freedom

freedom's just another word for something - i forget freedom's just a word, they say - and yet every night we dream - and of what? only freedom - the door we can never shut why else in dreams do we fly? or care if we die? the murmurs from a distant shore there must be, must be something more i ran away to find it, many years ago walked the empty highways, in sun and snow waiting for freedom to call my name but the beautiful whispering voice never came the only voice that came to me was asking for my i d at the end of the endless trail the dreams were all for sale

2 poems

nowhere outside the tightest window beyond the dimmest star a little man is watching who knows who you really are there is no use pretending and trying to be "yourself" he will catch you when you try to run and put you back on the shelf you can roll your little eyes at the other dolls beside you they will just stare straight ahead so faithful, brave and true so listen to the music as soft as falling snow there is nowhere to go there is nowhere, nowhere to go peace i went down to the river to buy my dog a bone and the river looked so peaceful i had to throw a stone the ripples in the water were like a great big smile and i sat and smiled back at it for quite a little while my dog walked down the river bank till he found another hound but the racket that they ruckused did not disturb the peace i found the daylight whispered slowly until it finally bled away i don't know what my dog thought but i had had a perfect day

the old dark house (hommage a gorey)

the reverend edward gorey told a most edifying story and illustrated his strictures with finely executed pictures children neither seen or heard devoured every pious word and satan's wiles they upbraided as into the woodwork they faded their elders were uplifted too by tales so moral, stark, and true and sat upright in morris chairs exchanging baleful nods and glares in shadowy conservatories they mumbled their unlikely stories with particular attention to the chances of outliving their inheritances ashen aunts with dwindling dollars unctuous uncles in starched collars comatose cousins on silent settees with tired teacups on their knees upstairs maids with drooping tresses silent brooding governesses manservants with creaking limbs in hallways dark and doorways dim parrots with small vocabularies needy nephews sipping sherries reptiles lost behind chaises longues divas mumbling forgotten songs and to complete the mournful frieze moths who never felt a breeze dogs who answer no human call and cats - the worst of all

afternoon musings of a bounder

there are things about being a cad some are good, some bad many over rated others underappreciated but being fought over in public by lovely women is a subject not sufficiently rendered, i'm sure in classic literature heroines of ancient romances were limited to demure glances and did not exert their tender muscles in interfeminine tussles as objects of manly competition they respected a tradition where the brave deserved the fair and carried her unresisting to his lair but in this new world of confusion metamorphosis and illusion with the old ways discarded and mocked and babes in arms immune to shock the fluttering eyelid is no more the maid steps boldly to the fore in darkest midnight or broadest day and seizes on her startled prey heedless of any scandaled glance and giving decency no chance astounds the assembled audience by insisting on her preference this modern maiden, in her glory rewriting the poet's ancient story "has pleasures of her own to give" who've never known them, have not lived

