~Wisps~

Poetry by Daniel F Mitchell

VIII. Confusion 

A Viking

A Viking went a wenching
Beyond the northern sea.

A Viking went a pillaging
With bold audacity.

A Viking went a sailing
Across from Normandy.

A Viking in a drunken rage
Begat my family tree.

The Vicissitude of Fate

Varus sacrificed his legions
On the altars of Mars,
Praying for territory,
Lusting for glory,
Dei gratia, dei gratia,
All for victory,
Aut Caeser aut nullus,
Aut Caeser aut nihil.

But Siegfried was someone,
And his creed significant,
Passing the sword of fire
To Arminius, and eagle wings,
That he might stand ground
For Germania, ringed round
By fair-haired giants – barbarians
Sworn to die or stand,
Despising life without liberty,
Swearing to defend a forest,
Freedom ringing in their steel,
Desperation of dragons cornered,
In their eyes crying Woden!

Nibulungen rallied to defiance,
Flanked by Valkyries,
Fury their breath,
Independence their aim,
Through victory or death.
And in one campaign,
The Romans determined
The power of the Norse,
The vicissitude of fate,
And a future waiting
For destiny in the Teutoberg.

Tribute

Oh
Who
Were you,
Who left grand
Sand piled up high
Against the desert sky -
This act of some giant hand?

A Page Turned

A page turned
On a mechanical gear.
An automobile rolled out of a factory.
The big band swinging gleefully,
Machines with wings took to sky,
The Prussians restless for territory,
Banks in disarray and unable to pay,
Some trouble of sorts in Sarajevo,
The rising sun rising and setting,
The Huns beating at the door,
The warlords storming the theater,
The chosen gathering for gas and incineration,
The masters stumbling over their ambitions,
The atom cracking open so terribly,
The dark continent a little brighter then dimming,
The red-eyed dispossessed taking the farm,
Plow shares formed into swords to carry the red word,
Protestation silenced and renewed, silenced and renewed,
Books burned and preserved,
Passion whispered in fear of retribution,
The little monsters rising up and falling down,
Lines drawn and erased,
Walls rising and falling,
The blemished ones finding a place at the counter,
The moon coming to the backyard,
Flowers blooming and wilting,
Voices reaching to all points at once,
Someone assassinating a prince and a president or two,
Gold turning to black,
Painting with the wrong colors,
The beat and rhythm rocking about,
Freedom reigning supremely when the markets allowed,
The Samaritans still unlearned in the parables,
Illness going, and illness coming,
Moscow coming to New Jersey,
All the places filled up and used up,
Eyes looking up to the frontier,
Steel pounded into plastic,
Language mingling universally,
Verse flat and unrhyming,
Good and bad blending into gray,
The cross-bearers stumbling on their robes,
Mohammed confined to the dark ages,
And Galileo finally had a say.
All happened on a page.
Then the page turned once more,
And passed into a closed book.
And the poem was concluded.

Along a Street in Incheon

Along a street in Incheon, there was a youngster with a snotty nose,
Abandoning a ball to come closer to me for a moment of curiosity,

And high school boys walking three astride, greeting me boldly,
Then elbowing each other in the sides for impropriety,

And high school girls coming along in uniforms, four at a time,
With smiles concealed behind cupped hands, waiting to pass before giggling,

And the policeman, just out of high school, with his crisp shirt,
Inexperienced and uncorrupted, at the curb, smiling,

And a savvy businessman in his suit, thinking to conceal his thoughts,
But the concept written cryptically on his wry lips,

And a man in a fine suit, balding and overweight,
Incapable of winning a mate by charisma alone,
Linking arms, escorting a female half his age,

And a street man, tattered and filthy, the seat of his pants soiled brown,
Retreating before a perturbed restaurateur from the tavern door,
And no lower to go but into the earth once more,

And a woman balancing an aluminum pan on her head,
Wearily trudging, selling rice cakes, singing out price and ware,

And a cluster of faceless women at the bus stop,
Pushing to get into the bus door, to get a seat,

And the taxi drivers lined up behind the bus,
Patiently awaiting the afternoon rush hour,

And the lady in front of the red window barred for the day,
Stale and disgruntled from her previous night’s labor,
Scrubbing the walk with a brush and a pail of water,

And the clothing merchant suddenly warm and patronizing
As a customer in fine apparel hesitates for a look but passes,
Then relapsing into competitive hardness as before,

And a common laborer between jobs or on lunch hour,
Sunburnt and squinting, searching for an opportunity,

