Here is another poem recently published in print and now at my copyrighted electronic disposal. I know, fine phrasing for so-called art, right? A modern concern writ small, dilution and saturation in one fell-swoop. Be assured, though, this is not a soapbox I'm not genuinely on because: [1] soapboxes require calisthenics and I'm tired, [2] so-called artists are as indiscernible as ever from bona fide artists with respect to the beggarly-chooserly maxim, and [3] if I was an earnest purist, I'd spread my stories and songs in the wise of this old man man.
Night Class
By campfire, under the useless umbrella of embers,
Listen to the hoary man when he says,
Never confuse how much
sky
you
can cover
by
your hand
at
arm’s length
with
how much
of
it you can hold.
When he starts in a palsied A-minor to sing of wolves
Through cigaretted teeth, red-eyed, listen:
She was white as snow,
a snow wolf, that is,
hiding in the powdery drifts
she sniffed and I knew I was
a goner.
The flames will settle like restless children as the concave
Belly of space hulas in its spangled skirt.
The tree frogs will concede their limbs to sentry owls,
And the cricketing will crescendo.
The hoary man will stand, dust bark from his pants,
Pour his coffee on the fire; but before he retires,
He will hold out his hand, erect his thumb and say,
No matter where it is
or how seemingly big,
you can cover
the moon, but
from your eyes
only; and you
can never ever
squash it.
And you should listen.
Let damp morning do its worst and listen,
Even as he snores.
(First published in Bacopa Literary Review, 2013)
