Friday, November 22, 2013

jfk poem

jfk was shot
people thought about it a lot
they came to no conclusion
was it all a mass delusion?

a billion narratives sprung
from every brain and tongue
a trillion songs were sung
and have only just begun

in eternity oswald waits
behind the window of fate
in eternity jfk waves
to a trillion spellbound slaves

in eternity jackie's smile
lights up the universe in style
in eternity lbj
straightens his tie and looks away

in his office j edgar hoover
the timeless prime mover
stamps "secret" on a file
whistling all the while

in the shadow ruby lurks
ready for fate's appointed work
and the ghost of marilyn smiling floats
above a windswept swirl of shredded notes

in the dark forest of zapruder
a quadrillion lonely brooders
watch the endless loop of film
which grows brighter and never dims

the magic bullet spins
washing away the sins
of all who came before
and all who stand upon the shore

of the new world brought to birth
crying out for all their worth
my story is the true one
if you don't like it, i've got a new one

by probabilities reckoned
a new narrative every millisecond
a story for every taste
get yours before it's too late

a rainbow of endless stories
in their proliferating glories
for a quintillion happy minions
entitled to their opinions

Friday, November 15, 2013

the last romantic

harold smith, a romantic soul
had a desperate resolute goal
he pined for the lady emmeline
and dreamed to ask, "wilt thou be mine?"

fortune favored harold not
and brushed him aside without a thought
the stars looked down on him unseeing
and cared not for his inner being

his fellow humans likewise cared
not a whit how harold fared
in pursuit of such romance
as might be granted him by chance

the city's drawing rooms are lit
by flashing eyes and sparkling wit
amorous hints and flashing glances
in which all manner of promise dances

but outside on the avenue
are those for whom the wind blows through
sad fantasies and ragged clothes
no love song, but the croak of crows

for such as harold, in the mist
the tale has no redeeming twist
no jolly songs around the hearth
no escape from this abandoned earth

the moon looks down on her rough sibling
no teardrop from her eye is dribbling
her face is smooth, her smile is cold
at every story ever told

his humble plaint was never posed
the book on harold now is closed
owls and bats look down askance
at dreaming love's last graveyard dance

Friday, November 8, 2013


under a blue familiar sky
polly baked a cherry pie
the farmhands fell down in a coma
overcome by its aroma

through the fields the effluvia spread
the hands fell down as if struck dead
and through the corn rows, stern as sin
john the baptist came again

john, cried polly, half in fright
why are you here before midnight?
the end approaches, john replied
i am just along for the ride

dark clouds appeared like flying banners
but polly did not forget her manners
she kept her wits as she was able
and asked john to sit at the table

in a calm collected state
she put some pie upon a plate
and poured a glass of orange juice
for catastrophe was no excuse

john tentatively took a sip
outside in the apocalypse
the sky had turned to darkest night
and demons howled in rare delight

as prophesied in ancient screed
the fearful four on flaming steeds
filled the horizon from side to side
the gates of hell were opened wide

from duty polly did not swerve
she thought a cup of tea might serve
before the world was finally gone
polly put the kettle on

but before the water she could pour
the pale rider came through the door
no time for lengthy lamentations
or exculpatory explanations

"john, it was so nice knowing you"
"polly, i really liked you too"
then death, with a knowing glance so sly
finished off the cherry pie