The Crystal Tambourine

Opening Act

2012-02-25T04:24:00.001-05:00

Surreal anthems from the fire escape, forsooth.
Mending his mind with strips of thin Scotch tape, forsooth.

He wrote "Apostasy" at age sixteen --
Flushed with the blood of Baudelaire's grape, forsooth.

Brooding lad from Eastie, precocious tippler,
He wrapped himself in Superbard's cape, forsooth.

Young and difficult under the triple-deckers,
He got himself into more than one scrape, forsooth.

He learned the right words for all the wrong things
And sang mellifluously as any ape, forsooth.

Nursed his wounds by the cramped bedroom's window.
A breeze from the back would startle the drape, forsooth.

He carried The Map of Love wherever he went.
His dream (dark Beatrice!) took shape, forsooth.

Grabbed rhetoric, Rimbaud-like. Twisted its neck.
Poems sprouted like hairs on the nape, forsooth.

Saint of the city. Columbus of the Blue Line.
Sage subway litany, blighted landscape, forsooth.

He cracked sarcastic jokes. More tame than Wilde.
He was the victim of his own crude jape, forsooth.

Dylan's performance during the opening act
Left friends and enemies speechless, agape, forsooth.

Ghazal from Qatar

2012-02-18T02:49:00.001-05:00

Formality in verse might not please Sabrina.
The eye rejoices whenever it sees Sabrina.

The skies of Amherst are thick with snow-clouds.
Behold, a poetaster on his knees, Sabrina!

It is 1990 and I am twenty-one.
I drink large draughts of wine to the lees, Sabrina.

You like Public Enemy, I like the Cocteau Twins.
I love your voice, a soothing breeze, Sabrina.

My love is a fever, a mania, a spell ...
A happy madness, a healthy disease, Sabrina.

You are my sovereign queen, but please don't say
Anything nice about the New York Yankees, Sabrina.

You are springtime in December, gentle warmth
Giving life to the shyest leaves of trees, Sabrina.

I love you in your fierce disconsolacy,
In the righteous wrath that I cannot appease, Sabrina.

Dylan the doltish worships you from afar
With your jet-black hair and torn dungarees, Sabrina.

Sestet

2012-02-17T07:24:00.002-05:00

‎'70s music makes me travel back
To those days when the world was young and new.
The mellow, sentimental soundtrack
Of Karen Carpenter, Marilyn McCoo,
Of "Summer Breeze," "Brandy," and "American Pie."
Hard to believe four decades have gone by.

Contra WSM

2012-02-09T01:49:00.003-05:00

I must confess I haven't read enough of William
Stanley Merwin to produce an adequate parody
but I have opened one or two of his more recent
books and have seen the endless verse paragraphs
of slippery prosy English unpunctuated with nary
a word that sticks in the mind for longer than thirty
seconds and they give this fellow a phucking Pulitzer
I give up I simply give up I don't know what's wrong with
the world today I am sitting drinking coffee at my laptop
incredulous over this state of affairs to paraphrase
Villon where are the Dylan Thomases of yesteryear where are
the poets who'd come out with trumpets blaring
the poets who blazed across the heavens like fiery comets
who erupted with irrepressible life like verbal
volcanoes where is Hart Crane where is Father Hopkins
anybody but this octogenarian Buddhist bore to whom
everything including conventional punctuation is illusion

when estlin cummings drank

2012-02-05T07:37:00.002-05:00

when estlin cummings drank
the moon and stars would dance
him i should like to thank
for his great innocence

an understanding child
who sang as trees would sing
amid the zephyrs mild
of an eternal spring

so praise sir estlin yes
the wise and happy fool
whose laughing gentleness
defeated every rule

Winter Rhyme

2012-01-28T04:49:00.000-05:00

I like to party in the blistering snow
When temperatures are roughly ten below
And eaves are fanged with drastic icicles
And streets are free of summer's bicycles
And lips exhale an icy dragon-smoke
And words freeze hard as soon as they've been spoke
And flowers are crisped to flakes by the searing chill
And arctic draughts creep past the windowsill

I like to party beneath glacial lights
That dot the cold black sky these winter nights
As darkest air is blurred with magic stars
That frolic to the tune of blind guitars
And slam-dance in a polar vertigo
I like to party in the blistering snow

American Pied Beauty

2012-01-18T19:18:00.001-05:00

Glory be to God for levee'd Chevys,
For jesters playing for the queen and king,
For the pick-up truck of a lonely teenage buck;
For February-shivering paper-deliveries,
For good ol' boys that whiskey-and-wryly sing
As the music dies in a stroke of rotten luck:

All things rocking, rolling, rhythm-and-bluesing;
Every heart-rending pluck of a guitar-string;
Songs heard on the radio, oldies often played;
Boys and girls, glad-brash, sad, crashed; dancing, boozing --
Whom God hath made.