the thing in the place

my name is carstairs athelbert waterspoon, of the smithfield waterspoons, and i have ever been a poet and a dreamer. the story i am about to relate, however, is one that no poet would wish to dream, and no dreamer to poeticize. "the ancients knew things of which we dare not dream." how often, dozing over the trove of dusty manuscripts in my study, had i repeated these words of the medieval chronicler known only as magnus - languorous words, evoking morning mist over blue and green fields. how different the reality! but i am getting ahead of myself. some background is necessary. during the long winter of 1----, dr melville, who had long served as family physician to the waterspoons, recommended in the strongest terms that i devote less than my entire waking existence to my studies of the history of necromancy, and find something else to "occupy my mind" in his somewhat unsettling modern terminology. for dr melville, i am afraid, despite his many fine qualities and his impeccable background, had succumbed to some extent to the disease of "modernity" - as, alas, who among us, despite our best intentions, has not? in any event, i responded with a smile, as i had so often before, that i did indeed have another occupation from that of an antiquarian - the occupation of poet. but of course he brushed that aside. "it is still just words you are dealing with," he insisted. just words, indeed! his own words were such that i would never have politely refrained from challenging them, had they been uttered by anyone else. he shook his white head. "i would almost allow the poetry to count as something a bit different, if your subject matter dealt with something later than king arthur." i smiled and allowed this, too, to pass unchallenged. what would he have me deal with - some modern nonsense like the crusades? "what would you have me do?" i asked. "chop wood? traipse through the woods collecting mushrooms or sighting birds? you know how delicate my constitution is." "have you considered playing checkers?" the doctor asked. i was a little surprised. he had tried to interest me in chess a few years previously, with unfortunate results. i had proved so helpless at the "ancient" game that the poor doctor had to essentially tell me what moves to make in order to provide him with "competition" and the experiment had been abandoned. i could still hear him crying "no, no, no!" as the winter winds howled outside my study. "i didn't know you played checkers, doctor," i answered. "you have never mentioned it before. rather a plebian game, is it not?" "hardly. there is evidence of it being played five thousand years ago - who would have played it but kings? canute played chess, but tilgath pileser iii played checkers. in any event, it is not i who play, but hank thorne down at the fire house. he told me the other day he is looking for a new player, as old abner adams passed away around thanksgiving time. i thought of you - as you are so unsuited to chess, you might well be a natural at checkers." the doctor took his glasses off and began cleaning them with the blue handkerchief he kept for that express purpose. "it will get you out of your study - and the fire house is so draughty it could almost count as outdoor exercise." this was a long speech for the doctor, and his eye twinkled a little uncertainly as he paused for breath. "play with hank thorne!" i laughed. "i hardly think so, as he is not exactly a gentleman, is he?" "oh, but there you are mistaken. the thornes are quite the oldest family for miles around - hank is the direct descendant, in the male line, of thaddeus thorne, who claimed the land around here from the woolly mastodons, the arctodus simus, and the other ancient inhabitants." "hmph." i was a bit nettled by this apparent denigration of the claims of the waterspoons. "i suppose you - or hank thorne - have the papers to prove this claim." "indeed i do." "well then, bring them along. and if i am satisfied as to their authenticity, i will humor you and hank thorne and accede to this outlandish suggestion." and then, in defiance of the doctor and to demonstrate my total independence of him and his strictures, i took out my pipe, stuffed it with the local wild weed, and lit it. and so it was, that on a windy afternoon a week later i found myself sitting across from hank thorne in the old firehouse on main street with a checkerboard between us on a barrel that might have held grog for general burgoyne's or general washington's troops. although i had myself verified hank's bona fides as a gentleman, i soon found that was he was as uncommunicative as any peasant or his cow. i won the first four games, although hank had to constantly point out moves i was "forced" to make. this "forced move" element seemed to me immeasurably superior to anything in chess, relieving one of the necessity to think. i have always distrusted thought, as interfering with inspiration. it occurred to me that perhaps hank was letting me win, as a prelude to proposing that we play for money. country mouse that i was, i smiled inwardly at this transparent ruse by my new friend. suddenly the fire house began to shake violently, and i jumped up in alarm. "no need to be perturbed," hank assured me, in his slow but perfectly enunciated speech. "i have had the checkers magnetized, so there is no chance they will be shifted from their proper positions." "yes, but what - what is causing this?" i exclaimed. there was another, even more violent tremor, and then the shaking stopped. hank looked up at me curiously. "why, what do you think is causing it? the old ones, of course." i stared down at him blankly. "do you mean to tell me, sir, that you have lived in these parts all your life - as dr melville assures me you have - and are not familiar with the old ones?" i began to stammer, but stopped and asked myself just who this fellow was, to presume to address me in such an interrogatory manner. "i am afraid i spend most of my time in my study," i answered stiffly. "perhaps some mentions of these old ones have indeed filtered through to me. if so, i may well have filtered them back out, as of no interest to myself or my life's work." "interesting," hank thorne murmured. "interesting. is your study built on some extremely firm foundation, sir, that you have never yourself felt the rumblings o four ancient friends?" "of course the study is built on a firm foundation," i responded. "as is the whole ancestral dwelling of the waterstones." hank thorne pondered this, and took a pipe from his pocket. "do you mind if i smoke?" "of course not." what a question! what did he take me for, a methodist cleaning woman? "something other than firm foundations may be involved here," hank continued after lighting his pipe. "i shall have to consult quardley. quardley, you see, has always held that there are those whom the old ones have singled out, who will be spared when they, that is, the old ones themselves, return to reclaim the universe. but he has always assumed that those so chosen are well aware of their favored status." he looked at me challengingly. he had lost me. i sat back down. "and who is quardley?" i asked politely. "he is an apothecary, over in wilsonville. and a volunteer fireman, of course." "of course. shall we continue our game?' "why not?" hank seemed to play with greater speed but less concentration than before - perhaps because he was preoccupied with the "old ones." he won the next four games, and i took my leave, agreeing to return in three days time, on the following tuesday.

