September Poems

Chilling with Longfellow

If a body meet a body
in Mount Auburn Cemetery,
that’s probably not a good thing.

But coyotes aren’t a big threat
regardless of the springing dash
of a tan jackrabbit into bushy cover,

making a break right before
Longfellow’s crypt looms up to the left
of the leafy-lined Indian Ridge Path.

Dead men don’t care what I wear
or how much I weigh the pros and cons
of coupling over this blissful solitude.

I’m sorta hoping Emerson drops by to shoot
the breeze. Melville might bring flowers with
Hawthorne, wrinkling his handsome brow.

I love you still, no matter what they say
about you now. Still born, still dead,
you do indeed tell many tales.

 

The Lot of Us

Oh, man, if Hemingway were here

there wouldn’t be

enough booze for everybody, but we

wouldn’t mind sharing.

A few more ice cubes

would probably do the lot of us a world of good.

When were nachos invented? 

No matter, historical accuracy isn’t

all it’s cracked-up to be. That wasn’t

a Fitzgerald joke, poor chap.

 

For that story alone—

the one about a solitary traveler

putting his shoes out

in the hotel hallway to be polished,

noting all the other rooms

had two pair of shoes outside:

a big square male duo

and a smaller, pumped female

set—

 

that story alone

makes me forgive ol’ Ernest for shooting

all those lovely tigers.

Man, at a pub I do not want to hear writers

whining about being

screwed-up by mothers who stopped

breastfeeding  too soon

or made them do too many chores.

Oh, God, if Hemingway were here!

Drink up, writers.  Talk about the war on love.

 

 

Literary Trail

 

Removed for publication–will post the link when it’s up!

 

Open Manse

 

Tim told me not to drink the water

’til after, but, hell, it was about a hundred

degrees in Salem’s Athenaeum. Poor Nathaniel

was practically running off the painting

in the well-shelved tiny room where

I read Raggedy books while Tim

 

checked out the snazzy old “washroom.”

The raspberry water was cold and yummy.

Besides, I didn’t look through books

for famous signatures while the author

was reading. That would be rude, indeed.  

But some people will rifle through stuff

while listening to a story, if left unchecked.

 

 

Lo’s No Witch

 

Salem’s famous for witches, so Lo’s

gonna have a poetry reading there

in October.  Now that came out wrong.

 

–Don’t mean Lo’s a witch. She’s a musician-

poet who can’t sit still at readings, like me,

when Mike plays his drum, hum, hum.

 

I’ll be there too, in a Salem cafe

keeping score with Dracula of all

the necks I’ve nibbled.  We’ll try not

 

to act too batty, this ol’ gang of poets,

blending right in with various spooks,

just children of rhythms and the night.

 

 

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