Ironing Board

2012-01-11T00:43:00.000-05:00

Somebody might not be able to sing certain words. It's like working with Elton John or Bryan Ferry. You can't put a phrase like "ironing board" in a lyric because they can't sing it. But luckily Glenn can!

-- Chris Difford, songwriter for the band Squeeze

(here)

*

I am a bachelor, aged forty-two.
Through many lands, mostly alone, I've wandered;
And one thing, above all, I like to do:
I keep my blithe apparel freshly laundered.
I wash the clothes, oh, every other Sunday --
A fortnight's laundry cannot be ignored!
You're indispensable, you've never blundered,
O neat and necessary ironing board.

You press my Arrow and Van Heusen shirts
Until they're stiffer than my evening drink;
You crease my slacks so sharply that it hurts --
You're more domestic than the kitchen sink!
O foldable flat surface, thee I thank!
For wrinkled clothes are things I can't afford.
You are sartorial splendor's stilted plank,
O neat and necessary ironing board.

Excellent at their humble offices,
The washer and the dryer are both great –
A pair of useful smart appliances,
More awesome than a knockout of a date!
But you, O simple sturdy smoother-out,
You really take the cake! You strike a chord!
Your steady service I can’t do without,
O neat and necessary ironing board.

O patron saint of the last spin-cycle,
Angel on high, defend me with your sword!
O Blessed Lord, dear Lady, good St Michael:
Make sure nobody steals my ironing board!

middle age

2012-01-04T22:06:00.000-05:00

the trouble with my poems recently
too much lawrence welk not enough mick jagger
not enough sex machines indecently
cavorting with a histrionic swagger

too much tennyson too much modesty
not enough mudwrestling not enough beer
too much lucidity too much honesty
not enough lies told with a practiced leer

too much risk-averse pre-strategizing
not enough whiskey too few cigarettes
too much calisthenic exercising
no chances taken too many hedged bets

too much looking back on early promise
no royal madmen raging on the heath
too much millay too little dylan thomas
no black eyes no wrung necks and no smashed teeth

Song

2012-01-02T07:00:00.002-05:00

Dark art thou, and lovely.
Sun-bright, thy soul. Thy smallest gestures I venerate.
Thine eyes deal death to cold despair,
Thy lips and voice are as the spring's delight,
Thy silences are luminous
Even as the constellations of the nighttime sky.

Stealth cannot steal, wealth cannot win
Thy clear and gentle speech
Whose words disdain mendacity
But bid the soul rejoice.

The light of love transfigureth thy face.
Thou knowest that nothing flourisheth
Apart from the grace of God.

More beautiful than mountains, than rivers flowing fair
Are thy hands clasped, is thy head bowed,
In morning orison.

Through grasses green and meadows mild,
With feet that kiss the earth,
Thou walkest, my lady, my sovereign, my only light,
In happiness and peace.
Thou hast slain sin, thou hast given my soul new life.

Fragment

2012-01-01T20:56:00.005-05:00

Cold air, the wakeful blast,
Blesses the undressed skin with dreadful force.
Wind sears the flesh
And gives the naked face a wine-red blush.
Dead verdure’s hearse
Hisses down streets which winter’s fangs have kissed.

Down desolate thoroughfares,
The moon spills frozen light to guide the lost
Who roam the night
Searching for home : some haven benedight
Safe from the frost,
Some hearth which warms this bitter vale of tears.

Limerick

2011-12-31T05:42:00.002-05:00

My rhymes are a bit Ogdennashian:
I write with more humor than pashian.
I can praise winter snows
But must curse all those shows
On TV with the sisters Kardashian.

New Year's Eve

2011-12-29T04:33:00.001-05:00

I can't improve on Tennyson's
   "Ring out the old, ring in the new;
    Ring out the false, ring in the true" --
The best of year-end benisons.

The louts, the churls, the girls that shout,
   The vandalizing gusts of wind,
   December's trees, spiky, unskinned --
I'd rather be inside than out.

Give me a gathering of friends,
   A cup of kindness, "Auld Lang Syne,"
   An evanescent jug of wine --
Glad company as one year ends.

Give me the joys of church and home,
   Companionable solitude
   Away from rowdies brash and rude:
I need not travel, need not roam.

Give me the safe and simple things,
   A bed, some books, a cup of tea --
   Grace, peace, and continuity
As January's first bell rings

The death-knell of the haggard year,
   The new year's infant christening,
   As champagne-corks pop, voices sing
And midnight pyrotechnics flare.

It would seem fitting now to pray
   With cautious and expectant hope;
    We pray we might have strength to cope
With all vexations of the day.

