What is Beauty More?

 WHAT IS BEAUTY MORE?

What is beauty more
Than a reflection of desire,
A pool of light under the lamp
On a dark and lonely street?
What is a lovelier thing
Than that which completes --
The thought finished by a friend
Before your lips can form?
And what is truer joy
Than that which makes you cry,
A song torn from the throat
Of a bird who throws his heart to the sky?

Because I Must

It's nearly the end of March, and I haven't been on the Poetry Bus all month. The business and busyness of living have limited my writing and riding along with my poet friends. An email from the Bus Captain, the TFE, made me realize how I long to be among the great friends I've made here, and so I dashed off this little ditty (who uses that word?) because I must.

The bus is driven this week by Uiscebot, who gives us several orders for this week's poem. You can see them here or maybe just deduce them by reading the poem here...

BECAUSE I MUST

He said,
You can't go
to the moon,
and I said,
Fly me.

He said,
You can't go
home,
And I said,
Try me.

He said,
You mustn't
rhyme,
and I said,
Is it a crime?
Then give me
the time
to go home
and find
a poem or two
that shuns
the bright moon
or takes you away
to some other day
and to someplace new.

And he said,
That'll do.
Stop this right now
or I won't even link;
it's not worth the ink
or pixels or dots
it takes for Uiscebots
to put this drivel
on his blogspot.

So I sit idly by
and won't even try
to join this fun time
because I must rhyme.
Every time.

So there.


Now, go and read some real poems here. Enjoy the ride!

Chronic

CHRONIC

Children in the water
laugh and splash.
They circle and circle
round and round
like sharks.
I am vigilant, on the edge.
Danger! Danger!
I hear in my head.
I scan the scene for trouble,
scout sorrows yet to come,
watch for the dreaded undertow;
I guard, ready to run.

Parody

PARODY

My mother holds her cheeks for my inspection;
"Beautiful," I say, "just right,"
Glad that her old eyes cannot see
The lines that cross her face
Like a brand.
She is of an age with Marilyn and Liz
But without the surgeon's knife or early death
To freeze her in a frame.
I've heard that in her later years,
Elizabeth the queen froze herself with paste,
Turning a once fine face into a clown-like mask
Against whom none dare laugh.
I contemplate this now
As I paint my own beginning-to-fall face
And line my drooping lids with kohl.
I think it is no laughing matter;
Without the asp, would Cleopatra, too,
Have been this tragicomic parody of youth?

Red Fox

RED FOX

A swishing in the grass.
A small sharp face,
frozen in -- a snarl or a laugh?
Limpid golden eyes
that recognize.
A bushy beard
brushing behind,

and a bubble of joy within me
to share my place in life
with such a thing.
 

Sundays, We Pose

I'm early for the bus for a change. The conductor this week is none other than the Totalfeckineejit himself! TFE, as he is affectionately known by his acolytes, is the founder of the Poetry Bus line and editor of The Poetry Bus Magazine. As bus driver this week, he challenges us to write a fourteen line poem about one of four pictures or a song (here). Join us for a rollicking ride!

SUNDAYS, WE POSE

Sundays, we pose outside the gate,
facing the light in best dress,
three in knee pants, one in bows,
standing with our mother
and the dogs and cats du jour
or with the heavy aunts,
the card-playing sisters
who laugh throaty laughs
and smoke forbidden fags.
Dutifully, we squint
at the father husband brother
behind the black box
who waits for the light to be just right,
who will become for us a shadow on the ground.

*On the Birthday of John Keats

Finally! I've been on something of a dry spell lately, but thinking about one of my favorite poets has inspired this little piece. This is also my ticket onto the Poetry Bus, where 120 Socks has given some excellent prompts, including the one I chose -- "amber." You can read other bus poets here.

ON THE BIRTHDAY OF JOHN KEATS

Some things deserve to be captured,
frozen for all of time,
made more precious by framing
in the lens of the mind.
Like fragments enclosed in amber
or beauty and truth in rhyme,
some things deserve to be captured,
frozen for all of time.


* Today is actually the anniversary of Keats' death, but I like the title, and so I'll keep it. Maybe I'll post this again next Halloween, the actual birthday of John Keats. (Thanks to my daughter with the Ph.D. in English Literature for setting me straight. I knew there was some reason I had Keats on my mind...now, I'm thinking that death is a birth of sorts, so maybe I wasn't far off!)

The Mule

THE MULE

On the way to work today,
I passed the same old man
tugging at the same old shaggy mule,
only today, a small knot of watchers
puffed in the February air.
The crust of snow still hugged the pond
and the mud was frozen hard,
except for where the mule moved forth and back
like some clumsy dancer learning his steps.

The old man tugged and tugged,
then got behind to push.
The watchers swiveled hatted heads
like spectators at a game:
Front, then back, then front again,
but the creature held his place;
only the old man moved.
From my car, I watched the watchers
turn to one another in disgust
as if they had bet on the old man to win.

I wonder, what was the point of all this fuss?
Yesterday it was the same, and so the day before.
For days, the mule has stood his frozen ground,
the old man has tugged and pushed,
and I have gawked in my slowing car
as I pass on my way to school.
Today, a knot of men stamped the ground
and blew on frozen hands and watched.

What is it they had come to see --
the man, the mule, or the match?
Tomorrow, will the masses grow?
Will the mayor come along?
Will he bring a marching band?
Will reporters flood the field with artificial light?
On the news, will the old man spit and chew
and, toothless, talk about  the "dangedest
stubborn mule he ever seen" ?
Will the watchers place their bets,
and will I pass on by --
or tomorrow, will I stop?
Will I join the frosty group
as we stamp our frozen feet
and stubbornly resist the ropes
that tug us daily in an inexorable attempt
to move us from the frozen mud?

Heaven, Earth, and Man

Heaven, Earth, and Man.

Three tablets side by side.
Or do they form a ladder each to each?
And is the top too high for me to reach?
How shall I on these tablets write my name?

Man
With who and what I am?
With what I do for them?
With the loves that I will leave?
With the losses they will grieve,
Or with fellows I forsake?

Earth
With deeds that I have done?
With the battles I have won?
With the promises I keep?
With furrows long and deep,
Or with scratches left in dust?

Heaven
With bread that has been broken?
With the prayers that I have spoken?
With the blood that has been shed?
With the rising from the dead,
Or with disappearing ink?

Three tablets side by side
Or laddered each to each.

How will I there inscribe?
How will I span the breach?

Flame

Poets United's "The Thursday Think Tank" prompt is "Fire."

Today is also my husband's and my wedding anniversary. This is my love letter to him.











FLAME


Fires don't always die; sometimes, they smolder.
Embers glow beneath a cloak of ash.

Sometimes they blaze to red-robed conflagration,
immolate, incinerate -- then sear us to the bone.

Our love, this long-lived flame, is like that.

We have smoldered, we have smoked,
have sparked --and we have burned.

We have carried the red heart of fire in our cupped hands
and fanned the coals to heat the endless night.

We surprise ourselves by burning still,
a steady glow -- eternal flame of testament to love.