Eight Poems: Two on Minnesota [one: Beer on a Cockroach, etc.]

1) Winter in Minnesota

In the chilled—evenings, of December,
Inside my warm home, warm night,
I hear the winds and trees chatter;
The day has come and gone—complete.
Northern-lights are over head:
I say my prayers and go to bed.

The bustling hours of fall is gone
Feasts, festivals, birds and songs:
All going, going, —gone;
Gone, the enchanted colors of leaves:
Pleading, pleading for early spring.

#382/11/04

2) Minnesota’s Late Autumn

The golden grass of autumn
was waiting for this day
when snowflakes would start to fall again,
in their solicitude, to falls anxiety—
hugging the warmth left in the air, as they fall,
fall: down, down, down—
with a disregarded voice;
down lushly to its parlor,
on Minnesota ground.

The golden grass of autumn
leaves, sailing in the breeze,
laughing all the way down,
laughing like a thief:
laughing, as if they embezzle
autumn, for another week.

#397/12-4-04

3) A Thousand Years

A thousand years from now
By men who ne’er saw us:

Till the ground,

Walk the streets,

Will walk by our graves:—
Thinking: who were they [?]
(my grave will say)
We were simply before you.

#378 10/2004

4) Death to Passion

Passions parish upon death;
Where birth was given—
But love never fades.

#377 10/2004

5) Voices in the Dark

Ephemeral, repudiate spirits
With Arm-thick roots that mesh
Lost within their own stillness
Hell’s henchmen wait in silence
Like ghostly unbroken shadows
Lost in skeletons maimed in death.

#373 11/3/04

6) Approaching the Tower

In the little German village
Around the bend
The path leads to a Tower
It’s back against a battlement.

The Tower rears above the trees
Scorched by drab realities;
An iron staircase leads to its top,
Open Front—eldritch dark.

(Its decay tells me much)

Its aging timbers, like bony fingers
Its open front, like lipless jaws
Vainly guarded, feasting on old visions—
As I, a visitors walk on by…

Aye! it whispers to me, to me:
“I am the awkwardness of time
I shall out live you—by and by
With your hideous little rhyme.”

I walked away, away, away,
Down the lane, down the lane
It was laughing—laughing
I dare not look back, back…

#370 10/18/04

7) Beer on a Cockroach

i was a seasoned drinker
i was not stupid
i am not a cockroach. yet
like a lump of iron by a magnet,
i was to drink.

i was a professional drunk
staggered little
made it to bed
and was normal among men
this is my point
i did the common tasks.

unimaginative as so many are
i was not;
nor was my brain
numb with
cockroaches in it. I had
not fallen into the gutter;
ecstasy’s, DT’s never got me
like my brothers.

I never staggered, never fell
it was my brain that was
drunk
not yet my body, like dying
cockroach’s—
my phantoms were in
comic books;
syllogisms: reality i had yet
as was my pent-up silences and
suspense’s.

i wore an iron collar
around my naked neck;
a bracing smile that choked.
with drinking
there is no freedom
only
anticipation of death!

i once saw a man pour beer
on top of a cockroach
drowning him drunk;
the man was dying of
alcoholism
thinning of his membranes
and die he did (an early death)
“after the first death there is
no more” he said.

he lived in a confused world
like the lies of a servant
answering the door—
he only knew people as an
acquaintance
separate in the
present.

he saw his path to the grave
as I have seen mine; yet
like many
lack the will to die
when the time
arrives.

but we all find out
we do not out smart fate
we just trick and outwit
ourselves.

everything under the sun
is old (even suicide)
the feeble bubbles in the
drug induced soul, now
so frail
from drinking slow.

it is the penalty man must pay
for intoxicated unconsciousness;
he sleep’s an un-lucid life:
like a reptile chewing meat;
like in the devouring day of
of Pompeii—
the only thing different between
you and him is
he can anticipate his
death.

Inspired by V. Murthy #394/12/4/04

8) A Soldier From The
Sydney Coast [l971]

Sumer waves in Australian waters.
The Waters ascend, climbs stories high.
Leaping waves, slapping rocks—
Creating a moment of stillness…

I am a soldier on leave, Vietnam [1971];
Walking along this Sydney coast
A mermaid statue is right ahead
Painted gold, looking out for the bold…

Note: the author was in Sidney, in l971, on leave from Vietnam, Rest and recuperation. #490/12-11-04