3 poems

the twilight of twilight in a long forgotten age poets maudits were all the rage drunk, unshaven, and ill dressed the bourgeoisie they quite impressed with words grandiloquent and sage every mountebank and magus made a claim yet more outrageous in their desperate ascension to the summits of pretension with every street corner their stages they measured out their days in bistros and cafes watching honest citizens pass they trembling raised a glass as they composed their unmemorable lays one no longer hears or sees much about poets maudits their absinthe-stained cravats and battered wide-brimmed hats have vanished in a green reverie bohemian nights a slubberdegullion named suzy drifted through the days blue and boozy she followed the pattern of an unregenerate slattern and could not often choose to be choosy she had no reserves of gold bullion when she dined it was often on slumgullion when her partners in crime threw her a lousy dime she said, hey pal, thanks a mullion no one was up to the task of ever caring to ask if suzy had any dreams or just floated down life’s stream holding tight to an empty flask one night she was just gone but no one commented on that most unremarkable fact whether from indifference or tact and they kept on drinking until dawn ezra ezra wrote some poems they didn’t take up much space he had a twinkle in his eye and a smile upon his face ezra wrote some poems they didn’t take up much space he had made his contribution to the culture of the human race the years stretched out before him repetitious, bleak, and long he had some thoughts on the history of civilization that his fellow humans found quite wrong ezra wrote some poems they didn’t take up much space they will be preserved forever in a silent purple place

the ballad of willy and nora and old doc

willy white and nora green were connoisseurs of the unseen willy wanted love and cash nora pined for jewels and flash what they wanted they wanted now they didn't need it just anyhow they were sick of being hurt treated like some kind of dirt ever since the world was new people told them what to do passed them by in cadillacs with hard rain pounding on their backs as they passed from town to town the locals tried to wear them down threw them in the county hoosegow with hardly even an excuse, now when a guy can't make a buck and a dame's down on her luck and can't take it any more what can they do but try to score? humans have been around too long seen every dance, heard every song though suckers are born every day it's harder to find new tricks to play when willy and nora hit parkerville the night was cold and very still old number 9 sped down the track they knew there was no turning back even the general store was closed willy sighed and rubbed his nose nora blinked and suppressed a yawn said "no use standing here, come on" should they try to peddle their wares down among the squares hiding behind their shades so drawn and their perfectly barbered cubes of lawn? over time the world had changed human mores had been rearranged people hardly walked the streets but had become much more discreet all the streets were now main there was one big central brain almost nothing left residual of a standup individual the time had passed for talk willy sat down on the sidewalk nora squinted with her weak sight and said "i think i see a light" they had been down this road before from shore to shining shore from malibu to plymouth rock it was time to see old doc every town has an old doc don't act shocked every tribe in the bush has one ever since the world begun but although they are all brothers some old docs are worse than others some have just the thing you need others only have their greed some are worth their humble pay and send you happily on your way others, fortunately not so often will drive the last nail in your coffin the town in which our tale commences was hidden behind white picket fences willy and nora passed whole streets by without attracting a single eye where was old doc? a distant steeple clock mocked their desperate hopes they were on the ropes the whole world was asleep time on its serpent skin did creep it was different from times past they had come to the end at last the old laws no longer applied they were being taken for a ride the light that nora thought she saw was brushed aside by midnight’s paw yes, old doc was there for sure but no longer dispensing cure his withered carcass could be found six feet under the ground on his stone was this inscription - he has written his last prescription for fifty years he filled the scores but they don’t write them like this any more

a call to arms

by rev. percival jackson sternwall oh once upon a time the earth was round and flags were firmly planted in the ground men gazed up at them in silent awe respected women, and obeyed the law they went to work and earned their honest pay and saved their hard-earned money day by day ready to go to war if it need be determined to keep their territory free what evil spirits could look down on this and sneeringly see ought amiss? what monsters of perdition could find joy in smashing such pure gold without alloy? yet these good men and true woke up one morn and wished that they had ne’er been born for all that they had built up with such trust lay shattered - scattered in the whirling dust now demons walked the once free land and taking little children by the hand laughed at the barren fields and empty homes of another empire fallen like troy and rome o inheritors of this new armageddon what shall you place your faith upon? must moloch laugh through all eternity or will you stand and cry “it shall not be!”

