The Old Soviet Museum
I stared at the shiny ceiling,
with colors of red, green, and blue,
at bronze statues, bold, or kneeling,
with magnificent golden hues.
I saw Lenin’s words on the wall,
in vivid Russian, I could read,
and stared at his form ten times tall,
staring back, bidding me to think.
And so, my eyes continued their gaze,
around the lavish old museum -
past red flags, ready and arrayed,
to march with pictures deep within.
And as my head traced left to right,
across the room which seemed a land,
as rich thoughts murmured in my mind,
my eyes fell on one lonely strand.
There, up high, was a piece of wall,
where time had worn through the dye,
These six words stood alone, and small,
“Freedom is always black and white.”
And though I tried to film that place,
I couldn’t. The shading wasn’t right.
So I moved to the far palisade,
where the sun shone in, gay and bright.
YES
We spend our lives upon the sea,
and on the planks where we were born.
We love to see, or lull, and dream,
and stay long in the Mist and warmth.
But oft we stray and reach cold deeps –
and feel the harsh north, arctic Wind,
with wave after wave the ice seeps,
into our veins, and blood, and limbs.
And so we drift these fretful seas,
in bodies numb and waves amok -
And all we hold to are our dreams,
and the luck that we brought with us.
But when we pass through the waves’ yell,
For days, or years, or maybe more,
It is then we cry out, help! help!
And to see our world as before.
Then, as if chance, the storm oft dies.
and we limp on our merry way,
Praising good fate, or stars and signs,
while remaining very much the same.
And it is only in the end,
when we each reach that far, yon shore,
—
We spend our lives upon the sea,
and on the planks where we were born.
We love to see, or lull, and dream,
and stay long in the Mist and warmth.
But oft we stray and reach cold deeps –
and feel the harsh north, arctic Wind,
with wave after wave the ice seeps,
into our veins, and blood, and limbs.
And so we drift these fretful seas,
in bodies numb and waves amok -
And all we hold to are our dreams,
and the luck that we brought with us.
But when we pass through the waves’ yell,
For days, or years, or maybe more,
It is then we cry out, help! help!
And to see our world as before.
Then, as if chance, the storm oft dies.
and we limp on our merry way,
Praising good fate, or stars and signs,
while remaining very much the same.
—
We spend our lives upon the sea,
and on the planks where we were born.
We love to see, or lull, and dream,
and stay long in the Mist and warmth.
But oft we stray and reach cold deeps –
and feel the harsh north, arctic Wind,
with wave after wave the ice seeps,
into our veins, and blood, and limbs.
And so we drift these fretful seas,
in bodies numb and waves amok -
And all we hold to are our dreams,
and the luck that we brought with us.
But when we pass through the waves’ yell,
For days, or years, or may be more,
It is then we cry out, help! help!
And to see our world as before?
Nanny and Pop
I saw an old couple on the beach today,
sitting in chairs near the water’s edge.
Laughing and chatting to the sound of waves,
which covered up the marks they’d tread.
And as I sat there, I watched the sun’s light,
shine for hours on the island they had made,
No tracks forward, and not one behind -
Only themselves. The white. And waves.
I didn’t see what happened to the two.
The sun set and the colors went away.
So I made up my own ending. You should too.
They’ll live a thousand lives this way.
On the Anti-Christ
I could write a poem
with cute, sweet lines which rhyme
and dance along their merry way,
in a perfect simile of time,
to warn you of the man I’ve seen –
in pages turned aside and worn -
a man who will speak words of peace,
but instead will bring the sword.
But I’d rather not waste my time
for no poem or words will much avail,
on the day he first arrives.
For I’ve thought about that moment often -
when he gracefully takes the stage -
And I know how we all will greet him.
Not with silence. But with praise.
The Anti-Christ
I know not how or when he’ll come,
whether by sea, or land, or sky,
tomorrow, or in a thousand anum,
when English has gone by and by.
I know not how he will begin,
or the rhymes and prose he’ll use,
just how he’ll fool all men, again,
and just how you, too, will choose.
I know not how he’ll meet his end,
whether in whimpers or in cries,
or the history between now and then,
which could have acted as a sign.
But look for the man with broad chest,
who promises a peace to last.
Look for the man with finger bent,
at a religion and a class.
Look for the man who loves the state,
more than the kings who came before.
Look for the man who can kill a babe,
for the good of land, and you, and ward.
Look for the man with words sealed,
by your boisterous, rapt applause.
Look for the man who makes you feel -
without a single word at all.
Tiffany
Tiffany,
There’s something I meant to tell you,
today when we were on the swings.
But I was quiet, and perhaps I proved -
that people rarely say the words they think.
Well, I like you – and there’s really nothing more.
I hope we can talk soon, I guess.
Or perhaps you could pass me a note before
we start our math hour and take that test?
Please forgive me if these words are rough.
I’m twelve, and awkward with such things.
Oh, and I’m sorry I look at your back so much.
It’s just…I swear I see wings.
