In My Golden Bower

I wasn’t in the living room last night
When somebody broke in, and spent an hour
Among my bookshelves, in my golden bower.
When I came down at dawn, I had a fright:
Five books were on the sofa, an odd sight
Comprising four books in a messy tower
And one, a study of Dwight Eisenhower,
Hidden beneath a cushion, packed in tight.

I put them all away, but not before
The pencilled notes my bold intruder left
Aroused my interest. No, it wasn’t theft,
But something much worse, because I adore
The clean, white margins that my texts once wore,
So in my golden bower I am bereft.

Raison d’être

If I were devastated by your leaving,
I wouldn’t be turning out sonnets. No,
I’d be in severe mourning, head held low,
Lost totally in my despair, and grieving
Ceaselessly, my hollowed-out heart heaving.
Instead, I’m rhyming — Oh, so pale moon, glow!
You claim I’ve put together a fine show;
But nothing heals like what I’ve been achieving.

Your thieving of their love has broken men,
But not this man; I have this poetry,
This endless challenge, love, catastrophe,
My necessary link between now, then,
And everything I hope to try again.
The future beckons, understandably.

Thanksgiving

Shall we give thanks for all the things we like?
Will we skip something, someone, some old fact,
Or factor, in our joy? We’ll interact,
Express our gratitude, prepare to strike,
Let grievances pass, as new troubles spike.
Remaining grateful, with our souls intact,
Rising above the paltry things we lacked,
We set out once more on our nature hike.

What is our nature, then? Husband, or wife,
Or lone survivor in a fallen state,
Dismissive of the hour, or never late,
We’ll be content with our ungainly life.
We thank each other for the stress and strife,
Sit down to dinner with our friends, and wait.

Specifics

I have dispensed with generalities,
And offer you specifics, as a feast;
No more great gobs of sunrise from the east,
No more delightful play of summer breeze,
We speak only of how your muscles seize —
Your inclination is to call the priest —
Friends joke about the recently deceased,
The squeezed, the tiresome ones they hope to squeeze.

You say you’re tired of all this empty talk,
But we remember learning it from you,
One more loud thing our racing tongues could do
Without as much grasp as a cuckoo clock.
Don’t think I’ve come to criticize or mock;
Ingest, digest abuse, peruse and chew.