My Soul Is a Witness for My Lord

You can photograph a sunset or a solar eclipse
holding a camera here on earth,
but where can you stand to shoot the apocalypse?

You can shoot the rapids in a canoe or a kayak
(for what that’s worth),
and you can even photograph a solar eclipse

if your gear is up to it
(maybe from somewhere
in St. Paul). But where do you stand to shoot the apocalypse?

When the apocalypse happens, you can’t plant your feet
so’s to get a level eye on what’s coming forth—
a lot more challenging than a solar eclipse,

because you’re part of the whole god-damned To-Hell-With-It—
witnessing the hideous birth,
not just of the old familiar crappie that eats the sun,

but of the dreadful million-fangéd Snake—
each fang a unique internet port.
Photographing a solar eclipse?
Piece of cake! But you can’t shoot the apocalypse.

Du, Papageno!

This urge to speak—
how can I take part
in my life if I remain quiet?

So I talk into my days—I look
swell, and I’m ready to bare my heart.
I speak

my first words, and they’re a laugh-riot.
I use every art
to justify not remaining quiet.

But my get-along springs a leak
if I don't write
and tell you how it feels to need to speak.

And you say, “OK, but what?”
And I’m just standing holding the spigot
open, while you yearn for quiet.

It would be just as polite
to be Gulliver on Lilliput.
Lord, what a noise I make when I speak!
I’ll sing to be quiet.

Deeper Than Did Ever Plummet Sound

Looking forward to a calmer time,
when I can reflect on what happened,
maybe edit my rhymes;

but all I did today was kick a lime-
green husk-ball from a black walnut
tree down the street, to calm my mind;

and then I felt hot purple pain
from a honey-bee trapped
under my rhythmin’-rhymin’

third left toe—I had to bow down
and scrape the stinger out with my fingernail,
dreaming of a calmer time 

when I could walk my remaining mile
without severe pain. Well, it wasn’t
as bad as my rhymes;

in a block or two, I could walk just fine;
and my foot didn’t puff up and turn purple as a grape.
Looking forward to a calmer time,
beyond my rhymes.

Retirement Planning in the Time of Covid

Plans create a bridge to the future
(you hope, a long, long bridge)
the more distant the better.

The future can look foreshortened—
something like a blind hedge—
but plans create a bridge,

because you can anticipate the pleasure
you’ll have as an old Grand Teton lodger
wearing a Moose, Wyoming sweater,

catching trout in sky-blue weather,
trying not be be an x on the covid ledger.
The more remote your death the better,

obviously, so you keep your distance and cover
your nose and mouth. But I’ll wager,
your bridge to the future

is as long as forever,
or else it's a ribbon in a book with no pages.
Your plans create a bridge to a future
as present as this morning’s weather.

Lay on, MacDuff!

Almost anything can make sense
(even things that initially seemed preposterous)
if you just think about them hard enough.

Because you’re a person who’s in love with the truth
(even though you don’t know your nose from a rhinoceros)
almost anything can make sense

to you. Because you know you’ve had it rough
(and you admit to being a bit of a masochist—
you have to be to think as hard as

the half of the world that wears smarty-pants
to keep from rubbing against truth’s cockle-burrs):
whether it makes sense to or not you 

just have to put on your Foster Grants,
take off your towel, and strut your stuff.
You’ll find out soon enough

if you’ve really got the guts to climb the fence
or whether you’ll find yourself playing Hold! Enough!
with your own shadow (which doesn’t make sense,
unless you flap your dream wings hard enough).

 

Where's the Outrage?

I wish I could be outraged all the time,
but I brighten up because my life is sweet
and forget to follow the bouncing dime.

So I blink the reeking slime
on Facebook, sound the retreat
and join my life in realtime.

American Democracy may be finished and I feel fine.
My secret is, I don’t watch TV.
If I could be outraged all the time,

keep my eye on the daily crime,
then I woudn’t feel so complicit
with the grim force that keeps the dime

bouncing like a Mexican jumping bean.
The truth is, I can’t stand the heat.
It’s too exhausting to be outraged all the time.

So I’m the mystery guest on What’s My Line?
facing the inquisition of Arlene Francis and Soupy
Sales: “Are you outraged all the time?
Or are you scared to watch the bouncing dime?”

Morning After a Tough Night

Got a few things going for me,
keeping me on the level—
things that are right there in front of me.

Clouds sailing east in the sky,
my compost shovel—
things I’ve got going for me.

