Edward II

I can't remember who left who . . and this angers you,
phone set to take . . souvenirs
for a day you'll . . lay out the cards
in a film documenting . . the anger
over the men who raised you into anger . . to drop
all the bluster . . no method
to get the gusto . . off ground
and the leveling river . . media
to plug . . show tunes a la Champs-Elysees
bays gulls holding . . hover off
blinding light deflected ... the turning air carrier
.
The last time . . we admitted
long enough . . grown away into others
until another pulls away again
—then lost—forced off—
a dynamo . . dropped
in the lap . . dead leaf
sitting . . sitting . . sitting

blown off . . tipped off . . held off


[Originally there were supposed to be three spaces where the modidified ellipses " . . " are now, but I kind of like them now.]

Shelters

No one has the gumption to give them up,
but no more crackers and blankets
when we stick our heads in,
souvenirs of wars flown over to forget,
rebuild ruined schools, temples, cathedrals
as if no hatred had broken mornings,
just tiny domed ducking grounds
growing small and mossy out of soft pools
leaving them musty after iron doors go missing.
The dry ones make great getaways
for young early trials wedging walls.
Once tragedy falls we’ll all be scolded
just for holding candles, so hold me
as if the world were closing its skies
leaving us in our last desperate embrace.
No one will suffer this way, let alone
be left to repeat it, until genuine caring sinks in.
Common cause waits outside on camera,
a small price to take hearts to safety,
hesitant, generic gray souls.

The Sheep Has Landed

The raucous of losing his way sprouted,
though the wisdom of the East pointed the Way
who would tell him the boat had taken its berth
and he was no longer native?
If only a Buddha would intervene
the hungry wanderer could return to the table
knowing the extinction of the self,
whether the waste land left shopping for wars
or the heavenly release from the haunted
beard and twitch of fighting the wind.