And an overindulgent mother leading her child son by the hand,
Obese and grotesque, to an ice cream vendor,

And a blurry-eyed man in a wrinkled shirt, smelling of alcohol and sweat,
Struggling to get his briefcase through the throng,

And an office girl from the bank, overripe before her season,
Pudgy, and cradling a folder to her prominent bosom,

And a grandmother sitting at the corner with a box of cucumbers,
Drawing fatalistically upon a cigarette,
Her wrinkled face conformed to facilitate the cigarette,

And a young beauty with a sideward glance at me,
But pretending not to see, only wanting to be seen,

And the middle-aged housewife, excessively dressed and painted
To compensate for her plainness, surely wanting to be seen,

And an old man shuffling along, with a remote gaze,
Perhaps in deep thought, still searching for a wish,

And the many passing too swiftly to see anything but a brief glance,
Occupied with their pursuits, hurrying on to the next objective,

And here am I, in the midst wandering, observing and mingling,
Yet distant, a part yet not a part, apart, alone in my thoughts.

Hillbilly Bill

Hillbilly Bill lived up on the hill.
His trailer is there still,
With the roof sagging low -
Not much of a trailer,
But as much as it ever was
Before Bill went to federal prison.
(It seems he showed excessive affection
To his granddaughter)

Weeds have reclaimed the driveway,
Covered up the mud and the ruts,
Erased everything but one path
To the outhouse -
Clever how an outhouse can resist
The onslaught of nature.

There’s a stack of beer cans
Where the porch used to be,
As a legacy of sorts,
And a refrigerator on its side
That never ran for Bill,
And an ax head in the grass,
And a five gallon can of something,
All just waiting to go to county auction
For back taxes.

Now a mouse has moved in,
Breached the floorboards
And left a small pile of wood dust
Just outside the hole.
(I suppose every creature,
Regardless of how diminutive,
Leaves a mark on the world)

Bill’s truck is still in the meadow,
In the middle of the spring,
Where the sheriff ran him down.
It should rust for a while,
Maybe holding the answer to a riddle,
With the water flowing around it do-si-do,
Making a musical sound,
A banjo pickin’
And a fiddle-string harmony,
Like a chicken in the bread pan pickin’ at the dough.

The Night Janitor

I used to leave my sponges behind the door,
But people kept taking them away.
So I just don’t do it anymore.
You wouldn’t think folks would steal,
Not old sponges least way,
Specially ones I used to clean the floor.
But some people just don’t care how other people feel.
That’s the way it was when I was in the navy,
Couldn’t leave your mop for a minute
Or it’d be gone before you knew it,
Then the officers’d be on you bad.
They did that anyway, steppin’ on you always,
Give you beans, and take the gravy.
But there were some good times.
You should have seen Manila after the war.
Man, them was the days!

Less Than a Movie

He was an uncle to me,
Somewhat survived Nam and the Sixties,
Never turned to drugs, resorted to calories,
Came to eat turkey at Thanksgiving, and play Frisbee,
Was disposed of by his wife after thirty years of marriage,
Stayed employed as a janitor, made it a career -
Setting up chairs in a church auditorium,
Consoled by a cassette player with ear speakers,
Listening to Jim Morrison and The Doors -
Not much of a life, not enough to base a movie on.

Woo Woo

Woo Woo,
There you go,
Too slow to escape
Our cries of
Woo Woo.
Do you enjoy our fun?

Woo Woo,
We are thrilled
To cheer you.
We see the fear
In your eyes.
We’ve filled your blood
With ice.

Running from our song,
On your motor-cart,
To mow someone’s lawn,
Wondering what wrong
You’ve done,
Do you shame at your lowly state,
Our neighborhood disgrace?

We’ve got news for you,
More fun in store,
Another surprise.
We despise you.
Shall we throw eggs
Or tomatoes
At your house tonight?

So delightful to see
You’ve boarded up
The windows now
That you’re too old
To give us a chase.

We’ve been told
You’ll see no one
Any more,
Too scared to fight.
And we’ve killed
Your cat stone cold,
Like your mother.

Well, we’re not so sure
What to do now that
You’re only a ghost.
We don’t know how
To bury the mold,
Or whether we’ll face you
In another hell,
Woo Woo.

