winter playground

in every snowball there's a solid stone
the shock you get is sudden pain not cold
and when you cry you find yourself alone

the gash in your arm's open to the bone
no one wants to hear the tale you've told
in every snowball there's a solid stone

only a baby has leave to bawl or moan
your temper and your anguish you must hold
and when you cry you find yourself alone

one moment laughing next in the twilight zone
that's how the rapid process will unfold
in every snowfall there's a solid stone

what you held certain now becomes unknown
that's quite a bill of goods you have been sold
and when you cry you find yourself alone

they all will laugh when you complain or groan
the villain is the one who gets the gold
in every snowfall there's a solid stone
and when you cry you find yourself alone

nothing is happening

the scent of death contaminates the day
we close our eyes and wish it were not there
we hold our breaths and hope for cleaner air
we wonder what could happen on the way
but as we all remember what to say
our words do not all choke on our fear
we wonder who'll be next to get the spear
while behind doors the sullen children play
the sure salvation of our rotted hearts
is by a road that few will dare to walk
unless their minds of hope and sense are free
instead we play the usual assigned parts
stay silent unless compelled to talk
and turn our backs to the wide open sea

onomastics

the names for places tell a bitter tale
of conquest hatred love and total loss
of who we were but if you give a toss
you've set yourself up really to fail
the brightest noon itself will pale
our history is forever on the cross
and every story has a darker gloss
all truths are lost on the long trail
ignorance exacts a different price
a loss of innocence when all is known
and every window opens on our shame
souls and bodies are caught in a vice
the pain and desperation all are shown
and someone else bears all the blame

to warm the copper nose

for all this sweetness so much sweat and pain
the lash that bites and draws fresh blood
men's feet haphazard shod with dirt and mud
their need to be out in both sun and rain
all backs bent nearly double with the strain
those angry blows that fall with heavy thud
wild rush to get all in before the flood
all work is urgent on this tropic plain
there's all of history to set the proper tone
the nodding plants all tell such lovely lies
and all these stories must be overcome
each malefactor must repent alone
and bellow truth to the uncaring skies
think of the sorrow that goes into the rum

For MM ætat LXX anno MMVII

I still remember listening to music in your campus home,
the drive up to Munro, your flowing supply of tales,
your patient ignoring at my young poet's vain wails
at plain critique. Across the years my thoughts roam,
days wholly gone, vanished like the last sea-foam,
into pale nothingness. You write of the sharp nails
in Christ's hard hands, you work out the details
in tightest lines. An epigram says much more than a tome.
Your words reverberate with brightly living scenes,
with kindest regards, and yet each honestly chosen
in a brilliant flash, not one embroidered; simple, straight.
We see beneath, we know what each poem means,
we know that the moment has been held and frozen,
each word, each letter, bears its fullest weight.