An iceman cometh

... to dance alone
on milky plain,
a partner shy?
... to glide around
like angels fly?

The music starts,
his stance reposed,
his chin is tucked.
Skintight he's clothed —
a painted buck.

Unfrozen, he
circles the ice —
In search of love?
Indeed to please
the gods above.

His arms outstretch,
then clasp around
a missing beau.
The tension builds ...
quadruple toe!

More flirting spins
to climax, then
a spray of white
— a final lunge —
upon me lights.

His denouement:
a shrinking down
to prayerful kneel.
At peace, also,
is what I feel.

*     *     *     *

written after watching the 2010 Trophée Eric Bompard men's singles

placed in Poets United Poetry Pantry: #20

'Tis the month of 'Merry's

'Tis the month of 'Merry's
and glittering malls,
faux-snow and fairies
and 'Deck'ing 'the Hall's.

Jesus is laid
in kitschy creches
below the manmade
heavenly sketches.

Fox News again's warring
on the 'War on Christmas'.
Glenn Beck's exploring
its hidden enigmas.

Commercials are singing
the carols of Yule.
Leo G. Carroll's playing
Jake Marley's ghoul.

Making big splashes:
the parties A-list,
and Christmas Eve bashes
the D-listers miss.

Churches fill pews
in Christmastide splendor.
Atheists and Jews
politely surrender.

There's no point repressing
'Merry Chrismas'ings hence:
So stop the kvetching—
let the 'Merry's commence!

*     *     *     *

placed in Poets United Poetry Pantry: Week #19

Instant punditry

Mix dry grains of truthiness
and artificial fruitiness
with watery prose
in big smiling pitchers:
punditry's a cheap drink
best served cold.

O to be a pundit (payed
news channel wit)
with a faithful base!
No one cares a whit
of what you are made,
just how you taste.

*     *     *     *

e.g. from Salon, Our 30 Least Favorite Pundits

placed in Poets United Poetry Pantry: Week #19

Plymouth Plantation

We were migrants from conflict,
speaking a different language
from the natives' who welcomed us—
They did not ask us for our papers.

We did not adopt their customs,
but we learned to live on their land.
They showed us where to hunt for food
and we took their fish.

We give thanks to Samoset and
his people for this bounty—
We hope to return the favors, nay,
more ... some day ... some day.

*     *     *     *

placed in Poets United Think Tank #25: Thankfulness

Why Man Does Not Have Wings

These rhymes could be some simple things
Man not endowed by Nature wings:
He never would have had to build
The means to fly, his dreams fulfilled;
Or turned these planes to reach the stars;
Or feel the thrill of speedy cars;
Or made the ships to cruise the seas;
Or planned the roads and bright cities.
Man's fortunate to walk the ground,
with brains invent his dreams unbound.

*     *     *     *

placed in Poets United Think Tank #24: Wings

Ancestral grunts

In grunts of monosyllable short breath
The paleo man spoke his broken verse,
Yet far away from language of Macbeth
In lyrical loquaciousness submersed.
Descendants' texts evolved with nuanced sense,
Enlightenment's with dense and laden prose.
Who knew from then where tongue would travel thence?
Fast-forward: Techo-fashions interpose.
Ancestral grunts redux in text and tweet
Return to "liberate" the literate
Back to the prehistoric mind's retreat
To speak so bluntly, not from brain, but gut.

*     *     *     *

placed in Poets United Poetry Pantry: Week #18

Id Monsters From Westboro Baptist

A few with pastel-striped signs:

         GOD HATES FAGS

      THANK GOD FOR IEDs

The id monsters of these Dr. Morbiuses:
ones who are
               polite,
               respectable,
               believe the Bible,
and stand in the doorways of churches
and military recruiting stations.

      Say no to gay marriage.

           Keep DADT.

Like Morbius of Altair IV, they did not realize
what was buried.

Paws to reflect

I'm the one with four feet down,
The only one with purring sound.
The only kin I'll ever know:
The tall bipeds who come and go.
My meow brings sweet tuna meal;
I couldn't have a better deal.
From laps to naps to window sill,
That bird outside I'll never kill.
The one biped who turns my ear,
The one whom I hold to most dear:
He plays with me with stick and twine;
I play along, and I feel fine.
(The only times I'd soon forget
 Is when he takes me to the vet.)
I wipe my whiskers 'gainst a leg
for rubs I never have to beg.
My family are not like me,
But I'm as happy as can be.