Sunday School Teacher

He wielded his knuckles
Like the jawbone of an ass,
Kept his class in reverent occupation,
But without malice, sparing the rod most of the time,
Righteously reproving us for our mortality,
Had faith in charity, and saw to it
That we were baptized with fire and immersion,
Exhorted us to trust in God and Joseph Smith,
Insisted in Noah, and Adam, and Eve,
Related how Lazarus rose from the dead,
Told us Jesus was resurrected a savior,
Illustrated Jonah with furious sweeps of his arms.

There was often thunder in his voice,
But never anger.
Only twice did we see him angry -
Once for blasphemy, and once when he caught us
Invading the church porch like Joshua at Jericho.
He could stop a fight with just a look,
Would sit us in a foyer, and make things right again,
Chastised us patiently, and bade us apologize
To the bishop and to ourselves.

From time to time, he invited us to his home
For a piece of peach cobbler,
Let us pet his sheep,
And feed it lettuce and carrots,
While he fed us spiritual advice,
Gave us bread his wife had baked without spice
To teach us about the salt of life.

He could stretch Sunday hours into days,
Pleading for our souls as if in Gethsemane,
Memorizing scriptures,
Explaining the significance of a steeple,
Meticulously passing out hymn books,
Sparing no effort to mend our ways,
To correct our behavior,
To teach us to choose the right.
He always hoped we would choose the right,
Unlike his daughter who worked the strip in Vegas
To support her habit.

We saw him cry when his son went to prison.

Junkyard Man’s Dog

The mangy cur was worthless,
Sagging,
Toothless,
No good for nuthin’, nagging
Me for food all the time,
Always lying around
On the dirty ground,
Covered with dust and grime,
Shittin’ all over the place!
Never barked a single time at a stranger or cat!
It had the ugliest damn face,
And was always in the way
No matter where you was at.
It’s fur was turnin’ all patchy and gray.
Hell no! I didn’t care
That it went.
I was glad to get it out of my hair.
Anyhow, the damn thing didn’t cost me a cent.
Why should I throw a titty fit?
My wife cried
When it died,
But not me.
I just buried it under that maple tree.
And I’ve already forgot all about it.

One-Eyed King

He ruled the alleyway,
Behind a Chinese restaurant,
Invisible by day,
Invincible in his night haunt -

His kingdom of trash bins.
He was a stalwart defender,
A magnate of fish fins,
Banishing any pretender

To his egg foo young crown.
Many cats had challenged his rule,
Only to be struck down
By this cat who was no cat’s fool.

His armor bore the mark
Of triumph over suffering.
He was lord of the dark,
A truly-noble, one-eyed, king.

Katzenjammer

One summer plight, at half past midnight,
While I lay in slumber on my bed,
There arose a blight, a dreadful fright,
Like Cadmus rousing me from the dead -

A hideous clamor of abuse,
A hot kettle of fish sort of spat
With no possibility of truce,
A war head-to-head, cat against cat.

And I, having a stake in the brawl,
An earnest wish to end the debate,
Howled forth my fiercest tom caterwaul,
In hopes one side would capitulate.

Dental Tyranny

I had my wisdom teeth extracted.
Perhaps that’s why my mouth is muddled,
And the remaining teeth befuddled.
Their leadership has been impacted.
They’ve been led astray by a molar
With politics radically polar.
The dentist says the tooth is abscessed.
But my guess is that it is possessed
To the roots with absolute power.
Dental tyranny’s darkest hour!

Witch Grass

My father cursed the witch grass in his strawberry bed,
Crusaded with hoe in hand and fury in his head.
With fierce oaths of war, he kept the invasion at bay.
But being mortal, he could never completely sway
The fight in his favor, not against a deathless foe,
Being armed with only will and a temporal hoe.

Once witches wore trappings of human weakness and form,
But found their craft thwarted by an angry human storm.
Thus, they sought through witchery, a true embodiment
Of evil to wage war against human settlement.
They conjured all the demons of perdition’s estates,
To consult in conference the wisdom of the fates
And all dark souls gathered in a cauldron of evil,
In the name of human tranquility’s upheaval.
With wicked delight, on one long, malevolent, night,
They forged a masterpiece of utterly vicious might -
Demons that would never rest in their unholy graves,
Living pitchforks with uncountable, ravaging staves,
That no mortal power could ever hope to surpass,
Vindictive witches who had taken the form of grass.

Moonshine

By moonlight, the old-timer led the way,
Over a bare patch in the tomatoes,
Winding round the outhouse and back on the path to the barn.
I had been there a couple of times during the day.
But the way he took us around the end of the corn rows
Had me disoriented, sort of like when he told a believable yarn.