Device screens displaying song lyrics
(Every humble
knee surely must bow). And there’s my

old Gibson mandolin
and my plectrum of yellow
wedged in there between the strings.

And (wayward me!) how can I not mention
my own two feet walking the level and unlevel
ground, right there in front of me,

and all of my sweet distanced friends
whose loving texts let me be grateful
for all I’ve still got going for me,
right there in front of me?

Dude Van Winkle

I’m just an old hippie.
My feet are in jellies.
I’m walking with the Adversary.

No one calls me Larry,
and I don’t wear huggies
when I’m walking with the Adversary,

even though I’m a big baby.
(You could tell me stories!)
I’m the notorious hippie

who tried to dance like Fred Astaire-y
just to keep from being mopey.
The Adversary

whisked me off to Kilkenny, where in-
stead of two cats, there weren’t any.
Up the airy

mountain, down the rushy glen-ny.
I want to tell the story!
My life’s a dangerous adverse event, my-
self my own best frenemy.

A Drunkard’s Dream if I Ever Did See One

At 4AM I awoke with sad thoughts about the poetry communities.
I write and it keeps me from tearing myself down.
Would I still write if I were completely happy?

Green green grass of home with my mammy and my pappy.
Don’t want to always be wearing a frown,
but at 4AM I awoke with sad thoughts about the poetry communities.

If serendipity worked for me,
I’d drive back up to that old gold rush town,
Cripple Creek, where the happy

miners danced all night to Sweet Betsy
From Pike and Oh My Darling Clementine,
and at 4AM I’d remember my duty to write and be goldenly happy.

That would be pretty altruistic
of me, right?—just wanting to share my happy grin—
nothing in it but selfish fun for me, really. Have the poetry communities

fooled me into making and accepting false promises?
Vonnegut said, burn your perfect poem.
That helps me go back to sleep at 4:30AM,
almost completely happy.

Unauthorized Yoga

Was doing Sun Salutation on Summit Avenue Parkway
in my jeans cutoffs.
I wasn’t worried about the rain,

but I did feel one or two
drops as I worked on my right side—
Warrior I on Summit Avenue Parkway.

Not thinking too much about yesterday’s
message about my recording of “Balm
in Gilead.” The rain

held off long enough for me to do
perpendicular feet, knee over toes—
Warrior II on Summit Avenue Parkway.

Did a lot of nice Downward Dog,
too, until I saw a woman behind me leading three real dogs
and I skedaddled off Summit. Then the rain

sprinkled down a bit harder, as I trod the rough
sidewalks, thinking about my sacred bonds.
Sun Salutation on Summit Avenue Parkway,
not too worried about the rain.

Johnny Be Good 'n' Blue

You say you play a blue guitar.
It’s thought there's great poetic charm in dwelling
on what tragically-doomed creatures we are.

When the wise men came from afar,
it was the altar fumes they were smelling.
You say you play a blue guitar

and you play things exactly as they are,
the only story worth telling—
what tragically-doomed creatures we are;

but the wise men followed the star
to a lowly stall where beasts were dwelling.
That baby played the blue guitar 

like a ringing a bell and astonished the doctors,
who threw out the nostrums they’d been selling,
philtres of what tragically-doomed creatures we are.

And all the promoters nearly fell off the floor
to hear there’s nothing special about us at all.
You say you play a blue guitar.
OK, what lovable and loving animals we are!

I Left Oklahoma Ridin' on a Pony

Time slips inexorably by
(one hundred and thirty-five thousand are dead).
Living on covid time.

Lying high and dry
(the Pleiades are setting),
time slips inexorably by.

We can’t meet and say hi,
even with masks on.
Living on covid time.

If we aren’t sick, we aren't sure why.
The fronts are stacking,
as time grinds by

and the low tide
hangs the starfish up to dry.
Living on covid time.

The moon is gone from the sky;
in my lonesome bed I cry.
It’s midnight and the time slips by.
Living on covid time.

Trusting Language (Not!)

Can I trust words,
even when I’m the one speaking
them aloud?

What was it you heard
between dawn and midnight?
Elocuted words

like a rainbow-chord—
sound of rocks breaking—
or was it an annoyingly-loud

nattering bird?
It was my ballpoint leaking
peremptory words—

shouting over nature’s
separate life quietly mattering—
insisting loudly

on being heard,
but I’m better-off sleeping.
I can’t escape words—
sleep-talking aloud.

