
And quoth the chief,
"Whispering Snake has tarried,
without relief,
so long on the path of battle
his head begins to rattle."



meh. 9.19.13

Singing Gardens

On the earth of jails and gallows
singing gardens will bloom - Menke Katz


On the earth of jails and gallows,
singing gardens will bloom;
the prison house, with rat and louse,
will be swallowed up in gloom.

On seas of scows and whalers
a silence will fall again,
gilt with sun's gold, as in days of old,
before the seafaring men.

In cities that once were prairies,
fields, and green woodlands vast,
big grids will fail, as sirens wail
in a darkness that will last.

In nations that once were empires,
where industry fattened on war,
banks will tumble, and want will humble
the rich man and the poor.

On the earth of jails and gallows
gardens will sing and grow wild;
and Christ the meek will teach and speak
in the breath of a sleeping child.



 - 9.17.13

Owl on the Mere

Baleful his note of warning
repeats among cattail and reed,
in the murk of the deep morning
when he begins to feed.

Coneys from their safe warrens
and mice from their burrows creep;
but round these blighted barrens
the waterfowl are asleep.

Over the mere's still water
he scans with his weather-eye,
where skims the spindle-legg'd spider
and floats the green dragonfly.

Now with a swift, silent gliding
he swoops upon his prey;
scared creatures fly into hiding
to wait for the glimmer of day.

Baleful his note of warning,
to any who listen here.
Now, crowned in the gold light of morning,
sleeps the owl on the mere.



9.16.13

Harrowing River

The red Harrowing River,
under a moonlit night,
could make a mastiff shiver
and turn its master white.

Cold and wide, her waters
are rife with many a soul;
many men's sons and daughters
in her deep fathoms roll.

Her shores awash with evil,
her nadir heaped with death,
this sinuous, sliding devil
would stop an infant's breath;

would heave a crest at Yahweh,
had she that high a grasp,
and, were not Christ so far away,
on His hem she would clasp.

Should the Lord forgive her,
pray let us not forget
that baleful Harrowing River
that runs through man's heart yet.



 - 9.14.13

Little Davy

Little Davy
reached down
to the ground
put a pebble in a sling

then he took a swing
of the thing
and look, that boy
took that big muthafucker down

Goliath
go lieth in thy grave
for Little Davy
hath saved the day

and you are on your way
we pray
(maybe)
to the bosom of the Lord



first week plus one day 9.2013

The Red Slayer's Widow

The ivy creeps on the tower
in stealth to the highest window
where kept in a stony bower
waits the Red Slayer's widow.

Her silver hair
and dark eyes glare
and glimmer in cold
and shadow.

Far below in the dungeons
of the Keep of the White Prince,
the grind of terrible engines
makes the old woman wince.

Through withered years
the sounds she hears
unspeakable fears
evince.

In far gone days she gave
her tender heart
to darkness, and from darkness
shall not part.

Red Slayer's widow, lament.
The blue-silver moon
and the owl on the mere
your doleful accompaniment.

The love that she remembers
for her ill chosen one
still glows in her mind like embers,
and has turned her heart to stone.

Still she remains,
and hears the chains
in the cold dark depths,
alone.

Red Slayer's widow, lament.
The blue-silver moon
and the owl on the mere
your doleful accompaniment.


8.25.13

The Parson's Daughter

There at the window early
comes the rooster's crow,
and the maiden I love dearly
ambles along also.

She's come to the well for water,
a clay jug in each hand.
She is the parson's daughter,
and wears no golden band.

If I were the fair Queen's soldier,
I'd slay me many a foe,
Nor wish to be one day older,
I'd fight for her honor so.

Yet amid the strife and slaughter
my heart would keep a place
for the eyes of the parson's daughter,
that gleam with queenly grace.

If I were a temple-builder,
with naught but wood and stone,
I'd treat them as gold and silver,
and build as it were God's throne.

Near the stars I'd swing my hammer,
near Heaven my church would stand;
yet still would my fool's heart clamor
for my beloved's hand.

But I am a harness-maker,
an apprentice one at that,
far poorer than butcher or baker,
to whom I tip my hat;

and I've not the courage to query
around for hope nor hint
that the parson's daughter might tarry
to meet this workman's squint.

And so at the window tomorrow
I'll lean my mug at dawn,
and drink the day's draught of sorrow
when she steps over the lawn.



8.20.13

Over the Meadows

One day she will come walking
as stately as a queen,
in spite of the old hens' talking,
over the meadows green.

Her feet will lightly amble
straight to my cottage door,
and then my heart will gambol
and sorrow nevermore.

And naught will give me sadness,
and naught will give me rue;
my heart will be rife with gladness
should this one dream ring true.

One day she will come walking
as stately as a queen,
in spite of the old hens' talking,
over the meadows green.




8.20.2013

Ballad of Morning Star

I got up sick this morning, Lord,
  it always starts that way,
and found that my old lady
  and my hound dog ran away.
My landlord said, "boy, pony up
  for two months now, or split."
O Lord, you know just what I got,
  but I'm not sayin' it.

I took a bus on into town,
  to find a paying job,
a hard-ass boss just up and said
  I was a no-good slob;
I almost wrung his scrawny throat,
  so angry I could spit,
O Lord you know just what I got,
  but I'm not sayin' it.

I thought about an old guitar
  that I had put away.
I bought it as a strapping lad,
  but could not hardly play.
I'd pluck and strum all night but still
  I'd turn a song to shit,
O Lord, you know just what I got,
  but I'm not sayin' it.

So in a filthy bar I sat down
  with a glass of scotch
to sum up all my good and bad
  and wound up with a botch.
My Daddy said in days long past
  a good man would not quit,
But Lord you know what I still got,
  though I'm not sayin' it.

