Not in the Realms of Gold

My travels were not in the realms of gold
Until I reached this strange and advanced age.
I hoped for some help when I hit this stage,
But all I had was money. I had sold
My art and conscience, and was growing old,
Consumed by fear, that happy coprophage.
I thought by now I’d be unhinged, or sage,
But all I am is uncertain and cold.

I won’t be silent, not on a mountaintop,
Not on a riverbank, or in the valley —
Never quiet, ready for a rally:
I’ll run so hard, no one can make me stop.
I bought this liquor in a pastry shop
Alongside ruins in a stinking alley.

Franked

I said, Some say the world will end in ice,
Not loving a wall. She said, We don’t confuse
Coldness with poetry; I hate clerihews
As much as you, but dammit, there’s a price
For all this crap you’re spewing. Roll the dice,
I offered: is a talent to amuse
The same as grace? A frank exchange of views,
She called it. I called it something less nice.

Be brave, I said, teasing her appetite
For cleverness. You’re just an autoclave,
She said to me, a hot, high-pressured slave
To serious, deep thought. I said, you’re slight.
But you’re the coward, she insisted; fight,
Stand up for that light verse you really crave.

The Unexpressive Blur

She told me, “Love, that poem is sublime,”
But all she really meant was something cute,
Like: I was underneath a citrus fruit,
A green look on my face — just like last time.
Removing all doubt, she called me subprime —
No play on words, just me in disrepute.
She said, “You’re not astute, though you’re hirsute;
Stay mute while I think up another rhyme.”

“You should be writing sonnets,” I told her,
“Since poetry is clearly in your blood.”
“That nonsense, that infernal verbal flood,
Is yours, all yours, the unexpressive blur
Of teeth and tongue, wings of the tanager,”
She chuckled. “Maybe cows chewing the cud.”