The root cellar door groaned, woefully old.
He’d built it new, back in his sixties, but that was some time back.
The darkness below was cool, even in late, West Virginia, June.
In a sliver of silver moon, I spied rings of gold.
On a pine-board shelf lined with spider webs and an old burlap sack,
Wide mouth jars shined like mystical crystals, reflecting the moon.

"Is that what you’ve been up to?"
I accused, amused, city boy confused.
The old-timer wheezed in exquisite delight.
"Just a little bit of good, old-fashioned, mountain dew.
What’s the point of having a cooker if it ain’t never used?
And here’s the thing about it: I figure we could use a nip for the night."

Water Witch

Here’s the thing about it:
Witching ain’t something everybody can go about doing.
About one in ten, maybe, can make it work.
And there ain’t but a handful of them
That can really get a good feel
To tell how far down the water’s gonna be.
A good witcher don’t even need a proper rod.
He can dowse with just about anything,
As long as it springs with the pull of the water.
Welding rods bent at the ends will do in a pinch.
But a good willow crotch is what you really need,
Or an alder fork carved right after a full moon.
You want to cut it when the spirit is real strong,
Right above the thirteenth life ring.
My granny said it’s akin to soothsaying and prophesying.
Not everybody has the power, you see?
It’s a divine gift.

Under a Culvert

I’ve spent a lot of nights thinking about a duffel bag.
After all these years, it’s probable just a scrap of rag.

The old man said he had spent his share of restless nights, too,
Wondering whether to take a trip back to Uijongbu.
There’d be no chance of finding it, but looking wouldn’t hurt.

Three GI’s had buried it beneath a sewer culvert,
Two of them eliminated by North Korean lead.

Shorty Shank was so shell-shocked there was little in his head.
But he could remember looting the strongbox in a bank -
A half a duffel bag of cultured pearls, and half of cash,
Pearls and greenbacks bundled up neatly in a secret stash.

He was sure it was buried where it could never be found,
Under a culvert, in a prime piece of Korean ground.

Go the Spoils

Mighty men sought fortune and fame,
Wilderness lands to tame,
Adventure bitter and sweet,
Indian spice and Chinese silk.
But some fought for tasty things to eat.
Thank you, conquistadors, for this glass of chocolate milk!

Baptism

He peed on me!
That nasty rabbit
Jumped and peed!
Did you see?
Such a disgusting habit!
And you don’t need
To laugh like a twit!
Look at my shoe!
How would you like it
If he did it to you?

He does it almost every night,
When we’re playing.
He’s not doing it out of spite.
It’s just his way of saying
That you’re all right.
 

A Fairy Tale

Mikey was a girly boy
Who always stole the show.
Everywhere that Mikey skipped,
The macho crew would crow.

Mikey wore nice cowboy clothes,
And helped the drag queens play.
Mikey caught a nasty row
From a fairy in L.A.

Middle Ground

Down in a cave, in a hollow narrow cave,
In the deepest darkest depths of a hill,
Lived a tired old bear and a kobold knave -
One always sleeping and the other never still.

Said the knave to the bear as he poked him with a bone,
"I haven’t slept a wink, and I think you’ve slept enough."
The bear growled back, "Troll, you’d best leave me alone.
Move away from me or I’m gonna get rough!"

So the knave took a nap, and the bear hugged the knave,
And neither remembered why they ‘d grinded their mill,
Down in a cave, in a hollow narrow cave,
In the deepest darkest depths of a hill.

- Compromise is found somewhere in middle ground.

Shades

Spicks and spades may break my bones,
But shades can never hurt me!
My heart is spick-and-span, you see,
A mosaic of colored stones!

Newspaper Romance

My bird is a bachelor,
Not born one – bred
For love – a love bird
With no lover other
Than a tissue wad
On his cage floor.

He’s got no hands for
Caressing, and bird lips
Are too hard to kiss,
But he doesn’t mind,
Nor does his passion cool
For this cold bitch.

Slash Burning

I burned twenty slash piles today
With kerosene and tires.
And happy not to have to stay
Amidst my own hell’s fires,

I staggered out, stained black with sin,
A demon free to roam,
And smiled an unchained angel’s grin
In my heavenly home.

Frost on an Art Gallery Window

It must be a joke,
Jack Frost come to poke
Fun at would-be art;
The attempts at an imitative style
In the gallery window.

He has set his craft apart
With a rendition of his glistening smile
That makes all other painting seem so low.

