STONES

The empire of flat stones has no

Determinate boundaries. It appears

When it chooses. Three stones together

Are enough to call it forth with its officers

Banners, bangles, flashy furbelows

And a long line of emperors

Each of whom has a court artist

To immortalize him and an umbrella.

My time on the throne was brief;

I have lost touch with my officers

And had to sell my banners, my bangles and –

This hurt most– all my flashy furbelows.

I’ve kept the umbrella despite its missing rib

And its stubborn refusal to open.

ANNUATED

One of my jobs in the office was to be

The One Who Doesn’t Know What’s Going On

So that, years later, I’d find out

That coldfooted Love had walked the corridors

And brightwinged Hate had banged on doors

And jammed the only good copy machine.

Others took comfort in my oblivion

Secure that I was unaware that this one

Was a thief and that one a saint

And this other a thief and a saint

 (I still haven’t worked out quite how

That was managed. Was she a thief and a saint

Alternately or did she ply her vocations

Simultaneously?)

BIRDS

Protocol demanded we send

A nightingale to break the Emperor's heart

But nightingales are not native to these parts

And birds were, that year, in short supply.

We did our best and sent two nightjars --

One with and one without ears. The experiment

Was a failure. The Emperor's heart remained

Entirely whole. The earred nightjar,

Lyncornis macrotis to its friends  --

Told bawdy stories and fell asleep.

The other -- a common poorwill

Of no breeding -- betrayed us,

Becoming a member of the Cabinet –

A junior one, without portfolio.

HAPPENS, HAS HAPPENED, WILL HAPPEN

That night

The light

That loves not us

Will fuss

And fume

And flee the room

Where by God's will

Time lies still

Ice on his clothes

His nose

Sharp as a pin

While Sin

Makes jests

For ragged guests

But fears

Tears.

A VISIT

I knock on the door and God, the butler,

Emerges from the mirror where He,

In His shirtsleeves, has been polishing silver.

He gravely takes my name; when I leave,

It will be returned, cleaned and invisibly mended

And smelling pleasantly of lemon oil and camellias.

He conducts me to the library where He

Courteously puts aside His pen and book

Delaying, perhaps forever, doom or salvation

For some coterie of souls holding vigil

Watching thick candles grow less or an ill moon

Turning back half-risen. I hand Him the parcel

Addressed to Him in beautiful handwriting

Which I don't recognize. We speak for hours

In languages I do not understand.

STOPPED

The poem stopped in mid-stanza

Stood, stretched, put on a scarf -- 

Though the weather was warm --

And said "That will be it

For today; there's a work stoppage;

We can, perhaps,reschedule 

Once it's over." Easier

To convince a charging bull

That he'd rather loll on a beach

And discuss the finer points

Of apiculture than to make a poem

Stay when it's determined to leave.

Annoying; I was under contract

For 500 foot/boards of poetry

And the deadline was near. 

The enduser would be unhappy but

In place of the saga he'd wanted

(Though not deserved) would make do

With two cartloads of nonunion haiku

IN MEMORIAM EW

He had a perfectly useless talent

For becoming -- sometimes, always when alone --

The somewhat nicer version of himself 

He'd been when much younger. To make up for it,

He'd make unpleasant remarks all through dinner 

Or write a vile letter to the press.