Posts Tagged ‘Poetry’

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Excuses, Excuses

September 24, 2009

images (2)

Excuses, Excuses

Wonderful to see you
Wish I had more time
But I’ve been called upon to solve
Some uncommitted crime

Yesterday my fish died
Hope you understand
The funeral arrangements
Turned out to be quite grand

Sensible precautions
Clearly do dictate
It’s time to walk my hamster
The hour is getting late

Sadly, duty beckons
It’s my privilege to attend
A gathering to honor
An unnamed future friend

Saturday my car broke
When I drove across the street
And I could walk to greet you
If I didn’t have two sore feet

Happily, I promise
(Assuming I’m around)
To make time to see you
The next time you’re in town

by Richard W. Bray

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Unspeakable Things

September 21, 2009

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Unspeakable Things

In the center of the town Lidane there stands a giant box
It’s tall and black with shiny sides. It takes up several blocks
It’s protected by a giant fence with razorwire and locks
And though it’s there for all to see, no one ever talks

About the cube in the square, near the old dog pound
And just two blocks from the stage where the King was crowned
What I’m about to say is rather odd and surely will astound
But instead of tearing down the box, they prefer to go around

The monstrous thing which scars the scene and obstructs the view
It can be seen for miles around, from downtown to the zoo
Blotting out the heavens with its blatant hue
But the weirdest thing about the box, yes, quite strange but true

Is that the people of Lidane pretend it isn’t there
They ignore it through their busy day and hardly give a care
As though the giant structure were just so much thin air
To ever question what it means. Oh no, they just don’t dare

by Richard W. Bray

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Posted in Poetry, Poetry for Kids | 1 Comment »

The Cavalry of Woe

September 16, 2009


To fight aloud, is very brave—
But gallanter, I know
Who charge within the bosom
The Cavalry of Woe—
—Emily Dickinson

The Cavalry of Woe

There’s just one place I will not go
But we’re not here because of me
There are some things I must not know

The cavalry remains in tow
It’s not about to set me free
There’s just one place I will not go

Does it exist that does not show?
The wound that I will never see
There are some things I must not know

I’ll say again, the answer’s “No.”
It’s not my lock, it’s not my key
There’s just one place I will not go

It’s not the time to trek below
The prudent ones would all agree
There are some things I must not know

The bosom aches with private woe
But it’s best to let it be
There’s just one place I will not go
There are some things I must not know

by Richard W. Bray

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Posted in Emily Dickinson, Poetry, Villanelle | Leave a Comment »

What Your Dad’s Underpants Have To Do With Space Travel (Brady Rhoades)

September 15, 2009

(Editor’s Note: Brady Rhoades is a Southern California writer whose work has appeared in Visions International, Chiron Review, Comstock Review, Beacon Street Review, Bryant Literary Review, Antioch Review and many other publications. We are thrilled to have him as our first guest blogger.)

What Your Dad’s Underpants
Have To Do With Space Travel

Been thinking of the astronaut who drifted away

in his capsule, still drifting in the huge space out there,

part of a loop. Eighty five years old,

going bony, brain splat on the steel hatch,

mouth in a slush, thighs running around the cabin.

Written off by the Russian government in 1960.

Nobody wants to think of him this way. It’s better

not to think of some things, like your Dad’s underpants.

Where is the good in my Dad’s underpants? you ask.

And what’s it got to do with astronauts?

Which reminds me: he must have been wearing underpants.

It’s not all about spacesuits, radar, physics.

Nobody wants to admit that sad diaper was loosed

on the universe, but it was, an artifact

of the human race, and they’ll draw conclusions, you know.

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I’m Really not a Violent Man

September 15, 2009

I’m Really not a Violent Man

I’m really not a violent man
That’s something you should know
But I could kill with my bare hands

My family bled to get this land
We’re not about to let it go
I’m really not a violent man

To serve the interests of my clan
I’d suffer any blow
But I could kill with my bare hands

It must be part of some great plan
This gruesome tale of woe
I’m really not a violent man

This dreadful little plot of sand
Is hardly worth my little toe
But I could kill with my bare hands

When dirt means more than any man
Then someone’s blood must flow
I’m really not a violent man
But I could kill with my bare hands

by Richard W. Bray

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I Let it Fall

September 14, 2009

(I’ll continue with some more villanelles for the next few days. I’m goofy for villanelles. Some of my favorites are “Mad Girl’s Love Song,” “If I could Tell You” and “The Waking.” The cool thing about villanelles is that once you’ve written the first three lines, you’re 42% finished.

There are various ways this poem could be read. I’m not even sure how I wrote it. But it is not meant in any way to advocate suicide. Whether or not any of us deserves to live, an existential outlook requires that we try at least to make the best of it. My poem “Although You cannot Bless” makes it obvious that I don’t have much use for the concept of Grace, but here is an eloquent rebuttal from someone who does.)