A Saucy Lass from Malta

A saucy lass from Malta, went swimming in the sea.
Impertinence was the bottom line of her philosophy.
She strode the shore so daringly, to show her olive skin
To all the folks who dared not know the biting wit within.
For just the slightest turn of head was met with harsh remark.
But she found no phrase that might appease the wit of a great white shark.

City Girl

To get away from the city,
She took a trip to a farm.
In the picture, it looked pretty,
Quite void of city harm,

Away from the crowded bustle.
She wanted to leave the taxi war,
The confusion, the opportunistic hustle.
Though, she had never been there before.

At first, she didn’t shirk,
Too much, at inconvenience and work,
Or the yellow jackets swarming about her hair,
Or mosquitoes and gnats bustling about everywhere.

But soon, she saw elevators in the cow’s stall,
And meadow where there should have been a shopping mall.

Sorry, Bane

Every young imp needs a girl to torment.
That’s why you were tormented by me.
I believe the punishment heaven-sent,
The arrangement a divine decree,
That put us in the same Sunday school room,
So that I could put chalk in your hair.

You realized I had sealed your doom,
When I first tied your sash to the chair.
You did your best to trade shots with me,
Though nothing you tried could quite do,
Except vowing to hate me eternally,
As I vowed to hate you, too.

I must have been your nightmare come true,
A noxious childhood disease.
I’m sorry, my bane, that I teased you.
But, I’m glad that I had you to tease.

An Angle

Remember when
We sat on a hillside
To discuss physics, then
Became mad when you tried
To trip me up with just arrogance,
By asking me what I had no chance
Of answering; something about an angle?
Radical slope made my teenage mind tangle
In a formula of basic pseudo-intellectual wrath
Over the abstractions of philosophy, pride, and math.
Aggravated into the fundamentals of a radical tangent, I
Oriented the argument in the direction of hostile declivity,
Out of answers, and quite unable to slant an appropriate reply,
Took the path of least resistance by rolling you down into the gully.

Raising Ned

Ned was a handful,
Giving things a push
When others meant to pull -
A thorn in the tush
Of establishment.
He saw no where to run,
And no where to hide,
So he had fun,
With everything to deride.
Wherever he went,
He took a prank with him -
The public lake naked swim,
At scout camp the forest fire,
An air horn in high school choir,
LSD in Sunday school,
An exception for every rule.
And I’ll wager he rolled his truck
Just to let them see him press his luck.
Still sneering, with his neck broken,
When they pulled him out,
So the authorities would have no doubt
That he left contempt as his final token

Hit Man

I am coming after you,
To give you a nasty whack.
I’ve been beaten until I’m black and blue.
Now it’s time for me to hit back.

Your laws mean nothing to my creed!
In nature’s law I trust,
To see me through my instinctive need,
To turn your life to dust.

You’re going to meet your maker,
For making this unjust game.
I’ll be your undertaker.
Remember well my name.

Hear my saber rattle.
My battle cry abhor.
I shall win one major battle,
Though at last, I lose the war.

Badge

When pride still mattered,
And no one flattered
Weasels and hogs
For a little bit of currency,

Before honesty and integrity
Was thrown to the dogs,

When there was shame,
And a man held his name
To be honorable,

Before the noble
Sold out for fame,

Men held their heads high,
Looked valor in the eye,
Shunned cowardice,
And were dauntless,
Though they die.

Taking Free License

From the moment they spanked my taxpaying bum,
I wanted nothing else but to be free.
One might say, I sought certified freedom.
Unfortunately, the government wouldn’t license me.
They gave me permission to breathe and eat,
As long as my blood and fingerprints were classified.
And they let me work, if I pay taxes, and don’t cheat.
But everything else has to be certified.
Some miserable, little, fascist, automaton
Has to tell me what form I’m supposed to be on,
What rules to follow, and what choices to make,
What to learn, what to believe, what to think,
What drugs to take, and what drugs not to take,
Where and when to burn, bury, or discard my trash,
Where I can build my house, when to drink in a bar,
How much credit I can have, and how much cash,
How to operate a bike, boat, truck, train, car,
When to fish, trap, shoot craps, or shoot a gun,
How much water I should have in my toilet bowl,
What shots to give my rabbit, when to let my dog run,
What to do with my septic tank when it becomes full.

They even forbid me to end my own existence,
Decry it as an act of civil disobedience.
Even when I die, bureaucratic demands don’t cease.
I can’t be legally dead until they’ve certified me.
I cannot even rest in peace
Unless I pay the proper fee!

But I am putting my foot down for good!
And I don’t need anybody to tell me that I should!

