On Hamilton Mountain

on M Klavins's birthday

On Hamilton Mountain, we look at the city
Stretched broadly below us, with cool resignation,
Recalling our hopes for intense concentration
(A dream more than worthy of some Walter Mitty),
Replaced by more practical feelings, like pity
And purpose; our lives, meant to join contemplation
To action, have joined only schemes to sensation,
Which causes our friends to remark something witty.

We’ve aged, like great wines, and our lives have persisted
To this year that passes too slowly, too quickly,
Too neatly, too messily, often too sickly,
But here we all are, resolute and two-fisted,
Eyes clear, where at one time they might have been misted.
The day breaks, the answers to fancies come thickly.

Love's Vassals

Forlorn and somewhat lame, the empty sigh
Of love devotes its few remaining hours
To telling stories of its vanished powers
And rather foolishly explaining why
Its strength is gone. Whimpering at the sky,
The poor thing whines, and meditates on flowers,
Fearing the scent and, unembarrassed, cowers,
Watching for justice through one half-shut eye.

Love’s vassals, we await our lonely ends
With resignation, as we see our road
Stretched out before us, and the dividends
Of lives made one with the outmoded mode
We learned from our retiring so-called friends,
Who lied, saying: In time we will explode.

Been Here Too Long

She grabs me by the legs and says, “Don’t go!”
But I’ve been here too long. Another day
And I’ll go nuts with boredom, so I say,
“You’ve had too much of me.” I say it slow,
So she’ll believe me. “No!” she answers. “No!”
"Yeah, Babe," I tell her, clearly. If I stay
She’ll try this on tomorrow. “Are you gay?”
She asks. I only shrug, go with the flow.

She tries to smile again, undoes her bra
And slips out of her pants. She oversells,
With winks and a half smile. Whistling, she tells
Her story with too many sighs. “I saw,”
Is what I offer. One hand like a claw,
She grabs me once again, by the lapels.

To Home

“Please sit, and make yourself to home,” she said,
Clearly exasperated by our frowns.
“My daughter tells me you’re a bunch of clowns,
But she’s inclined to fuss when she’s misled,
And you apparently grabbed Uncle Ted
In order to insist that wearing gowns
Was in his contract.” We took off our crowns
And sat in state there, wishing we were dead.

“We hoped we need not dip into our stores.
We’re on our way home from the junior tourney,”
I explained, “astride a three-wheeled gurney
Built of plywood and six two-by-fours
That took us safely through the recent wars.”
She sneered, then we continued on our journey.