I Let it Fall

You flung your heart at me, I let it fall
The greatest gift that I could ever know
I don’t deserve to live, no not at all

Imagine the stupidity and gall
To annihilate what still had room to grow
You flung your heart at me, I let it fall

I sit and cry and try not to recall
The only thing that ever made me whole
I don’t deserve to live, no not at all

I’ll weep and plead and kneel and beg and crawl
But it’s too late to let my feelings show
You flung your heart at me, I let it fall

You won’t see me and won’t return my call
I fear that this will be the final blow
I don’t deserve to live, no not at all

I cannot navigate beyond this wall
I guess it’s really time for me to go
You flung your heart at me, I let it fall
I don’t deserve to live, no not at all

by Richard W. Bray

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Posted in Poetry, Villanelle | 1 Comment »

Fastidious Fred

September 10, 2009

Fastidious Fred

Fastidious Fred makes his own bed
It takes him half an hour
And you can bet, if he breaks a sweat
He always takes a shower

Everyone knows, he irons his clothes
Until they look like new
“It takes all day,” he likes to say,
“But what’s a guy to do?”

“I demand perfection beyond detection
And will not tolerate
Things deficient or insufficient
Or somehow second rate”

He had a wife, the light of his life
But she did not make the cut
He sent her away one rainy day
When the door was improperly shut

“It may sound cruel, but I need my rules
They bring order to my life
Discipline and a strict regimen
Protect me from chaos and strife”

Fred lives alone in an immaculate home
And no one comes to see him
His house is clean and downright pristine
But no one wants to be him

by Richard W. Bray

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Posted in Poetry for Kids | 1 Comment »

Advice

September 8, 2009

guru

Advice

I’m not you and you’re not me and thus it isn’t wise
For me to say what you should do or simply to advise
Anyone on how to live or say what I would do
If I were somehow in your skin living life for you

If I could live your whole life and feel all your feelings
Then I would be the perfect guy to handle all your dealings
But if you want to hear me say “What I would do if I were you…”
I’m afraid the only answer is “I haven’t got a clue”

Looking back on things I’ve done and things I thought I’d do
I must admit how many times my forecasts were untrue
I’d love to tell you what to do, but it mustn’t be
I can’t predict what I would do even if I were me

by Richard W. Bray

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Although You cannot Bless

September 7, 2009

640px-Center_of_the_Milky_Way_Galaxy_IV_–_Composite

Oh look, look in the mirror,
O look in your distress;
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless
–W.H. Auden

Although You cannot Bless

My life remains a blessing
I’m thankful every day
And yet it leaves me guessing
To whom then I should pray

My planet’s seven billion
I’m clearly near the top
God knows how many millions
Feed on gruel and slops

In the slums of Rio
A waif who could be me
Was shot by a policeman
Who does this for a fee

I never curse my Maker
I cherish every breath
I’m not a bellyacher
Exalt unto my death

You tell me my good fortune
Is contingent on His grace
As if God were a human
Who lives in outer space

But that leads me to wonder
Exactly who to scold
When so many are pushed under
By the knowing and the bold

You say to all who suffer
“It’s according to His plan”
Because it’s so much tougher
To explain the ways of man

Humans are not central
In this big old universe
And we only have each other
For better and for worse

(Note on Light Verse: Kurt Vonnegut complained that critics mistook Science Fiction for a urinal, and that’s how I feel about Light Verse, as any rhymed and metered poetry not written by Richard Wilbur is derisively categorized. Even when Phyllis McGinley writes of nuclear annihilation, it’s not really that serious, it’s just light verse. At least it’s nice to see Dorothy Parker and Ogden Nash beginning to sneak into the anthologies.)

by Richard W. Bray

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Posted in Poetry, W.H. Auden | Leave a Comment »

Five Deferment Dick

September 4, 2009
5DD

5DD

Colonel Lawrence Wilkerson on Dick Cheney:

“He’s a fearful man”

“[He is] putting out idiocy of the first order.”

“He has told more lies from a public pulpit than almost anyone I’ve known.”

Five Deferment Dick

You know what’s really sick?
Five Deferment Dick:
Cowardly vicious fool
Walking torture school
Wanton font of slime
Living breathing crime
Former head of state
Paragon of hate
An imitation man
Who never had a plan
Thousands maimed and dead
Because he lost his head
You know what’s really sick?
Five Deferment Dick

(Note on Col. Wilkerson: It’s been my observation working in the public sector that mendacity and stupidity are two of the chief lubricants which keep the wheels of bureaucracy turning. That’s why it amazes me that someone as candid and intelligent as Wilkerson was able to achieve the rank of Colonel. Hell, he’s clever and plainspoken enough to be a sergeant.)

by Richard W. Bray

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