*     *     *     *

placed in Poets United Think Tank #23: Family

"Browser" war

People still say "browser"
like a slothful herd,
too lazy to go whole hog
with a better word.

Is a Chrome-trimmed car a slow racer,
an Opera a song that can barely be heard,
or is a Firefox a lazy dog,
or a Safari just a leisurely slog?
"Browser" indeed's a lousy word.

Veterans Day 2010

America does not want to think about war today.

WWII may have been the last war America universally believed it needed to win. No war since — in Korea, Vietnam, Bosnia, or Iraq (twice) — rose any where close to that level. Today it has soldiers fighting in Afghanistan, but the majority opinion appears to be that they should be brought home. It is the only war actually connected to '9/11', America's entry into the 'War on Terrorism' (or, as some oddly call it, the 'War on Terror'). In other words, America feels that the war in Afghanistan, like the war in Iraq, is not effective in this War. Perhaps this is the reason that there are the stories of an increase in soldiers' suicides and psychological trauma.

This new War is a war America believes needs to be won, but understands this does not mean winning in any battle-field sense, or winning in any way that leads to an armistice. The veterans of this War will not be traditional soldiers, but intelligence agents and black-ops military specialists, most of whom will receive little public recognition or ceremony. There will be no parades.

This culture pops with paparazzied boys

It is not fair to be old, to put on a brown sweater.
—William Carlos Williams

This culture pops with paparazzied boys:
The chiseled werewolves time may pass on by,
Those extras Lady Gaga's vids employ.
Of these, and more, I watch the clock and sigh.

You see, the years may tick away the days
Of gay abandon: Youthful heads which turn,
Which play to me with magic flesh flutes raised,
And glutes, like melons—'tis my grip they yearn.

Boy culture proves to be a mean size queen
Who measures youth and beauty o'er deep things.
And therein lies the paradox between
The fantasies and bound'ries old age brings.

     I've yet to pass that chasm yet, but see
     The signs around—which shouldn't bother me.

Standard times

Time travels 'cross the months of day—
an hour lost, then found.
But night has lost its feigned delay,
and body clocks rewound.

Cavemen—they knew the mark of noon
and equilibrium.
In modern times, clocks peak too soon
until the fall has come.

*     *     *     *

more "falling back" poems in today's The New York Times
placed in Poets United Poetry Pantry: Week #16

Electromagic fields

Any sufficiently advanced technology
is indistinguishable from magic.

Arthur C. Clarke's Third Law of Prediction

Spells by billions of fingertips cast:

Electro-poets with tablets of glass.

Large Hadron Collider particles smashed,

Unlocking hidden dimensions at last.

Retinas stimulated by photonic haze,

Each generation of gadget amaze.

Wizards line up for the latest craze,

But what of those without their ways?

This magic untouching too many who crawl

With empty plate and tattered shawl.

The earth shrunk down increasingly small:

For these there's little effect at all.

*     *     *     *

placed in Poets United Think Tank #22: Magic

An Angry Wave

a post-election postmortem

Bellows have blown an angry wave
With frothy crest.
It swells to form a shape concave,
Its force compressed.

Its rumbling roars advance to ear,
Crescendoing.
It crashes down with sound severe,
Shallows brewing.

This once behemoth wave, suds now
Around my feet.
Its waters sucked backed out allow
The next repeat.

This wave: Its mighty force was spent
Upon the shore,
Until the next bellows ferment
The waters more.

*     *     *     *

placed in Poets United Poetry Pantry: Week #16

Election eve "sonnet"

The day before the crazies meet fraidies:
Second Amendment remedies and radical Tenthers
Nativist frights and Christianist ladies
Cultists who think Ayn Rand's a real philosopher

vs.

Cowardly congressmen hiding from votes
Dissing their leaders and looking quite hurt
Looking for quick getaways in speedy boats
From a House next year of Louie Gohmerts


Aqua buddhas and witches caused quite a fuss
The Rent Is Too Damn High, Mr. President dude
Those Hispanics in ads are menacing us
Twenty-eleven promises congressional feuds

      And Wednesday's child is full of woes
      Post-election postpartum "I told you so"s