Long Unreported Poems
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The Jester, aged in voice and hand and face,
His life spent in trying to entertain
The King and Queen, relying on their grace
For every earthly comfort he would gain.
Now old and weak, unable to perform,
And quite uncertain in where he might go
To live out his life safe from every storm,
But fearing all ahead of him is woe…
“Has all I have done, my King, pleased you not?
My every heartfelt song and silly jest
Was made in all my life with just one thought…
To please you, Lord, and do my very best.”
The King looked down - the Jester thought he’d faint –
And asked him, “Sir, just what is your complaint?”
The King spoke on, explaining in detail
All that the performer was awarded:
Protection, food, and a home for the frail
Jester that might have been unreported.
At the King’s own table he had a place,
And food aplenty to stem his hunger.
With safety always in his private space
From every threat to pull him asunder…
“What more could I offer? What more to give?
Yes, friendship as well, was offered to you.
Many might wish for a life so well lived
As the one that you unconsciously knew.”
“Forgive me, my Lord,” the Jester then said.
“I felt with my heart, not thought with my head.”
“Forgetting my place, so small in your court,
Was privileged beyond what most men might dream.
To live out a life knowing your support
And attain just a bit of your esteem
Should surely be enough for me, my King.
Again, please forgive my ingratitude.
For each tale I tell and each song I sing
Is often by my own thought devalued.”
The King, with affection and great respect,
Upon his life-long companion, looked down.
He said, “Forgive me. I often neglect
My friend, who portrays himself as a clown.”
And thus, old friendships can flourish and grow
When learning of love that we may not know.
The applause
I had a drink before going to a poetry reading
since I was nervous
drank a few whiskeys and spoke dramatically about the plight of the Palestinians
I needed help to get down from the stage since my glasses were at the hotel.
The next day, we went to a meeting where the top of
The educated class go, I thought they were idiots
they had erudition but no
learning, So I got up and spoke for fifteen minutes.
The silence was colossal
think of a needle falling from the galaxy
and landing at the Himalayas, I had sinned
said the global warming was a natural disaster and had nothing to do
with global warming.
The meeting was unreported in the local paper
but what do
I do not speak this Roman soldier’s language.
If I wasn't there,
the rain swollen clouds
would have still dumped
their dark weight over the bay
and through a gaping tear,
let down a curtain of sunlight
to start the day.
And if I wasn't there,
the old, arthritic labrador
would have still waddled
along the street
with its bent but steady gait,
undistracted, self absorbed
and fixed in its own stare
that allowed no deviation
from years of devoted plod.
The morning had no need
for me, what happened
would have happened anyway.
There's an annoying sadness
in knowing the earth
doesn't seem to care
if things pass unnoticed.
Sunsets and waterfalls
carry no favor.
To it, the achingly beautiful
and the catastrophic can
happily go unreported.
And yet I still ask -
what's the point -
and entertain the notion
that the universe has this
innate and unfathomable need
for a witness
to take in Creations
unfolding riddle
and make it fit together.
I could be wrong,
but for each of us,
the privilege of being here
on this gifted earth,
to understand, care for
and tell its story in song
fulfills a purpose,
if only to this end -
or something more.
The mine drowned the holler,
many reallocated
to trailer parks along the Interstate.
The school dwindled,
ran out of children
became a garage for dead trucks,
then a beer barn, then a Meth lab,
bubbling feuds resurfaced -
shotguns aimed at open secrets.
Oxycontin mules crisscrossed cricks.
After the sheriff left with a bag of money
the missing went unreported.
The ‘Craft’
(a legend as ancient as flint arrowheads),
emerged from clapboard covens
ginseng and moonshine were sacrificed
for white powder.
Glocks flourished among the Hummel’s.
Traditions persisted
like red paint on wooden signs.
An outbreak of opaque cottage industries,
led to skins inked with blood oaths.
Old women retreated into the mountains
with their recipes.
Spirals of distant smoke
rose from iron cooking pots,
no one spoke of the children.