May Heaven grant to wounded hearts
   The healing of their every ill;
   May starving bellies have their fill --
Lord, vouchsafe, as this year departs,

To hear the cry of strife-torn lands,
   To lift the poor man from his heap,
   To give the dead a restful sleep,
To hold the frail child in your hands.

Addenda

2011-12-27T16:48:00.001-05:00

Glacial midnight
      drinking cold water
overheated room

*

Sunday evening
      spent with Our Lady
and CatholicTV

*

Late night snack
       peanut-butter'd bread
and carrot "stixx"

*

Doctor from India
      whom I quite despised
la vache sacrée

*

Troubled by dreams
      of a friend dying
-- awake now, thank heaven!

*

Ashberyana
      lasting or ephemeral?
Only time will tell

*

Feliz Natal
      to & from
the Brazilian barmaid

*

(after Issa)

Dewdrop
      contains a world
of altercation

*

Concatenation
      of small poems
a haiku rosary!

Sunday

2011-12-18T06:33:00.000-05:00

Too tired to write
so what shall I do?
Write anyway!

*

First true wintry freeze
bundle up
for the walk to church

*

Give a dozen books
to the Book Rack
make space for new ones

*

Philosophy consists
in a shave,
a shower, a haircut

*

Bed and Bible,
    coffee-mug:
indispensables!

*

"Do nothing wrong
and praise God
for an hour each day"

*

I hope that my friend
   across the continent
gets her gift on time

*

there is an art
   to seeming artless
but it takes much work

*

purity of heart
courage of the martyrs
never tell a lie

*

These experiments --
are they worth more
than dandelion seed?

*

Catholic Zen?
   repeating the mantra
Miserere mei

*

Winter morning
    all alone
hugging the pillow

*

O for another hour
of rest, of sleep,
of holy restoration!

Vigil of Advent 4

2011-12-18T04:39:00.000-05:00

Silence, silence to do when earth grew loud
In lairs and asylums of the tremendous shout
~ Dylan Thomas

*

Less is more
    the acting coach
the writer, Emily of Amherst

*

Not sure where to go
    -- sit still
let the Spirit come

*

Below freezing now --
    December
feels like December

*

Sages do not shout
    -- grace
gets lost in loud noise

*

New Mexico icon
    of the Theotokos
has not yet arrived

*

Nine thirty prayer
    ten o'clock, ideally, sleep
time is in God's hands

Five morning haiku

2011-12-17T07:21:00.004-05:00

Ragamuffin shouts
    from behind the funeral home
could wake the dead

*

Walk to the pharmacy
    and if so inclined
stop at Spy Pond

*

Thermostat that gives
    outside temperature
stuck on forty-five

*

Why am I sure
    of a connexion between
coffee and poetry?

*

Frost-whitened grass
    outside my apartment-house
season's greetings

Nocturnes in three lines

2011-12-16T20:30:00.000-05:00

Craving the peace
   of bed, of books, of prayer,
the weary soul sighs

*

Brittle dogmatist
   open your clenched heart
to the flame of love!

*

With hands outstretched
   we beseech the Giver of gifts
for our daily bread

*

Drunks, whores, thugs --
   grace can alchemize
any of these lives

*

Theories about life
   are not worth nearly as much
as one flake of snow

*

Mourning for lost love
   yields to gratitude
for old and new friends

*

Chasing butterflies
   with imaginary nets
O happiest pastime!

*

Peace on earth, we pray
   in vain if we have not yet
pacified ourselves

*

Urban espresso
   chatting in Harvard Square
with a wise old guide

*

December wind
   breezes us blind --
walk up Beacon Hill

*

Night has covered
   my section of Planet Earth
with a starry blanket

12 Haiku

2011-12-15T20:58:00.003-05:00

Quiet noises
   wind against the flagpole
rain beneath car tires

*

Like a parched land
   I thirst, I thirst --
water does not help

*

Heart speaks to heart
   across the miles
love thrives

*

Adoration
   has something to do
with silence

*

Unfrantic, compassionate,
   human -- the hallmarks
of a true healer

*

Iconographers
     fast and pray
before they write Heaven

*

Buses rumble
     down Medford Street
coffee is brewing

*

Doctor Williams
     just might have been
poetry's St Francis

*

Etoile noire
     semblable au Dieu
shine relentlessly

*

Busynesses manyness
     crowds & throngs & shouts
when will you subside?

*

Francis Thompson
     played from his bleeding heart
bless his clotted clay!

*

these verses I send
     like benedight fireflies
across a continent

Viva voce

2011-11-12T03:53:00.001-05:00

(being a nonsense rhyme)

I miss the plank timber, the spank
limber, the cheese which stands
alone. I miss the slap tuba, I miss
the rap Cuba, I miss the sunny
funny bone. I miss the mop topping,
I miss the flop hopping, I miss the
graceful queen of quirk. I miss the
trek shutter, I miss the speck flutter,
I miss the lazy days of work.

