Saturday, November 26, 2011

Big Trampoline

            I miss our sundays at the park by the lake
            With the motherly banyans in more than one place
            The indigenous palms that could bend and not break
            And the ones that had trunks like papiermâché
            It would come unglued when they started to flake
            And the baby manatees that swam there by mistake 
            Swimming right up to the sad little shoreline of clay
            Considering their options and then swimming away
            Afraid of the tangled ladies laying in wait
            They were just some old mangroves, and nothing to hate
            I miss these beauties like the leaves and their sway

            And the people who lived there like humorless gods
            I don’t miss them or their shimmering façades
            The towering fortresses that kept us at odds
            Purveyors of solitude, a circle of frauds
            They decided that the trees were obstructing their view
            So through much litigation and reddening hues
            They changed how the word “preservation” was used
            The bulldozers came and made everything new
            I hate new things when the motives aren’t true

            So the next time we have our sundays together
            We should go back to the park where the beauties were gathered
            And return something old to the glistening water
            And honor the ghosts of arboreal mothers
            We’ll fly in the face of the powers unseen
            And then we’ll make love on their big trampoline

Sunday, November 6, 2011

The Gelding

I can recollect laying down crescents of iron
To collect my bounty of a filly in heat
Equestrian mercenary put out to pleasure
I made my salary of hindquarter meat

But my calling in life was to spill into battle
So I trusted the process and trudged through the days
They turned me into a warhorse with surgery
They took my studhood completely away
And I left those hot pursuits happily behind,
For the perfect pastures of an unbridled mind.

And now I can canter with scarcely a care
To god’s own mongolia or I don’t know where
To breathe in the bodiless elysian air
And hopefully fall in with a healthier mare