A Royal Tale

He couldn’t stop for death, tries everything:
Girls, music, violence, crazy displays
Of arrogance and fever. There are days
He hopes that immortality might bring
Some sort of peace, but goes on hankering
For more than peace. He’s living in a haze
Of wanting and accomplishment, a blaze
Of glory, a successful, worn out king.

He has as many children as he can,
Hoping some part of him might yet live on.
Some children die young. At least one is drawn
To hatred of her father, that odious man,
While three survive to wear the crown — his plan —
And all of them die without issue. Gone.

A Rocky Shore

Let me be clear. You never did before,
So I was never clear, much less alone,
Myself, or anything good. I was prone,
Abasing my poor body at your door,
Pretending that I liked this so much more
Than independence. I turned into stone,
Which wasn't really your fault, but I've grown
And outgrown you now. You're a rocky shore,

But I have loved you — unenduringly,
It turns out — but it seems love can endure
Even this ending. There might be no cure,
No ending, even now: I say I'm free,
But your benign touch is all over me,
My dreams of you are wonderful and pure.

Time Passing Like Smoke

I never saw it coming. I was shocked.
My friends insisted that they saw the signs,
But maybe I had sampled stronger wines
That left my feet numb and my vision blocked.
Not drugs — the cabinets were always locked,
I was afraid of shapes among the pines,
And nightmares haunted me. The moon that shines
Showed nothing, no birds sang, and spirits knocked.

I was aware of time passing like smoke,
I understood the pressures of romance:
The solitude allowed me one more chance
To hope for union with the dream that spoke
And weak desire. I must have had a stroke,
Because I only saw friends look askance.

Cover to Cover in Mumbles

I read your book cover to cover in mumbles,
A wild farrago of vocabulary,
Blind sweep of aimless talking, airy fairy
Nonsense of a tongue in haws and stumbles,
Spaced out by hollow verbiage and fumbles,
Dropped consonants, a spit-laden raspberry,
Insults hurled at the deaf constabulary
Of good grammar, gauche grieving, and grim grumbles.

You told us you knew everything you meant,
And I will not dispute with you, unclean
Though some of your connections must have been.
You smudge and obfuscate, the logic bent
And louche, like you. This chance is heaven-sent:
I ask, So what exactly did you mean?