Sapphics for practice

2011-10-08T13:20:00.002-04:00

Sapphic stanza! Rhythmic and full of vigor!
Most enticing snippet of graceful measure!
Autumn mornings come with the urge to make you,
           champion strophe!

Trochees, dactyls, in a superb arrangement --
sleepless night-owl practice for better verses --
How do folks like Hacker and Merrill do it?
          Technical marvel!

*

Leaves fall down. October is getting windy.
Big tree near St Agnes has reddened quickly.
Still, we've got some days in the eighties coming,
            Indian summer.

*

Stationary bicycle in the basement,
saving grace of overweight chaps like dylan:
thirty minutes' pedalling, if done daily,
           might make me slimmer.

*

Writing morning poetry without coffee,
always rather challenging on a good day --
java gives me fluency, inspiration,
          revs up the engine!

*

Dylan Thomas, bibulous, bold, and bardic,
wrote a villanelle on his father's dying --
ultra-famous, quoted by countless millions,
          doubtless immortal!

*

Sacred Heart of Jesus, have mercy on us.
Holy Virgin Mother of Christ, be gracious:
pray for all poor sinners in mortal peril,
          menaced by devils.

*

Alewife Station, over in busy Cambridge,
I can reach you going along the bike path:
less than forty minutes from my apartment
          if I walk briskly!

*

Cold December, rarely if ever clement,
I shall greet you seven to twelve pounds thinner
than my current weight, if I watch my diet,
          exercise often.

*

Send these practice stanzas to Edward Foxcroft,
who will scan them, searching for any error,
who'll forgive their diction and shaky syntax,
          stumbling and awkward.

Untitled

2011-09-18T03:48:00.003-04:00

Man is a cyber-animal who drools,
Who winks and wanks, who gobbles, poops, and sleeps.
He's jettisoned all those Victorian rules;
He used to stand, but now he only creeps.

On First Looking into Fitzgerald's Odyssey

2011-09-13T10:40:00.001-04:00

Bought at the Book Rack, just two bucks plus tax,
this old Greek epic, which Fitzgerald turned
expertly into blank pentameters,
is my companion this September night.

I start my reading with Books Six and Seven:
Nausikaa and the garden of Alkinoos;
storm-tossed Odysseus saying man is most
like a dog when he needs to fill his belly.

My memory is dim for things Homeric.
I was supposed to have read this thing in school!
But now the scenes are freshly vivified:

orchard with the fruits perpetually ripe;
silvery fountains in the king's courtyard;
wanderer seeking solace, food, and bed.

9 Haiku

2011-09-04T04:19:00.000-04:00

Rosary broadcast,
3 a.m.: this sleepless soul's
most grateful for it!

*

Half past three. I start
to brew the morning coffee.
Soon, the brain's alert!

*

Poet Wendy Cope:
lovelorn, funny, cynical,
skilled at old-school rhymes.

*

September days have
a way of reminding us:
summer's not over!

*

As dumb as a stick,
I blunder down the road of
this frustrating life.

*

The old priest -- chubby,
gray hair, glasses, loquacious --
makes me think of Mom.

*

October breezes
make the oaks and lindens blush:
cold stones grow colder.

*

Squirrel black as night
scampers up the asphalt path
less dark than itself.

*

My sun-bleached goatee!
Or has age made all those hairs
pale? Perish the thought!

A Paraphrase of Mallarmé

2011-09-02T02:44:00.001-04:00

Chaste, vivacious day of beauty: will it
Stripe with one lash of a drunken wing
Forgotten lakes beneath whose ice we find
Glaciers of glass, flight that could not flee?

A swan of yesteryear remembers. He
Rescues himself, hopeless, magnificent,
But fails to sing a place where he might live
When dull pain blazes winter's impotence.

His neck will shake this whitest agony
That space inflicts. He will deny it quite.
Yet to his feathers earthly terrors cling.

Phantom that flares and flashes purity,
He freezes in a cold dream of disdain:
Vain exile's only vestment for the swan.

A Paraphrase of Goethe

2011-09-02T02:39:00.001-04:00

Tell it not but to the wise man,
For the crowd will mock entire:
I will glorify the lively,
That which yearns to die in fire.

You beget where you were gotten,
In the cool of loving night:
Strange sensations overtake you
In the silent candlelight.

Erstwhile captive of the shadows,
You will never be the same,
Taken up by higher rapture,
Drawn toward the holy flame.

Now no distance proves a hindrance;
Some enchantment gives you wings!
Maddened butterfly, you enter:
Finally, the pure flame sings.

And as long as you know not
WE DIE TO BE REBORN
Earth is dark, and you are homeless,
Hapless and forlorn.

