Sunday, January 19, 2014

Regret Does Not Begin

Regret does not begin to make things right.
Apologize, by all means, but don't think
That letter was much else but waste of ink
And want of understanding. Shed some light
On how the failure of your oversight
Resulted in catastrophe: the stink
Of negligence, corruption, and the wink
Of co-conspirators, deep moral blight.

The truth won't set you free, not any more.
Why do you think I sit here in this gloom?
Nobody ever wanted a new broom;
The old broom worked. But now the bedroom floor
Is filthy — and this pile behind the door?
These burning documents won't warm the room.

Sunday, January 05, 2014


Suppose you found a bastard in your home.
What would you do? Pick up a handy broom
And beat him carelessly from room to room
Until he cried for mercy? Would you roam
From room to room with crowbars made of chrome,
A shining violence, a day-bright doom?
Or promise him a disappearing tomb
And shift from room to room, a wicked gnome?

And now suppose you were a rabid sort,
A biter with a bad case of the pox,
And found yourself in trouble, throwing rocks
At someone you once loved. You are a wart,
A scandal, a flâneur, a rude retort,
An immigrant from space. Pull up your socks.

Wednesday, January 01, 2014

Warning for Children

Despicable and desperate men will say
You have no future here, when all they mean
Is that the atmosphere is neither clean
Nor healthfully debauched. Those feet of clay
You noticed when they gave the game away
Are very large, about size seventeen,
Which works for giants' feet, so grab a bean
And climb with me, while their sad lives decay.

Dishevelled women will grab at your sleeve,
Attempting to disarm your self-control
By offering you shining lumps of coal,
But you will note it isn't Christmas Eve,
And when you've got the bean, you can retrieve
The toy that looks into your very soul.