All Sorts of Incendiary Stuff

This is an awful way to make a living,
Disease and trauma bound to follow you —
Not unexpected, no, but unforgiving.
Isn’t there something else that you could do?
There’s digging ditches, and there’s mining coal,
There’s dyeing bright red soldiers’ uniforms;
Do not write poetry, to save your soul,
Just keep yourself to civilization’s norms.
I knew a poet once, but now she’s dead,
The victim of too much — or not enough —
Or something just right — what was in her head
Was all sorts of incendiary stuff.
I once imagined myself wild and free;
No more. It’s probably the end of me.

Look What I Brought

I’m trying to forget about religion
While I'm shopping for a Christmas gift,
Especially for those who gave short shrift
To last year's present of a half-plucked widgeon
Stuffed with soy and meal and well-aged pigeon,
The ones who scrunched their noses as they sniffed
And made remarks about my well-known thrift.
I’m not embarrassed, not even a smidgen.

Remember, since June I’m an atheist,
And whether you love Christmastime or not
The many lovely presents that I bought,
So well-intentioned, ought not to be grist
For rumours and debate. I get the gist
Of Christmas and its hopes. Look what I brought!

Backless Dress

I wore a shimmering red backless dress
With four-inch heels and three strands of black pearls
Designed to catch the eyes of dukes and earls —
Though most of them claimed they could not care less —
And had my hair up in a contrived mess
Just like my rivals, all the college girls
With auburn highlights, top knots, and tight curls
So popular with members of the press.

My undergarments, though of silk and lace,
Looked too much like the ones suburban wives
Might choose, but to perpetuate the race
The slit up to my thighs (the Devil drives
My own libido) offers up no grace:
No man who laid his hand on me survives.

December Has Arrived

December has arrived at last, slowpoke
Of months, eleven times it’s been delayed,
Our tempers and our cloth coats badly frayed,
Our aching backs unready for the yoke
Of winter. Now the fall, gone up in smoke,
Has finished all the games it ever played:
Stuffed gutters, hard rain like a cannonade,
The shock denuding of the mighty oak.

We have seen snow, but only at the edge
Of the horizon, blowing crazily
Along the mountainside. A severed tree,
Distended branches, and the battered sedge
Stretch over portions of a rocky ledge.
December has arrived. Prepare to flee.