Counting the days

2011-09-01T03:06:00.002-04:00

I couldn't compose a poem if I tried,
not with this heavy brain that wants to sleep
an extra hour or three this Thursday morning.

I couldn't walk from Spy Pond to Alewife,
or bicycle from here to Lexington,
or sit in the Red Hat for hours hoisting brew.

What can I do? I can sit and think.
Drink water. Let the gray light spill into
this quiet bedroom study. August 4th.

Count the days till the first signs of autumn,
when the big-branched tree outside the UU church
explodes into red and gold. Such fleeting fire!

Count the days till the first frost of October
when open-toed shoes yield to jackets and sweaters,
and the bus drivers feel they have to turn the heat on.

Maybe, after all, I can sit and write,
rhymeless tercets in praise of the quiet life,
anticipating summer's glorious demise.

Parthenogenesis

2011-08-31T21:14:00.001-04:00

O rare parthenogenesis!
You've happened once in history.
Without the flesh's intimate bliss
(O rare parthenogenesis!)
A child's born, perfect as a kiss,
And holy as a mystery.
O rare parthenogenesis,
You've happened once in history.

August

2011-08-31T21:02:00.002-04:00

Maybe I should write a blank sonnet
in the manner of the late Robert Lowell --
topical, free, energetic, nervous,
yet not without evidence of erudition.

Maybe I should curl up with my rosary,
pondering the Woman in Wisdom chapter seven,
seeking the intercession of the Virgin,
drifting to sleep as angels finish my prayers.

Maybe I should pray Compline with the help
of the website that posts the breviary
for the sake of the pious and the backslider --

maybe I should lie abed, dreaming of heaven
as the AC hums its husky litany
of grateful coolness in the August heat.

Impulse

2011-07-30T02:36:00.000-04:00

The most impulsive thing I’ve ever done
Was not to put a burger on a bun
Or steal a pencil from the public school
Or break a strict pedantic grammar-rule
Or violate the innocence of youth
Or carefully refrain to tell the truth
Or give a beggar a five-dollar bill
Or walk au naturel up Beacon Hill
Or swim in the Atlantic with the sharks
Or chase big dogs while mimicking their barks
Or send fan letters to Drew Barrymore
Or drink cold beers until I’ve had a score
Or join in circles with my favorite Wiccan
Or flap my arms while clucking like a chicken.
My most impulsive deed, if truth be told?
I plumb forgot. I must be getting old.

Quebec: A Comic Ballad

2011-07-13T01:52:00.001-04:00

They say that up in Canada
A dollar's called a loony.
I'm not even Canadian,
But I miss Brian Mulroney.

I miss the streets of old Quebec,
Its avenues oft trodden.
(This poem is a piece of dreck
But it least it rhymes like Auden!)

North of the city there's the shrine
Of Ste-Anne de Beaupré;
Some years ago I stood in line
My humble prayers to say.

In vieux Québec, the people still
Speak crisp and rapid French.
You might drive past a paper mill
That gives off quite a stench.

A literary type might browse
A well-stocked librairie,
A book emporium, a house
Of much variety.

And if you're seeking 'mid these haunts
A place where you can eat,
Quebec has lots of restaurants
That serve soup and Big Meat.

There's some ancient political beef,
Yet side by side you'll see
The red Canadian maple leaf,
The snow-white fleur-de-lys.

My language skills are limited
To "parlez-vous anglais?"
But I'm glad to have visited
This awesome old cité.

The Omnibus

2011-07-12T11:14:00.004-04:00

(an evolving draft)

I rode the Arlington Heights bus

To Cambridge yesterday for 12:10 Mass;

With all my stuff I made a fuss,

As the speed-crazed driver stepped on the gas.

We soon were there

In Harvard Square:

Where even the down-and-out have class.

Briefly I stopped inside the Coop

And looked for brand-new books of poetry;

The wide choice threw me for a loop --

So many titles clamoring to me!

But modern lit

Costs quite a bit:

Life's best things rarely come for free.

I had to dash to old St Paul's --

I heard the angelus bells announcing noon.

When the holy liturgy calls,

I don't delay: I get there swift and soon!

When Fr Jim

Intones a hymn,

He's sure to do it out of tune.

The Mass began three minutes late,

But priests are pardoned for their tardiness.

Alas, I wasn't in a state

Of grace: I really needed to confess.

My soul grew calm;

I said a psalm.

Without the Church, I'd be a mess.

To God I give all gratitude

That he accepts my feeble-hearted prayers;

May he forgive my attitude

Of one who stumbles drunk upon the stairs!

For Christ the King

I've made this thing,

Who helps me lift my woes and cares.