Now, I declare anarchy as my only oratory.
Now, I am standing my ground, marking my territory!
I am freely taking free license for free,
As I stand on the edge of my back porch, and pee.

Having Not Understood Five Pages of Shakespeare

CHARACTERS

I, a fool, worried about unpaid bills

HAMLET, a tale of bygone ills

*
ACT I
*
SCENE I
On my bed

Enter confusion in my head

Two bee ore knot two bee…
What was the question?
(Two scenes of Hamlet read during mental indigestion)
Cast off these trappings of bewilderment, thumb back, and see!

The Poet Thief

He found no opportunity
Aside from grand larceny,
So he plied his trade,

Worked his way to the highest grade
Of skill, mastery of his craft,
Piloting his ship forward, never looking aft,
Towards a new undertaking -

A pirate of a whole life’s making,
A technique taking years to build,
Childhood was his apprenticeship’s guild,
With only his wits to steer him straight
Beyond the next locked gate.

To him it was well known,
Long before he was grown,
That there is no wrong or right,
No colors, no heaven or hell, no cold or hot.
There are only those who have or have not.

His clothes are black at night.
His face is pale by day.
All else belongs in shades of gray.

Guilt While Eating a Pork Chop

I am a carnivore,
As were my ancestors before -
Once but a crunch
In some saber-tooth’s lunch!

But we fought back,
Went on the counterattack.
And here we are,
Come so far,
Enough to walk into a butcher shop,
And thoughtlessly pick up a pork chop
For dinner -
An evolutionary winner!

We’ve worked our way up to civilization.
We really don’t need any other rationalization.
We did not battle through prehistory
To feed on lettuce and celery.

Blessing on the Food

God may be a holy dude,
But I’m the one who bought this food.
I paid for it with a life of toil.

It may have been God’s soil
From which it all grew.
But soil is a stew
Made from people who toiled like me.

Food doesn’t come free.
God made.
We paid.
The credit, I refuse to share.

It hardly seems fair
To thank God for my meat,
Unless to curse when there’s none to eat.

Thankless Giving Day

Every year we gathered at grandma’s house
For no roasted goose, or pheasant, or grouse,
But for an old turkey bird roasted as dry as a shoe,
And raised our watery punch glasses anew
To praise our kind fate till our faces turned blue,
Offering vain and repetitious blessing
To instant mashed potatoes and boxed onion dressing,
And secretly wishing it just weren’t true.

I was never thankful for lima beans, or collard greens,
Or the wide variety of disgusting things in fruit cake,
Things that are bound to make
The most fervently thankful people shake
To the core, maybe even deplore the day
That offers thanks without any say,
Without consideration for flavor,
Thanksgiving with no explicit waver
To the things some folks bake.

Macaroni salad and candied yams surely rate,
Indeed necessitate the need for more debate
On the mindless thanks the thankful pay
On a thankful Thanksgiving Day,
Choking it all down, fighting back the frown,
Never asking why a pasty pumpkin pie
Should not inspire a greater desire
For a Thankless Giving Day,
A day for riotous living,
A day for thankless giving,
When all can harvest what they hate
And give it all away.

While Eating Tortellini

In an Italian restaurant in Dietzenbach,
An old man with a leathered face
And dust-colored hair
Came from a corner
In the back of the stube,
Drew to my uniform,
Slowly, so as to weigh me up.

He discerned the man within the suit,
The soul behind the uniform,
Raised his arm to salute,
Settled for a nod the last minute,
Pointed with his uplifted hand to a chair.

"Mind if I join you?"
He mentioned as a formality,
Taking the seat across from me,
Squaring his shoulders proudly.
And his eyes probed me,
Deep blue eyes,
With a trace of Mediterranean sand.

He said,
"You come to fight the Russians
When they come,
For Deutschland and freedom.
I thank you."

Then he craned his head round stiffly,
To see if the Abwehr were listening.

"I was a soldier too,
With the 21st Afrikakorps,
Not a Nazi,
A panzer commander for Wehrmacht.
No Nazi, never!"

"I did not heil Hitler,"
He added as an afterthought, passionately,
"Not by will!"
And there was fire in his eyes to prove it.

"I did not murder Jews.
I was a soldier, like you.
You remember Rastenburg, Ja?"

And he shook his heavy head
To settle the thoughts,
Could not get Rommel from his head.
In his head it was still 1943.
And he could see only Khaki,
And seemed determined to make me smell it too,
As he did, to taste it with him,
Needed someone to hear his case,
To reason with his former enemy for a while.