A sharp young man was sitting tall,
  just down that sticky bar,
who drank out of a shot glass
  with a hand as black as tar;
and with a grin that shadow-man
  shook up my soul a bit:
(O Lord, that man knows what I got,
  though I'm not sayin' it.)

"I'm known as Morning Star," that man said,
  with a frightful hiss,
"though I'm as dark as night and cold
  as any warlock's piss."
His words slid out as chill as mist
  from an unholy pit.
O Lord I saw him plain as day,
  but would not own to it!

"Up in your room, dirty with dust,
  you stow an old guitar,
go find it now and brush up on
  your chops", said Morning Star,
"Tonight is inspiration;
  and tomorrow, bang, a hit!"
O Lord, I saw him through and through,
  but did not own to it!

Tonight I took that old guitar and,
  good Lord, how it rang!
what chords my hands could fashion now,
  how gloriously I sang!
But, Lord, I took that old guitar
  and, in a pious fit,
I cast it down and with an oath said,
  "I'm not playin' it!"

My room got hot, a ghostly moonlight
  through a window sash
lit up that old guitar which now
  was but a mound of ash;
and, nigh but out of sight, old Morning Star
  spat, "I admit,
Your will is strong, your soul is God's,
  and I'm not touching it."

And soon a stormy wind struck up that,
  blowing hard and fast,
wild as a pack of jackals braying
  with a furious blast,
took up that ash and had it spinning
  quick as a hot drill bit...
  ...Still got an old harmonica,
        but I ain't too fond of it.


2004

Orion's Lady

Over our heads now he stands
forever alert and on guard,
be you sleeping or waking, he mans
his post in the night, silver-starred.

His Father's eye catches each sparrow
that falls, and none hide from His sight; 
Orion, your flame-feathered arrow
wards off the dark angels of night.

An archer, a soldier,
he keeps with his bow
the peace of the innocent,
sleeping below.

Armadas of unearthly galleons
pass silently through the void.
Is there but a moment for dalliance?
Can love in his heart be enjoyed?

A watcher, a warden,
he keeps with his bow
the peace of the innocent,
sleeping below.

O Where does your fair lady shine, Orion?
I've looked far and wide at the fires that flicker there,
in the farthest fields of Heaven, my eye on
the curve of her breast or the sign of her sable hair.

7.28.2012

Nobody's Heart

The darklashed eyes half opened,
the port-red lips half shut,
the seal of the letter broken,
the long-held secret out,

she turns with a sad pirouette,
and for a last second fancies
a clutch of fine-chinned silhouettes
of tophatted old-moneyed dandies.

So somebody thinks she's something,
Who's thinking of her as he slinks
in the shadows across the road, mumbling
and stumbling along as he thinks

that if Helen's face set off a thousand
trim-sailed fire-fighting ships,
then she'd wake the dead to carouse &
raise hell with the swell of her hips.

But her cold heart is hard and her sights
are set on the gold,
and a word's worth to her is a half-penny
sadly neglected;

and a scribbler's art is a trifle,
a rhyme is a tale twice-told,
and the name that she saw was the one
that was least expected.

 Nobody's heart gets broken
over and over again;
over and over again.

So now she knows it, he mentions
off-handedly in his own ear;
but it was with the best of intentions
that he'd made his affections clear.

Of course she was disappointed,
That Cupid's anointed dart
was once again errantly pointed
at some low-born nobody's heart.

War Party

While far behind our hearths and halls
are fire-warm and woman-rich,
the icy rain shakes down in squalls
that holler like a banshee bitch.
No giving up, no turning in,
no time to worry or wonder;
just grit your teeth and take it straight,
and shake your fist at the thunder.

With miles to go through muck and mire, 
the sickle moon rides high in the night;
a silver splinter of Heaven's fire,
a wink of God's eye, burning bright.
No time to sleep, no time to dream,
no peace for the man that wallows;
no doubt for him it will be grim
when he meets with the One that follows.

Raise your shields against the storm, boys,
Drive on, be hale and hearty;
the eyes of your women keep you warm, boys,
Ride on, as one, war party.

The hills are hard and the weather evil
but soon we'll see that dawn of gold 
that stirs our hearts and drives the Devil
back to his dark, deep-harrowed hole.
The sun will rise and bless your eyes
just when your hopes had dwindled;
and those who were slain will rise again
in the stars, their brave hearts kindled.

 

Ballad of Jack Kettle

Longshanks sat in the corner
his back against the wall,
he'd come from beyond the border
where evil had laid its pall.
You could feel the darkness on him
Like ice it burned you cold;
but the devil had never won him,
in his eye that truth was told.

A mug of ale and a tall tale
we'll have if the teller's awake and able;
but if he's gone we'll laugh till dawn
and leave some coin on the oaken table.

Betimes beer tricks a fellow
and makes his reason wink;
the man's far better off yellow
whose heart-fire comes from drink;
so up says young Jack Kettle,
armed with his bunched-up fists,
bristled with ale-born mettle,
and all of his senses dismissed:

"Stranger, I see you're bigger than me
but I reckon not half those tales are true,
that say you've spat in the devil's hat
and that he had nary a lick for you."

Remember the night Jack Kettle was pissed
and took a swing at a man and missed;
remember the tale and tell your young
what havoc comes of a wagging tongue.

Longshanks donned his kid gloves
when it came time to settle
a score that rose in a beer mug
and in the hot head of Jack Kettle;
one mop in the hand of a barmaid
sopped up the blood that was spilled
from that sawed-off wanna-be David
who was lucky he wasn't killed.