Hereunder

The Old Growth Within You Mourns

The old growth within you mourns
for the felled.
Poor fellows -- cut down in their prime:
Trunks timbered, quartered, laded and chained
For the trip to the mill and kiln;
Limbs shorn and shredded, rendered
To a tangled mulch for another's bed;
Great stumps ground down to the nub
And hauled out to the ancient tap.

A small stand of pines remains
in their stead.
Like markers, noting the dead and gone.
How straight and tall they once stood:
Staunch in the cold, green in the heat;
Shade for the passing, feast for the creatures
Scaling their bark and cracking their fruit.
And, what's left is the gray, unsettled clay:
Vacant, wasted, waiting for a new creation.

Number Thirty-Three

The dark savior saw his time arrive,
And armed his glock and clipped his vest,
Then uttered his umbraged manifest,
And, went to save the world from life.

In memoriam: Virginia Tech victims - Requiescat in pacem.

Hidden Heir

Girl,
When you were young,
Before your birth,
You were, perhaps,
The youngest heir
That ever was --
A little smidge
En ventre sa mere
(They used to say)
In esse, yes --
But still concealed.

Your father died:
A strapping man,
Cut down too soon;
And, Jesus came
To take him home,
To be reborn --
Undead as you
Were yet unborn.

Receive the gift
Born of his death
(And thence descent),
And use it well.
And, in the end,
It's final worth,
As you once were,
Will be revealed.

Reparation

My car's not well, its making noise,
  And so, I bring to Mr. Mun,
Who'll lift the hood, and look inside,
  And find the part that's come undone.

"You wait. I fix." says Mr. Mun;
  I nod my head and say, okay;
He takes my key, with smiles and nods,
  And hurries toward the service bay.

I thumb through People magazine—
  The rich, the famed, the fair elite —
And watch a fleet of nicer cars
  Go driving by the whining street.

Behind the glass marked "Auto Care",
  Come clangs and songs and foreign tongue;
Then, through the door, to break the news
  Comes hurried, worried Mr. Mun.

"Your car no good," he shakes his head,
  Then twists his fingers, greased in fold,
Affecting gears that torque and grind
  And burst into the manifold.

Oh great, I say, how much? how soon?
  "Big job," he says, "Take rest of day"—
Good Lord, I think, my car's no good—
  "You wait," he says, "I fix, okay?"

Pleading

The broad messenger arrives at the door
Carrying a sheaf of sealed papers.
He lays it in our hands,
And turns down the front steps.
We are served.

The bold complaint is beautiful to behold:
The sculptured heading, the fine red lines
Running down the right and left,
The white and weighted parchment,
Aligned on either side.

Until we read the words and many numbers:
Page on textured page of allegations,
Of fraud and constant breach of trust
And false conversion.
All of them true.

And, then, there is the extended prayer,
That comes at the very end,
Seeking complete relief - to be made whole;
We read it twice and, now,
The lips are moving.

Walking Small

A'base, surveying the distance
'Tween himself and his beckoning gens,
Who, in squealing pleas, call him forth
To assay a sallying step,
And judging the odds of bridging
An here-to-there heretofore not,
He mounts his heels, fixes his gaze,
And signals his errant assent.

A'foot, let loosing the railing,
Then grasping the thin of the air,
Wavering aft and heaving to—
Now steady, and full speed ahead—
Like a tipsy, toddling seaman
'Pon finding his legs on land,
He marks his course, leans towards,
And sets out at giddying gait.

A'stride, galumphing in booties,
Be'saddled by cotton and pins,
Which, in a pinch, do spur him on
To traverse the rug'ed divide,
And ambling apace for a yearling,
On tippy-toe, headed toward home,
He leaps into his mother's lap,
And enters the pedestrian world.

Valentennis

Something for the honey...

Remember the days
Of mixers and mingles,
When you and I met,
Still young and still singles.

I courted you then,
And, went for the net:
I offered a fault, though
You called it a let.

My, you were fine –
So sweet in the face;
And me, just a dinker,
In place of an ace.

Yet, still you returned,
And, we started a rally –
You, painting lines, and
Me, flat in the alley.

Advantage to you –
A tough one to catch;
But, once we were set,
It soon was a match.

And, through 30 and 40,
Past errors and folly,
You’re steady in service
And quick with a volley.

And, by the drops that fall,
And the lobs high above,
When it comes to us two,
I’m always in love.

A Toast

When I think of love, I think of toast:

The very thing I love the most.

Toast.

Those slices in their slender slots,

Feed my dreams, consume my thoughts.

Caught between the reddenin’ coils,

The tender trap that crisps and broils,

And renders that most precious roast.

Toast.

What better form, our daily bread;

And, top of that, you have your spread.

A pat of butter – my heart’s a’flutter.

A dab of jam – I fear that I am

Enraptured.

And swabs of sweet and soft nutella

Make me a warm and fuzzy fella.

And, what could be a greater sin,

Than same without some cinnamon.

And many a ransom has been paid

For just a smear of marmalade.

And, think, the world’s most noted host,

Could ne’er be one without a toast.

A bravo brew, some fresh-squeezed juice,

Hotcakes shedding maple sluice,

Ham and eggs, the morning post –

All for naught without my toast.

The French invention steals the name,

But, in fact, is not same.

And many a lover lives to regret,

A dalliance with a baguette.

But me,

I’d give up dinner, sup, and lunch,

Just to munch that tasty crunch.

Yeast and flour’s greatest boast.

Toast.

And friends,

I've travelled far and travelled wide,

From here to there and side to side,

From north to south, from coast to coast:

There’s nothing there that beats the most --

Toast.

Squirrels Come

Squirrels come.
Crack nuts on
Back deck, top rail. 
Leave debris. 
Messy.

In Olden Times

In olden times, they'd make their mead,
And drink it by the fire;
Then, take a reed and fetch a flame
And bring it to the briar.

They'd pluck the lute, and turn a tune,
In lieu of fluent lyre, 
And, when the mead had done its deed,
They'd finally retire.