"When we lost Tunisia, that was the end.
The British was damn fools.
But we ran out of gasoline.
Can’t run panzers with sand.
Even the Fox can’t do that, nein!
Kein benzin, ach du!
What’s to do then?
El Alamein, mache mir nichts!"

"The Field Marshal was a considerable man."
I conceded willingly,
"With greater resources, who knows?"

I earned a twinkle in his eye.
And he smiled at my tortellini.

"Ah, better we lost.
Better you won, Amerikaner.
This Hitler was no good."

"We all won," I consoled.

"Ach," he sighed resolutely,
Folding the wrinkles on his brow,
"Der Krieg ist vorbei.
Der Krieg ist vorbei."

Happy Weed

Saint John’s Wort
Is a weed of a happy sort.
A cheerful mood it does impart -
Music to a heavy heart.

When you’ve taken too much rue,
And no other weed will do,
Seek this celebrated mark,
On an upward leaf embark.

Mary Jane

Girl of high fulmination,
Listless in the grass,
Stunning her inspiration,
Her kiss can surpass

Any mortal affection.
Mellow is her mood,
Her influence lewd.
Cryptic is her complexion.

The Cure

When it snows in your nose,
There’s a blizzard in your brain.
When you wrap your arm with hose,
It’s sure to ease your pain.
When you swim in a bottle,
Your hurt goes down the drain.
Try giving your neck a throttle,
And never be sick again.

The Connection

There is no beast so blindly bold
As to bear no angst of being.
There is no heart so blindly cold
As to feel no pity at seeing

Another life suffering life.

My life is your life.
Your strife is my strife.

Until all are free, my freedom is in vain.
Until the emancipating gate has arisen,
While one creature suffers the least pain,
My heavy soul remains in prison.

Fellow on the Sidewalk

Fellow on the sidewalk,
Is it so unbearable below?
What blindness makes you so ride?
Senseless, I dare say!

Rain will not hold the sun
Away an hour more.
Best make for the daffodil bed,
Moist soil beneath the weeds at least.

Bold friend, show some prudence!
Your track seems precarious,
Too slow, I fear, to beat the afternoon.

There’s no future here.
Soon meat for a swallow you shall be,
Or baked by the rays hard as tack.
The heat of this day is not yet begun,
And the crack ahead a deep canyon is.

Turn away from this ill quest!
One grass is as green as another.
What difference forward or back?
There is no end to your folly!

Stages

I am a flower in a desert waste,
Color on a tender stalk,
My bloom soon to be petrified -
Of life given a taste,
Then dried,
And turned to rock.

I am a rock on a desolate plain,
Besieged by relentless foes,
Engaged in war until I die.
Resistance is in vain,
But I
Endure the blows.

I am an island in a raging sea,
A distant desert island.
Currents, relentlessly dreary,
Render the rock in me
Weary,
To crumbling sand.

Searching

Tell me truly, weary soul,
Would you trade your chances with eternity
For another moment of youth?
Would you discard the rewards of iniquity,
For a single sentence of truth?
What would you give to see beyond the door,
To know what tomorrow has in store?
What would be your goal?

The Ultimate Question

Who are you?
A line of news!
A drop of dew!

What shall the world lose,
When dust has claimed your pride,
And your blood has rusted and dried?

Supplication

Paradise,
A hint of truth would suffice
To see me through life’s harms
And into your arms!

Watcher

Do you feel my eyes on you -
A gaze that dazes and surprises
The soul clear through?
Walls, lies, and disguises,
Hide nothing from my view -
Your thoughts, desires, all that your spirit surmises.
Wherever you go, whatever you do,
I am observing. I am watching you.
I see you, sitting in your arm chair.
I see you, malnourished specter of humankind.
I see you, earnestly hungering for knowledge.
I see you, pompous in your masquerade.
I see you, pride on parade.
I see you, lying whore of untruth.
I see you, mindless passing of time.
I see you, malcontent killer of compassion.
I see you, rolling cloud of dust.
I see you, lover of yourself.
I see you, ants crawling to your duties.
I see you, insincere mime.
I see you, swine-hearted greed.
I see you, pretentious friend of self-advancement.
I see you, counter in your counting house.
I see you, lonely soul reading at your lamp.
I see you, hopeless lover of rhyme.
I see you, deepest inner beauty.
I see you, cold consternation.
I see you, dreams lying fallow.
I see you, thoughts of silent tongues.
I am with you, child, at your every whimper.
I hear you, sweet-whispered prayer.
I am everything. I am everywhere.