Good Riddance to My Kind

Can we change our nature
fast enough to adapt
to the world we’ve created?

I think we’ll need to be kinder.
Trouble is, we’re trapped
in the nature

we had to adapt to before—
a world of dread
that chance created.

It will soon be too late to
save ourselves, though we vow to be quiet,
changing our nature

from noisy and exploitative
to patient and polite.
The world we’ve created

might rest and heal,
but it’s mainly assholes who breed,
forcing our nature
to the world they’ve created.

When a Leaning Becomes a Slope

I’m almost seventy.
I haven’t worked in at least six years.
How am I doing cognitively?

Well, my propenclities
are still in place. No fear,
at almost-seventy,

of proper gravity—
partly because I gave up beer.
But to return to the how-am-I-doing-cognitively

question: my spelling is shitty,
and my handwriting is some of the worst you’ll see.
But at almost-seventy

I still have pretty good energy—
I walk six or seven miles a day.
OK, too bad I’m so dodgy

about my remaining marbles. Never analytically-
inclined (I got a low math score on the GRE),
at almost-seventy,
I’m faring surprisingly.

If I Can, Don't Know When

People check in on me to see how I’m doing.
They message me and text me.
I don’t think it’s because they’re worried about me.

They ask me how I’m enjoying
my day or respond to photos I post on my story—
just checking to see how I’m doing—

and I never fail to put on
a good face. But what I find perplexing
is that some of them do seem a wee bit worried about me,

even though times have never been better for me.
I’m certainly not ruing
the day half a decade ago I stopped doing

paid work and took up rhyming,
along with singing and fiddle playing.
Don’t worry about me,

you people, my pot never stops boiling,
and my skillet’s always good ‘n greasy.
You can check and see how I’m doing—
the rooster’s sittin' high and the hounds are trailin'.

The Piggy-Wig Donates Their Nose-Ring

If I were a better person, I’d be willing
(even though it makes me sick)
to suck on evil like a loose filling.

I can feel my veins spilling
over with evil green oobleck
as I suck, so I’m willing

to volunteer for the long-needle drilling,
all for the sake of my civic
duty to be filling

myself and all my friends with righteous indignation
every minute of the fucking
day. I’m willing

to schedule myself for full-time hand-wringing
if that’s the medicine
needed to remove the rotten

member. We all know sickness
is the best physic.
That’s why I’m willing
to sell my ring for one shilling.

Better Not Be a Smooth Operator

Sometimes it’s OK to look bad—
such as when you open your mouth to sing at a party.
It means you showed

up, anyhow, and didn’t just stand
there like some big smarty-
pants who’d never allow themselves to look bad,

staring down the barrel of the sad
truth, their own dirty
face now showing

its true shit-colors. How could
anyone get to like you if you’re not a bit scratchy?
People won’t forget that you sounded bad,

true, but it’s just pay for the wad
of tunes you sawed out of the goodness of your heart.
Your comportment shows

that you care, at least, however odd
you look, nine years past sixty.
It’s to your credit that you looked bad
and your stuffing showed.

We’re After the Same Rainbow’s End

For Greg Ruud

So glad not to be sitting looking at the river!
(We need more distance than others do).
But I sang “Moon River” at my dying friend’s birthday party.

There were a lot of people there already—too many distractions for it to be a really sincere moment(but sincerer than sitting by the river).

I was wearing a mask when I sang “Moon River.”
People could barely see my twinkling blue
eyes when I sang the huckleberry-friend

line—that makes my brown eyes tear
up with gratitude when I think about the boon
of having a song to sing (and not to be sitting by the river)—
the luck of singing “Moon River” at my dying friend’s birthday party.

Freedom’s Just Another Word for Nothing Left to Lose

Crow crackling in the basswood tree,
sharing its insolent cawing—
just a crow trying to be free.

Better it than me.
I’m tired of all my jawing—
truculent crow in a basswood tree.

I’m sure that you’ll agree
(odd squeaking like a latrine flushing—
just a crow trying to be free)

that a crow’s a bird like you and me,
just trying to abide in some fashion,
elocuting from its basswood-tree

claw-hold. I believe we’re like two peas
in a pod, the crow and I—no Stalin
or Putin, anyhow—it just wants to be free

to share its music with the birds and bees.
Too bad if you find its noise appalling,
but the crow crackling in the basswood tree
caws, “Excuuuse me, just want to be free!”