Rondeau redoublé for Little Oogy

2011-07-09T20:49:00.001-04:00

You're quite a girl, with amplitude and curves:
    You're wicked awesome, devilishly sweet!
It's plain to see you're a woman who deserves
    Dinner each evening at Locke-Ober's, my treat.

You're my Scotch whiskey, my Glenlivet neat!
     I think of you, my steady driving swerves.
Like perfect rhyme, you make my life complete;
     You're quite a girl, with amplitude and curves.

Your raucous fun, your bawdy streak, unnerves
     And startles me! We walk down Mystic Street;
I laugh out loud, and stumble on the curb:
     You're wicked awesome, devilishly sweet!

You're like an earthy carnal paraclete:
     You're someone whom the good Lord God observes
With mixed emotions: Joy and shock compete
     For primacy! You're a woman who deserves

A rave review; a ton of gushing blurbs;
     A Blue Line rider who gives you his seat;
A rose; a big bear hug; a waiter who serves
     Dinner each evening at Locke-Ober's, my treat.
              You're quite a girl.

A funny story

2011-07-09T18:11:00.003-04:00

(just for practice' sake)

You're my canzone, you're my villanelle,
You're my sestina, you're my sweet rondeau.
You're a funny story that I love to tell.

You're nursery rhymes, the farmer in the dell,
You're the cat, the fiddle, the lamb that's sure to go,
You're my canzone, you're my villanelle.

You're a gas, you're groovy, you're supreme, you're swell!
You're the Midnight Special, you're my favorite show,
You're a funny story that I love to tell.

You're Keats' bright star, you're a Cistercian cell,
You're "Amazing Grace" -- a song that we both know!
You're my canzone, you're my villanelle.

You're infatuation, into which I fell
Like a drunk streetwalker in the Boston snow.
You're a funny story that I love to tell.

You're chant Gregorian, you're a magic spell,
You're a single simple Yes when the world says no:
You're my canzone, you're my villanelle.
You're a funny story that I love to tell.

Sun

2011-07-09T17:54:00.002-04:00

July's a pain. When temperatures drop,
Humidity goes up. It isn't fun.
If you escape the broiling of the sun,
The driving rain makes you wet as a mop.

At least the days are long. Light out till eight!
No need, on evening walks, to grope in the dark.
You can even cut through the little park
Connecting Russell Place with Summer Street.

September comes with brisk mornings, dry air:
Arlington Town Day can be warm and bright
With a gentle breeze and clouds that balk the glare

Of that relentless pest up in the sky.
Good thing the bastard hides himself at night!
The moon, so cool, delights a tired eye.

Wendy

2011-07-05T23:41:00.005-04:00

(being an imitation of Wendy Cope)

I'd like to try another triolet
To emulate a super-bardic chap
Who used to chide the forward violet;
I'd like to try another triolet,
A triolet that you might smile at,
As if it were a poodle in your lap.
I'd like to try another triolet
To emulate a super-bardic chap.

Variations on a Theme by Cole Porter

2011-07-02T03:30:00.019-04:00

A comic lyric, a panegyric
to praise one of Boston's best,
but I should be cautious lest
she be distressed or unimpressed:
I'm far too wordy, it's rather nerdy,
the length to which I have gone;
you'll think me mental, but please be gentle
as I ramble and babble on!

1

You're the top,
you're a mackerel holy,
you're a stop
by the Bruins goalie:
you're a beauty queen,
you're the leafy green of Spring;
you're a sunrise pale,
you're Newcastle ale,
you make me sing!

You're a dream
and you drive me loco,
you're the steam
from a cup of cocoa --
I'm a lazy frog
who's forgotten how to hop:
Signorina, I'm the bottom.
You're the top!

2

You're a line
penned by Seamus Heaney,
you're as fine
as a gin martini --
you're a candle-wick,
you're a Bergman flick at Cannes:
you're a silver platter,
a Pollock splatter,
you're tryptophan!

You're so sweet,
you're a comic hero --
you're a treat,
but I'm close to zero.
I'm a bloke benighted,
a withered blighted crop:
I'm a dweller of the cellar
-- you're the top!

3

You're the top,
you're Michelle Obama;
you're the top,
you're the Dalai Lama:
you're a bright sarong,
you're a '60s song on "Glee" --
you're a Gaga ditty,
you're extremely pretty,
you're a liturgy!

You're a blast
from an angel's bugle,
you're as fast
as a search by Google!
I'm a dying ember,
a cold November gray --
but you're funny, you're the sunny
month of May!

4

You're the top --
you're a peacock feather!
you don't drop
like New England weather.
You're a wondergirl,
you're a cup of Earl Grey Tea:
you're a Vegas dealer,
you're an eighteen-wheeler,
you're a shopping spree!