Writ of Apocalypse

Granny says the sky is through.
Gardyloo!
Soon it shall run out of blue.
Gardyloo!
God has filled his bedpan up.
The bon vivant shall spill his cup.
Icky!
Sticky!
Gardyloo!

The time has come to say adieu.
Gardyloo!
What more can one mortal do?
Gardyloo!
Pour me another drink for now.
I can only die one time anyhow.
Screwy!
Phooey!
Gardyloo!

Paranoid

Just because I’m paranoid,
Doesn’t mean I shouldn’t hide
From worries I should avoid.
There is nothing on my side.

Everyone is out for me.
The spies are closing in fast.
There is a conspiracy
To make my dreadful fear last.

Wherever I try to run,
They run me like an android,
Give me worries just for fun.
I’m afraid I’m paranoid.

Mixed Signals

I’m a schizophrenic.
I’m afraid I don’t know why.
I’d rather laugh and cry,
Stand and lie,
Crawl and fly,
Live and die.
We’ve talked it over
But can’t agree.
I can’t seem to listen
To me.
I promise to try
And change our way.
We might not, but we may,
First thing Monday morning,
Or Friday night.

You see, I’m a schizophrenic,
And so am I.

driftwood

drifting doleful woeful wood
i
shifting sands misunderstood
why
lifting hands of surf and sand
ferry
the burden of being me
carry

no tiller but the tide
just out for the ride

should you see me stranded
throw a line until i’ve landed

Pacific

Pacific, I could lie untroubled on your calm,
Find a broad measure of apathy
Within the ebb and flow of tranquility.
Your water might still me to a certain degree,
But I’ve pain enough to form a sea.
You could easily win my heart.
But you could never defeat my misery.
At last, we would storm and part.
I would gladly give myself over to be
Made one with your age-long fame,
But forgetfulness would swallow my name.
Your shallow love would soon forsake me.

What Shall You Be?

What shall you be,
When your reflection sees
The sun turned to ashes,
And the dreams faded away?

What shall I find in me,
When mortality flees,
When blue eyes close their lashes,
And the gold has shaded gray?

On Becoming a Golden Statue

What else can I be
Through eternity?
I am only me.
Where else can I flee?
Shall I make a run
To the sun,
To the source of the pun,
And erase my memory, take away my me and you -
Abracadabra, become something new,
Hum, hum, hum,
Come apart, part the sum?

Buddha, I am growing old.
Turn my brain to solid gold,
So I can see
Eventually,
Peer through a clouded why
Until I
Can’t feel anymore,
And wash ashore.

Reflection

Who is this intelligence I see
Staring in disbelief at me?
O soul, O mysterious fire,
To what do we aspire?
Is this all that we are -
A reflection of a star?
A teardrop upon the water of endeavor?
A concentric ripple fallen across forever?

In the Basement

Someone is down in the basement,
Sitting all alone in the dark,
Deep in a silent encasement,
Beyond any outside remark.

Safe from external intrusion,
Abides a restless sort of haunt,
A nervous ghost, a crazy aunt,
Putting order to confusion.

In the recesses of her room,
She seeks security in gloom.
I understand her brand of rue.
I once sat in the basement, too.

Intangible

I reached for the ethereal,
Sought, with earnest tenacity,
Tenuous substance beyond feel,
Omniscient sagacity.

I relinquished audacity,
Dispersed foliage of surreal
Beyond reason’s capacity,
And solicited no appeal.

To the Morning Sun

I’ve never opened my soul this way.
I never quite knew what to say.
Let the words settle as they may,
For this is how I feel.
O beat of my life power,
Heart of all that is real,
Seat of my pulsing blood,
I am but a tender flower
Blooming from a mysterious bud.
I wake from my sleep,
Put forth color in every sector,
From the seed of hope I creep,
Pour all into my nectar.
Tell me, whether to renewed breath
I blossom, or to death
And withering demise.
I have not strength to surmise.

Sage

A man ascended a hill,
Wishing to gain wisdom,
Had a hunch
He was near enlightenment,
Sat upon a rock for an afternoon,
Contemplated the firmament,
Considered his being,
Concluded that he could only see
What he was meant to see,
That a man can only be
What he is meant to be,
That it is no use complaining,
That he could not change things,

Only accept things,
Attempt to gain wisdom
To explain things.

© Copyright 2000 by Daniel F Mitchell  

Published by Gray Matter Press Athens, Georgia