StarPoet Newsletter Vol. XI, No.LII

I would shut out the pain
If I thought I could do so
And still be poet.

I would happily disconnect
If the world would not end
And I might still see my muse.

This shell, this poet's masque,
Hides generations of shattered lives
Reborn in fragile words.

I was raised in an age when women
Still covered their heads in church,
Sometimes a lace doily, if that were available,
Perhaps a fine hat or a properly sedate scarf;
Women tended the altars, became mothers,
Ensuring the flowers were fresh and glorious,
Kept house for the priests who couldn't be bothered
Or taught in the grammar schools beside the nuns;
Such were the ways of God and women
When I was young and the rubrics carved in stone.

When I was human I was told that
I learned the entire television schedule
By the time I was five, knew it cold.
This mozartian capability must be tempered
By the knowledge that there were only
Two, maybe three channels available
In Sacramento at the time.

So no big deal except, decades later
I still seem to be keeping track, more or less,
Making allowances for the senior moments
And the brain cramps; but I was human then,
A curious creature with a gall bladder
And no breasts, now, however,
I can't remember what follows however.

As you may have noticed already,
I am a member of no particular religion
Other than the Grand Congregation of the Universe;
Dust to dust, starstuff to starstuff,
The Milky Way is my church and parish,
The Sun and planets, my heavenly altar and pews.

In the beginning, there was no beginning,
All was nothing and nothing was not at all,
The void was neither dark nor empty,
Before did not exist, after was not yet yet,
Then, if then is the word I should use,
The universe spoke and there was light.

Everything else follows:
Bottom, top, down and up,
Strange, charm, and all the rest,
Space and time, seconds, minutes, and light years.
Protons, neutrons, atoms and molecules,
Hydrogen, oxygen, suns, comets, and planets,
And then, when the moment was ripe, humanity.

Don't look at me like I'm some waiting oasis
In the dark, lonely desert of your neighborhood bar;
Drink your tequila, suck your lime, but I
Will not lick the salt from the back of your hand
Like some complementary warm beer chaser.

Grow-up, boy, be a man:
If you want to buy me a drink,
Just do it, if you want to talk, talk,
But don't sit there across the bar
Staring at me as if I'm some
Anonymous piece of meat waiting
To be your next bed mate.

I believe in Jesus, my kids do too,
God, and miracles and even virgin birth,
Devils, saints, and guardian angels; but I've told my kids
That Santa's not real, neither are his reindeer
And the presents are from me, and the whole Santa
Story is a pile of reindeer poop, a myth we made
Up to make our children feel good.

The Chiefs of the Mattaponi and Pamunkey,
Honoring the ancient treaty better than the white man,
Provide the Governor of Virginia two deer and a turkey
Each year in lieu of taxes for the privilege of living
On their reservations instead of their tribal lands.
-- The best deal they get at the time from a bunch of
Colonial Englishmen intent on Christian fantasy.

The sun comes, the sun goes,
The sun comes back again;
Roses bloom, green corn ripens
The leaves fall on the land;
The new moon appears,
The goddess vanishes,
Circle upon circle, year upon year,
Hope, happiness, and tears.

Black Friday at the Pentagon,
The building is as empty as
Some bare-bones grave-yard shift
Run amuckingly amok in the corridors.

We're only here to hold the fort
Until reinforcements arrive
Should war breakout,
The President call,
Or a congressman cross the river
For a photo op visit.

The operation centers are fully manned,
Ready to defend our nation against harm's way,
Send the bombers and rockets flying,
Order the Big Red One to defend our borders;
But in the meantime, there is a line fifty deep
Waiting for the Best Buy to open on the concourse.

Full moon
Uneaten by Earth's long shadow
Bright harbinger of the Solstice
Winter arrives
And we move towards Spring