You're the joys
of a Roman Catholic,
you're the noise
of a horn in traffic:
I'm a rumpled slob
in the Irish mob. I'm through!
But it's awfully nice to know
someone like you!

5

You're the top,
you're a drink of water;
you're the top,
heaven's kindest daughter:
you're a breeze in June
and you make me swoon or faint --
you're a game of Boggle,
you're a James Joyce novel,
you're a living saint!

You're the blush
of an April petal,
you're a rush,
you're a precious metal:
I'm a ten-thumbed fool
on an old bar-stool, alas!
but you're smart and you've got heart
and you've got class!

6

You're a bird,
you're an ode by Horace --
you're a word
in Roget's Thesaurus!
you're a silken glove,
you're a turtle-dove, it's true!
You're the rose of Sharon,
you're the voice of Karen
singing "Close to You"!

You're a sport,
you're a Reebok sneaker;
you're support
in my moments weaker.
I'm a social gaffe,
an awkward laugh, a flub --
you're the top-shelf whiskey
at my favorite pub!

7

You're the top,
you're a golden trinket;
you're the top,
just like Smith & Pinkett:
you're the manner mild
of a soulful child of grace --
To be diplomatic
I get quite ecstatic
when I see your face!

You're the lurch
of a locomotive,
you're a church
with a candle votive:
I'm a crazy drunk,
a ship that's sunk. I'm done!
You're terrific, beatific,
you're the one!

8

You're the top,
you're a door that's slammin';
you're the top,
you're the smoke in salmon:
you're the happy fall
of the Berlin Wall. Indeed!
You're a clock by Dalí,
you're Muhammad Ali,
you're just what I need!

You can chill
like a Kenmore freezer;
I'm a pill,
I'm a witless geezer:
I'm a leaky roof,
a total goof, but hey!
I confess that you impress
in every way!

9

I would state
you’re my all-time favorite:
you’re as great
as a psalm of David;
you’re a wish come true,
you’re the sky so blue and fair –
you’re as great a solace
as the chill of fall is:
you’re conditioned air!

You’re a sweep!
You’re my lucky number!
When I sleep,
you’re my peaceful slumber.
I could dream of you
till I’m ninety-two or -three
or till doomsday ended
such a splendid reverie!

10

You're a ring
with a priceless jewel,
you're the King
singing "Don't Be Cruel" ...
you can parlez-vous,
you're the Waterloo of Nap --
you're a cappuccino,
you're the great Bambino!
I'm a silly chap.

You're a drape,
you're a blind Venetian;
you're the shape
of an urn that's Grecian!
I'm a bard forlorn,
I'm a Samson shorn of hair:
but you're sterling, you're a pearl
beyond compare!

11

You're the paint
of an Old Dutch Master,
but I ain't:
I'm a poetaster.
You're a crystal glass,
you're Beethoven's Mass in C;
you're a pleasant panic,
you're a verse Quranic,
you're a mystery!

You are lunch
with my favorite cousin!
You're a bunch --
you're a baker's dozen.
I'm a screw that's loose,
I'm a train's caboose, off-track;
you're a lioness, the leader
of the pack!

12

You're the top,
you're a cat from Siam;
you're the top,
you're a rib that's priam:
you're a shining star,
just like Deborah Kerr. You glow!
You're a Persian Khayyam,
you're quadruple rhayyam,
you are vertigo!

You're the best,
you're a Penguin Classic;
you're the rest
of a comfy hassock:
I could sing your praise
for a million days and nights!
Yes, you're sweller than the stellar
northern lights!

13

You've got looks!
You're a marvel modern!
You're the books
read by Wystan Auden.
You're a rose's thorn,
you're a soul that's born again!
You're the snows of winter,
you're the Splendid Splinter,
you're a fountain pen!

You're a war's
peaceful resolution!
I'm a bore's
windy convolution.
You're the break of day,
you're a Shakespeare play in verse;
you've brought joy to this old boy,
you've stopped the curse!

14

You’re a hymn
given a cappella:
I’m so dim,
but you’re molto bella!
You’ve got charm and style
and a pleasant smile; in truth,
you give such elation
it defies translation:
you’re the bloom of youth!

You’re the moon
where the Eagle landed!
It’s so soon,
but (to be quite candid)
my composure’s left;
I am quite bereft of sense –
so please smack me if I’m acting
rather dense!

15

You're the zeal
of a cause célèbre;
you're unreal,
you're so sharp and clever:
you're the Magic Flute,
you're a three-piece suit and tie;
you're artistic power,
you're the midnight hour,
you're a lullaby!

You're unique!
You do not dissemble.
When you speak,
you make liars tremble!
I'm a neophyte,
and I'm not the brightest lamp.
I'm dead last. You're unsurpassed.
Yes, you're the champ!

