Sunstroke

I marked the end of this week's fireside chat
With gunshots and a bloody sacred cow.
Above the falls, I took my final bow,
And made my peace with circles. I was flat,
But old friends pumped me up, although one spat,
"You should have spent more time behind the plough!"
I wavered, but they calmed him down somehow,
Reminding him he should have worn a hat.

We've all had sunstroke, but we're doing fine
Since Adam left the Garden in a rush,
Determined to embrace the wayward thrush
That mocked him, hovering above the vine.
We saw the dark pink rising from his spine,
But it was sunstroke, not a gentle blush.

Accent

The syllable you want is not the first;
The second has the main accent, that's key,
Then lightly on the fourth: despairingly
Is such a word, and surely not the worst.
They come at you in a depressing burst:
Ridiculous, unravelling (that's me),
Impassable. My endless pedantry
Amuses no one, though it's well rehearsed —

We pedants grant ourselves the rights of kings.
As long as the dark urge to plagiarize
Stays locked behind the tunnel of your eyes,
Whatever is, is right. No mermaid sings
To Alfred. No ideas but in things.
And get the accents right! Metastasize.

The Incandescent Spirit

The energy is good: I can align
These crystals so that in the pyramid
The beads line up the way the crystals did.
You are a skeptic, not a philistine,
Demanding proof, some sort of proper sign,
Or so the Tarot tells me. Close the lid:
Some things will show up now that someone hid,
Some choice ideas light will undermine.

The incandescent spirit never jars,
It gently moves your soul towards the throne
Where you belong. In darkness, we atone.
It isn't magic, isn't in the stars:
When Jupiter fails to align with Mars
The incandescent spirit moves alone.