Poems written since 1980
The Physicist, a lovestruck knight
comports himself with honour
at the tournament Experiment
in hope that Lady Nature,
lovely, chaste, mysterious maiden,
charmed by his heroic deeds,
will twirl with delight and let her gown
slip open briefly to reveal
a glimpse of breast or flash of thigh.
The Chemist is a rogue who cares
only for schemes
to get into the lady’s pants.
The Engineer’s already down
on one knee proposing marriage
and the raising of bright
who will make their parents rich.
The Biologist catalogues these
examples of courtship behaviour
while the Psychologist smiles knowingly
and the Philosopher is, of course,
above all this nonsense.
The magnanimous animus selects,
smiles in our hearts, gently
parts the inner lips of intellect
and plunges us through each
the other’s oceanic experience.
Minds are chaste and wanton, always open,
wishing to be entered and filled,
to fill and enter and bring forth,
godlike, creations of light.
The shape of a breast,
the touch of skin.
The tug of a fish,
a flashing fin.
The looming hurdle,
the mighty leap.
The joy of winning;
to fly in sleep.
The color of peaches,
the knowing of things.
The hunter’s stalk,
a mallard’s wings.
The taste of beauty,
the magic of math.
The thrill of taking
an unknown path.
The very first time
a program works.
The Physics community’s
2009 or so?
“Death to hide?” Oh please, give me a break.
Nobody cares, or even should, if you
can make a poem of your worst mistake.
Go think of things more practical to do.
Your soul is bent indeed, like Narcissus,
to serve therewith your ego, nothing more.
If you could meet your Maker at the bus
you’d only try to beat Him to the door.
Your true account, if only you had heard,
is empty. There is nothing to present
beyond a tribute to the molded word
that knows (as you do not) the thought it meant.
And yet… and yet… the music of the spheres
rings in the voice of any well-turned phrase.
The power to move can overcome our fears
of suborning all that power to self-praise.
2014 or 2015
One, two, piss on your shoe.
Three, four, shit on the floor.
Breaks your knees, makes you sneeze,
but you don’t touch nothin’
so you won’t get disease.
I leave you sleeping warm and ride
into the cold night, my eyes
hurt by headlights on windshield frost.
Looking up through the now clear glass
I see the quotidian Earth reach up
and swallow a perfect harvest Moon.
All day its magic hides behind
the Sun’s commercial, rational glare,
but dusk relights the candles of the Moon
rising to lift magic back into the air
and bring me home to you.
– written to Pat some Winter day, probably ca. 2007 or so.