16

You're the top,
you're a slapstick caper;
you're the top,
you're a looseleaf paper:
you're the skies above,
you're the juice I love to drink;
you're Park Street Under,
you're a storm of thunder,
you're the kitchen sink!

You're the prayers
of a child who's seven;
you're the stairs
that lead up to heaven:
you're Hart Crane's bridge,
you're a well-stocked fridge with beer,
and I made this accolade
for you, my dear!

17

You're a stage
with guitars and drummings;
you're a page
typed by E. E. Cummings:
you're a birthday gift,
you know how to lift the mood --
you're a bow and arrow,
you're a simple sparrow,
you are gratitude!

You're a path
where you do not blunder;
you change wrath
into awestruck wonder!
Instruct me now,
can you tell me how to stop?
There's no choice but rejoicing!
You're the top!

18

You're so fab!
You're McCartney's Lennon.
You're not drab:
you're the bluest denim.
You're Seattle grunge,
you're a daring bungee jump --
you're a hedge with brambles,
you're an egg that scrambles!
I am Forrest Gump.

You’re a peach
and you make me feel good;
you're a speech
by the late John Gielgud:
you’re the total sum,
you’re a cherished chum, a friend!
And this litany I’ve written
now must end.

Clerihew & Limerick

2011-06-17T19:46:00.000-04:00

A Trappist from Kentucky
Considered himself lucky
To live apart from settings urban
In a hermitage where he could drink his bourbon.

*

There once was a book-writing monk
Who spouted both wisdom and bunk.
He fell for a nurse
And wrote fatuous verse
Which he hid in an elephant's trunk.

New address

2011-05-18T06:13:00.000-04:00

Hello all. I think I shall continue The Crystal Tambourine over at Wordpress.

This new page also incorporates the archives from Hubbub and Fiddle.

See you there!

Vocative (from 2000)

2011-05-13T16:06:00.002-04:00

Teach me the word
That will conquer the world,
Will plunder, will lay waste,
Dominions of the dull
And kingdoms of the bad.

         Silence is learning
         Submission to heaven,
         Grace's receiving,
         Kenosis and virtue,
         Works of the good.

Teach me the silence
That will conquer false speech,
Will betray, will scatter
Legions of the proud,
The chattering cheaters.

         The holy and honest
         Speak little and wisely,
         Composed of a faith
         That keeps them in concord,
         Silent or singing.

This poem is for the birds

2011-05-09T04:58:00.004-04:00

The circumlocutory ornithologist
Transcribes the song of birds
In early morning mist.

Splintery notes of springtime, thinner than twigs,
Than the stems of leaves --

Delicate chips and skips of sound,
Crisp brisk wisps of music.
Wakeful wit!

Stitching whistles. Jittery flits.
Sibilant whispers, riskiest vigilance.

Young things with wings
Peskily gossip in a mixed snit.

Listen quickly. Don't miss.
This. And this. This and this.
How the slender ribbons twist,
Wind-tipped, chill-blessed, light-kissed, swift.

Ten couplets

2011-05-05T02:41:00.002-04:00

Bad art is nature to advantage blurred:
A hazy color, an uneasy word.

*

Write without coffee. Wake at half-past-two.
Make couplets, since there's nothing else to do.

*

Adventure! Be my damsel, my delight,
And watch me scribble in the dead of night.

*

O southwest breezes, soft, scented of May --
Could you do more to beautify this day?

*

When old Ted Roethke wrote, he made words dance
And sing in every desperate circumstance.

*

Two hundred sixty pounds, robust with meat,
Ample with beer, I more than fill my seat.

*

Ron Paul displays a most judicious mind
In his new book called Liberty Defined.

*

The rain has stopped. Where people park their cars,
We find a puddle that reflects the stars.

*

Exactitude! My youthful bonny bride!
Observe these verses, tell me if I've lied.

*

He walks on air, as nimble as a sprite:
A heavy poet who can keep things light.

Menotomy Moonbat

2011-05-02T18:32:00.001-04:00

I am of Arlington,
And of the blessed town
Of Arlington.
I drink my coffee on the porch;
I walk a half a block to church.
It's lovely here, even in March!
You'll find the peace for which you search
In Arlington.

Homage to Arthur Rimbaud

2011-05-01T05:41:00.002-04:00

The letter A is the River Charles. Dirty water, the Longfellow Bridge, the regatta every October.

The letter E is the clear cool bell ringing for mid-morning prayer at the Trappist abbey in Spencer.

The letter I is the noontime glare of the desert sun on the woman at the well in Samaria.

The letter O is the full moon, magisterial clock without hands, whose face gives light to scientists, to poets, to lunatics.

The letter U is a cornucopia of gratitude and generosity, the fruits of the Spirit, abundant and free.

The letter Y is an agile gymnast, standing on her hands at the balance beam.