I cork my leaden verse in crystal glass,

set it adrift, to see if it will sink,

litter the sea with anchors cast en masse,

ink bottles, all around, but none to drink.

My words displace a spoon and weigh a log.

Before I’d cut the ballast, I would drown.

My captain, with his high-proof jug of grog,

is gonna ride the Leaky Teaky down.

I love my ship! I love its threadbare sail!

I know its busted rudder and its helm!

I love its hull! For all the bilge I bail,

my vessel, you have yet to overwhelm.

It was my uncle’s ship, his father’s ‘fore.

You’ll kiss its aft, and stroke its single oar.

The first snow put a cover on your tracks,

and, where I go from here, I do not know.

For days, I judged the gap by parallax,

proceeding straight as you went to and fro,

and yet, the distance greatened, to my shock.

You crossed the south horizon, and I knew

your wing was beating to be with its flock.

The wind had pushed you back, and so you flew.

I’ve often seen the little birds take wing

in winter, same direction, flap away

to greener climes, careening as they sing,

“Depart!” they tell this cobalt, icy jay.

Each fall I watch them leave, each spring return.

The blue jay nests; the robin red-breast yearns.

If we may speak one word, we might be heard.

A picture’s worth a letter. Leave no doubt.

“Hello,” she said. It only takes a word,

one furtive glance, to see what we’re about.

Your soul cannot fit cleanly in a frame!

Your love is not a peep-hole through a sheet!

To overflow the box is not a shame!

You staunch with what’s at hand—it isn’t neat!

You rend the fabric—paper, branches—dirt!

Each person here is bleeding—plug the wound!

Is not the greater part of birth, to hurt?

Forgive my haste. You care; I just assumed.

It only takes a word, a tag, a pout,

one furtive glance, to wring our essence out.

My love is artless, obvious, and bland,

and seeks its image mirrored ‘cross the sea.

It has ample supply and no demand.

Your dynamo of want, it cannot be.

The whole that I can offer is a chance.

I will not gird the bud with carnal lips

that purse around a song to match a dance

presuming likeness to great Shiva’s hips

revolving ’round a fragile, desp’rate seed

when He dances for All, and they for tips,

when they destroy for fun, and He for need.

A hanging man lets go; a newborn grips.

There’s one chance for this nascent son of man:

Take ownership as parents—form a plan.

These fourteen lilting lines are an excuse,
a word bouquet arranged around a prod,
to tokenize my effort to deduce
a pretty woman, only, or a god?
I’m sure I know the answer, so don’t smirk.
I’m earnest, always; therein rubs the gag.
I ’round the temples with my handiwork.
Though most don’t speak, the idols wear my flag.
This one is yours–I’ll weave it in a wreath
that fits your crown and lay it with a prayer.
Its place is high; I leave it underneath.
Yours is unique. It’s true–I would not dare.
I’ll craft another, if the gods approve,
but first the stony idol has to move.

I do not know your phases from the moon

but from some time and place upon the earth

I stopped to write a poem late, and soon

the summer ended. Merry solar birth

does not outshine the momentary flash

when tides within me hasten to your shores

and roll across your beaches with a crash

so carelessly, careening aft to fore,

and thunder shouts aloud that lightning came.

It rings about the axis of the flare

in which you stand. “Diana” be thy name

for some All-Knowing Love-It-All could care.

The monkey’s name was “Monkey.” She was “God.”

The lesser one would shake, and She would nod.

Like gravity, like pole-aligning force,

like proton seeks electron for a bond,

we follow the potential, in our course,

attract to high degrees, but then abscond.

Like fermions in space too small for two,

we might explode or else degenerate

in classrooms without windows on a view

of something real, for “Teach” to denigrate

besides the “lowly” scribe and engineer.

At least they take the abstract thought to task!

One swirls a wand, and concrete words appear.

One builds a tap, so you might drain his cask.

These graduates are bosons, but deranged,

identical, but scornful, when exchanged.

He’ll save two months of sweat in waste, (exact,)

organic matter, smothered out of life,

a stone from which, a promise, to extract,

to gird the quiv’ring digit of his wife

to be or not. The question is the same,

but not the lovers’ thrust—the parry-point.

Mercutio and Tybalt are to blame.

I’d sooner show devotion with a joint,

rolled by my hand, on paper from a book,

writ’ by my hand, to meter out our length

in rhyme and time that stuttered, cried, and shook

to ring your ears and prove your diamond strength.

A halo is much better than a ring,

a paean, not the same old psalm to sing.

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You might not even want this leaden verse,

to tie your hands and chain you to your bed.

My poem seeks its subject like a curse

plays on the ear; it’s only in my head.

So make a paper airplane from the writ’.

The right to rite of passage passes right.

If hard syllables slip, then make them fit.

The daybreak plots sweet deserts for the night.

I could say, “If you’d leave, this tree would die,”

and serve to you a mismatched petit four

that makes no sense, without the urge to cry.

Why don’t I cry? Why won’t it hurt me more?

I have no heart to feign, or beat my breast.

I have a hundred more; I’ll save the rest.