Digest - II

Collected Poems

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In, Not Of

The great city Babylon throws out its arms,
And traces tears down those cheeks,
That rest clay-form in the stringent sun,
Flesh of the proud, the bold, and meek,

Like a mother that swaddles her sickly son,
She rolls sweet fabric along his shape,
And poorly folds the nestled boy,
Within the darkness of midnight’s cape,

Like a father that raises his child’s arms,
Above his head to aid his steps,
Tottering uneasy towards a plunging gulch,
Wandering along the perilous depths,

Parents of ill-born sacrificial blood
Have reared the child in splendorous vice,
Have slept deeply into his restless mind,
Soothing dreams of decadent device.

Splitting in two for kingdoms divided
Has legislated the boy’s demise,
Athwart the mammon gods defiant,
He negotiates a weighty price,

A cost of soul either which way:
To slave for gods of faithless men,
Grant them voice and prophecy,
Soothless seer of tongue and pen,

Or reprieve in silence to unknown cliffs,
Where the Voice of God has laid His head,
Sitting patient at the master’s feet,
Learning in beauty which girds his breath. 

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As Salt

Be ye as salt, as so we say,
Be as the night unto the day,
Be as cool water is to thirst,
And bring the flowers out for May.

If April be the sweetest month,
Then follow quick the hunter’s hunch,
And track it down, that reddish hart,
Until the beast be in your clutch.

If dour autumn’s stubborn wet,
Drips its leaves upon your chest,
Do think of winter’s blanket frost,
Stand up, and be not buried yet.

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Cursory Rhymes

Rumple Bumps took a jump
And ate a pack of posies,
The mourning lumps each got the mumps,
And cracked off all their toesies.

The milkmaid jabbered all the day,
And sucked up every word,
Till the time she rolled the hay,
And not a word was heard.

Up, down, downtown,
Doggy’s comin’ home,
He popped the locks down at the pound,
With a wet and soggy bone.

We’ve got a peck o’ pickled peppers,
And a big ole’ ball o’ dough,
To feed the leapin’ peepin’ lepers,
And wham-bam all their woe.

If you know where bad boys go,
I’ll catch you at the nine,
Where frosty poets often blow,
And jive their stupid rhymes.

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