to be continued

2 poems

the ice cream man a million jobs and it's just my luck mine was not to drive an ice cream truck but to sit all day behind a desk dealing with the mad and the grotesque but o how much more satisfying in the soft twilight as day is dying to bring smiles to children and take their pennies joy in their lives they hardly had any until they hear the longed for bell announcing that now - now all is well as they stuff their metabolisms with slush over the world there falls a hush o wise men in your chambers and courts with your investigations and reports will you deny the occasional spark that lights this universe so dark? i'll never tell many strange dreams i tried to weave into what i really believe but something always broke the spell so now - i'll never tell

the cad

it must be sad to be a cad and have women every hour fall like flowers into your lap when you're trying to take a nap or want some solitude to sit in a somber mood and create unflinching perfect art but how can you start when these myriad creatures with their softly shifting features will not go away but multiply every day lining up for miles in kaleidoscopic styles and wind through city blocks stopping the tower clocks of the haughty bourgeoisie who hate art and poetry o apollo shed a tear! but poet, try to persevere though the world be misbegotten you will never be forgotten your words will be on lips when thinking machines and rocket ships are wiped from time's black shining slate immortality shall be your fate

voyage to star 25, part 1

there once was a landlord named jake who had for a tenant a thirty foot snake he grew so fond of that boa constrictor he knew in his heart he could never evict her she was the best friend he ever had, oh but over his life there fell a shadow he worked all day at the missile base and came home at night with a sad face many tenants in rooms along the street sat in the gloom staring at their feet and conceived passions for barely sentient creatures mental death was one of their features and the missiles - when would they go off? the silence was broken by an occasional cough and a slurp from a bottle of schlitz or bud the collapse of the universe was in their blood the windows in the bars were dim and blue the used car lots were silent too with burgers and marlboros on their breath they waited in the shadow of meaningless death you can't love a snake unless you give it a name that's part of the game but words came slow to jake's brain on the dusty window it began to rain the snake used a hundred square feet of rental space but jake took it with a good grace not so mrs harvis down the hall who did not care for reptiles at all and neither did jack d hubbatak a retired spaceman with a bad back who lived upstairs in a one room flat with a seashell collection and an orange cat he and mrs harvis put their heads together whether in fair or stormy weather and drank tea and stayed up late complaining about the government, life and fate mrs hervis was forty-four years old her hair was orange and her eyes were cold men had betrayed her, religion too her children were worthless through and through she did not care much for other females of their troubles, she did not want the details her only desire, and it made her eyes grow wide was revenge against the world before she died joe archibald was another tenant he could say "i'll kill you" like he meant it he had a machime gun tattooed on his arm and was completely devoid of charm joe was prowling the hall one night something just did not feel right he heard the throbbing music of fear for which he had a most sensitive ear he started down the creaking stair past jake's well-barricaded lair of the snake he was not scared a whit in fact he'd like to have a go at it he put his ear to jake's scarred door a thing he'd never done before on the scuffed and worn linoleum a vision suddenly came to him jake was nothing but a commie rat joe was absolutely sure of that talking to his snake? that was a load - he was really talking in code! he was an un-american deceiver talking to a hidden receiver probably planted in the snake it was almost too much for joe to take "peeping through keyholes, eh, fellow?" hubbatak, more than a little mellow swaying in his slippered feet sneered at joe without missing a beat "what's it to you anyway, hubbatak? wasn't peeking through no keyhole, i was peeking through the crack. "it's not the same thing at all and besides, it ain't your call." inside, jake seemed impervious to all the fuss but another door opened down the hall and miss maisie muldoon, willowy and tall barely glanced at the two combatant gents as past then she serenely went hubbatak and joe didn't scream or shout but forgot what they were arguing about maisie worked two blocks away in mrs wilson's all night cafe the moon looked down and seemed to say is it her fate to carry a tray? to be continued