at the club

a drizzly november day. old baines, who was no longer as young as he once was, had somewhat neglected the fire, but sir gerald hardly noticed, engrossed as he was in an article in the gazette about an uprising in the chilean back country. sir gerald was reading the account with keen interest, as he had a fair amount invested in some copper mines in the threatened area. in the corner of his eye sir gerald noticed sanderson, the club bore, approaching. sanderson, in his usual fashion, took the seat nearest sir gerald, without speaking, but fixing his prey with his enormous sad brown eyes. sir gerald knew that it was no use ignoring sanderson, as he would speak, eventually, after what he regarded as a proper interval. “look here!” sanderson finally exclaimed. “yes?” sir gerald did not look up. “it’s the damnedest thing!” “what is the damnedest thing?” sir gerald enquired politely. “i have the damnedest time shaving in the morning!” “you do not say so.” “i have indeed.” sanderson touched a spot on the left side of his pale face, just above the jawline. “i have a patch here - right here - where the charge must be returned to again and again before i can get my whiskers clear.” “perhaps you need a better trained valet.” “valet! ah - i wish i could afford a valet. but in times like these - with the markets as they are, i have had to economize - a sad thing to admit, but it is so. i can no longer afford a decently trained valet.“ sir gerald turned his page in the gazette with a forceful snap. “the markets are indeed volatile. especially in south america.” he finally turned his gaze on sanderson. “do you have investments in south america?” “i only invest where the union jack flies.” “ah. a prudent course.” “i have always followed the advice of the late lord morseby - to only hunt where the rain falls, and only invest where the british flag flies.” sanderson shook his sad head. “but as i was saying - as i was saying - “ “yes? as you were saying?” “it’s this damned face of mine. and shaving in the morning. sometimes i feel as if a curse has been placed upon me.” “perhaps you need a sharper razor.” “that may be. that may be! but where to find one?” “the czechs are reputed to make fine razors.” “you do not say so?” “it is what i have heard. they are said to be the most expert in europe for all things pertaining to iron.” “indeed! superior even to the germans?” “so i have been told.” “eh?’ sanderson pondered. “perhaps the czech gentleman have particularly stout whiskers - stout whiskers - and this has caused them to develop a sharper razor. what do you think?” “that may well be,” sir gerald answered with a shrug. “well. it is worth thinking about at any rate.” suddenly changing the subject, sanderson asked, “what is this you are saying about south america, eh?” tapping his gazette, sir gerald gave sanders a brief précis of the situation in chile, and its effect on the copper market. “the devil you say!” cried sanderson. “the devil! someone should take these rascals in hand - round them up - round them up and hang them all. no nonsense!” “perhaps easier said than done, “ sir gerald replied. “not at all. not at all. just needs a bit of push. a bit of anglo-saxon push, none of your damned gauchos lying about in the shade.” sir gerald did not reply, but neatly folded the gazette and placed it on the table beside him. sanderson, as if exhausted by his outbursts, leaned back in his chair. “damned rotten weather, eh? looks like we are in for some rain.” sir gerald glanced toward the window. “i believe it is already raining.” sanderson followed his gaze. “why, yes, so it is. so it is indeed.”

amanda

by alice marston sternwall amanda was a solemn child - her nurse oft found her wandering barefoot in the fields sad victim of an ancient family curse against which truth and beauty were no shield such times with farm folk would amanda speak and quest them on the symbols in the skies and though her speech was most exceeding meek no comprehension glowed in her pale eyes the nurse, a hawkfaced old frenchwoman stern with little patience and less charity to no avail could make amanda learn that naught was gained by talking to the trees the trees, the rocks, the running streams, the clouds were all recipients of amanda’s words although they never answered her aloud unlike her truest, dearest friends - the birds anon upon a rock the old dame sat and left amanda to her babbling cries the verdant meadow spread its welcome mat a hive of life whose buzzing never dies all unrecorded went amanda’s dreams vanished like dew upon the sun warmed grass like bubbles in the slow meandering streams like sunbeams in the long days as they pass

troubador

i am a wandering troubadour traveling from town to town i long for a lady’s soft amour but receive a burgomaster’s frown i grieve for the glorious days of yore when gallantry ruled the earth for heroic knighthood my heart is sore though i be of humble birth how little joy to walk a land in which poetry never flowers where love must tremble at the priest’s raised hand and mammon cruelly glowers o black-clad men of reason who lay waste to the woods and fields in what untimely season must you set wolves on a poet’s heels? we are on this earth to love and for no other cause no angels line the skies above to enforce your cruel laws i am a wandering troubadour traveling from town to town i long for a lady’s soft amour but receive a burgomaster’s frown

old chums in chicago

i had long suspected cousin mark of murdering grandmother. wishing to get to the bottom of the matter i requested a leave of absence during the christmas holiday and journeyed back to the cedars, an undertaking i found quite lacking in stirring up nostalgic memories. by good fortune cousin mark was away, visiting old chums in chicago. i had a long talk with a gardener who had been in the employ of the estate since the aforementioned unpleasantness, and i prevailed on him to tell his tale. it was as i suspected, and after assuring the fellow that his livelihood would not be compromised i notified the authorities. i am retired now, and live alone at the cedars with only one servant. as i sit by the low fire with a good crackling log during the long chilly nights i often reflect on cousin mark and am drawn to the conclusion that he was guided not by malice, but only by weakness.