5 more poems

sad poem life is so sad sometimes you just want to cry and maybe even curl up and die and then you roll over and look up at the clear blue sky and st michael leans down and says, what's wrong little guy? so maybe things aren't really as bad as all that but i wish i had a press card in my hat and could visit the president of the united states for a nice little chat and eat hot dogs and ice cream all day and never get fat and could walk up to people on the street and just say hi and look them right in the eye did you ever wonder why it's not that easy, sweetie pie? maybe some things are just meant to be dogs bark, and birds sing in trees humans alone in the evening breeze watch the skies and scratch and wheeze and try not to be taken by surprise by fate's sly tricks and reality's lies each in his own pathetic disguise helpless as the waters rise the hammer of heaven is always raised and will surely fall one of these days no more devilish despair or prayerful praise and no one left to be amazed bad beatnik bongo poem # 2 stalin had a cool hat churchill wanted one just like that but his regimental tie caught the marshal's glittering eye steel drums in the london night bongos in the dawn molotov folded the london times folded it with a yawn soft music through the kremlin played before the final alien raid ant men from a distant star finished off the caviar little angel midnight waited in the rain for raphael and st jerome hitchhiking from spain gabriel in the shadows watching bombers loading ike lit up a lucky with a strange foreboding zoo i ain't never been to the zoo or the opera either - how about you? awww! when morning comes the little stars go hide in the embrace of dawn - the blushing bride bang! he shot himself in the head one wall turned black, the other red

2 poems

unrepentant comrades raise a glass with me in defiance of sobriety though some may deem it blasphemy i say that drink will set us free free from the stress of stroil and strife from squalling brat and scowling wife shall fate forever twist the knife or life be ever slave to life oh precious nectar that dissolves the endless cloud that e'er revolves around the weary wanderer's head from your embrace must we be led down duty's dark and dreary path or follow the illumined swath you cut through universal gloom to ease our unavoidable doom comrades raise a glass with me in defiance of sobriety though some may deem it blasphemy i say that drink will set us free body leaving blues when you leave your body your body don't leave you it drags you around like a comatose cow up and down the avenue well my body left me left me so sad and blue sitting on the sidewalk without a mumbling clue whistling policemen pass me by laughing schoolgirls too highbrow ladies with birds in their hats doing the old soft shoe seems the whole world has a purpose a reason to be up and about can't they see that my poor head hurts why do they have to shout? blinking in the sunlight i got the sidewalk blues world oh why did you break my heart and what scoundrel stole my shoes?

5 poems

arabia arabia is far away and stretches out in every direction but though you cut it up every which way there's nothing but sand in every section borneo boom-ba-de-boom, ba-de-boom-boom-boom boom-ba-de-boom, ba-de-boom-boom-boom bury my heart in a golden tomb at the end of the earth, if there's any room china i want to go to china before i die to see if everything i was taught was a lie i'll pay some wise old sages a call we'll sit and talk, beside a waterfall winnebago weary waitresses and bored detectives fill the hallways with vile invective hotel down by the railroad tracks dead shoe salesmen never come back teddy i woke up this morning with a feeling of despair and looked around for my teddy bear but someone had slipped through the bars of my cell and carried poor teddy off to hell

love is a mangy dog

life is like a mangy dog sleeping in a hollow log with hardly room to scratch or sneeze his only company the fleas that without even saying please feast upon his mortal flesh yes, life is quite a sorry mesh a web of futile desperations solitudes and dissipations and as the flame of life grows slim and dreams of glory fade and dim the dog rolls over on his side with nothing left to hope or hide and hears on high the sudden scratch of a hunter's cigarette-lighting match and through the mist a waning moon murmurs, it will be over soon