Memento Mori

Posted on 29 April 2014 by Thomas Kearney

Old man sung up a crow, imbued
him with all kinds of mess,
a million ways of saying Yes
to anything that’s crude

He was divisive, he could slice
an ordinary stone into a knife
as if what cut might somehow be alive
and thrive on strife

Some said he’d killed the lark
Stone dead, that’s what they said
(though others would insist instead
her own song broke her heart)

And she – she was a battle, never right
so when she opened up the door, blew out the light,
who knows which one had won or lost the fight?
— Then it was night.

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Ghost Train Morning

Posted on 28 April 2014 by Thomas Kearney

Gonna roll out in pajamas
Can’t be bothered, can’t be late
My hair ain’t combed, my teeth are stale
Don’t mind, don’t care, can’t wait

There’s a train ain’t waiting for me
Leaving while the rails are clear
Won’t be standing at the station
Might just leave me here

Got to leave your one and only
When your moment comes around
Got to leave your things behind you
When the walls come down

Used to be a little baby
Mama sang a lullaby
For to rock me into sleeping
While the trains rolled by

I’ve been waiting all my lifetime
For that dream to end
I’ve found love and I’ve found pleasure
Haven’t found a friend

There’s a train not waiting for me
Leaving while the rails are clear
Won’t be standing at the station
Might just leave me here

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The True Poets

Posted on 25 April 2014 by Thomas Kearney

The true poets, seeing the world in a grain of sand, do not ask Why then so many grains of sand?

The true poets lie once then spend the rest of their lives shoring up the lie.

The true poets hum along with themselves, visiting in drafty castles, hunched over stone tables all night while the wind whistles through faulty windows, thinking themselves so very clever.

The true poets, despairing of meaning, wrestle with sentences; despairing of words, contend with syllables and are overcome.

The true poets do not agree with sharks and worms, they think the world is too much with us, they lie in bed at night fully clothed but never sleepwalk, they sleep deeply instead, fail to howl at the moon, and wake with rumpled shirts, fully rested.

The true poets spout the future’s clichés and die never knowing their true worth, never knowing it even after they have been dead a hundred years.

The true poets plot getting from here to anyplace but jump ship en route from Mexico without waiting for landfall, vanish into the dark swollen sea that undergirds the world and live forever.

The true poets, good for nothing, win the Nobel Prize in their dreams, wake to scrambled eggs toast and coffee, wishing for marmalade.

The true poets are patrons of failure put to the truth of others.

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Alphabet, Schmalphabet – Z, z

Posted on 25 April 2014 by Thomas Kearney

Zachary Zye, the loud-buzzing black fly,
Zipped into the house in the blink of an eye.

Inside he discovered Old Man Ebenezer
Noisily snoozing, the crusty old geezer,
With his head on the bed and his feet in the freezer.

Now one thing is true of a fly with a buzz:
If that fly sees you sleeping, the first thing he does
Is to buzz in your ear. Why is that? Well… because.

So Zachary flew to the old geezer’s bed
Landed once on his chin—circled twice ‘round his head—
And then BUZZED IN HIS EAR! fit to wake up the dead.

But Old Man Ebenezer kept snoring instead.

An insult like that would make any fly sore.
I’ll wake him! cried Zachary Zye with a roar.
(If you heard it, you might think his roar was a buzz
And to tell you the truth, I suppose that it was.)

He buzzed on the old geezer’s feet (they were smelly)
And the back of his neck and the front of his belly.
He buzzed in his nose and he buzzed in his hair
He buzzed around here, and he even buzzed there.

He buzzed every place he could think of, and more.
He buzzed and he buzzed till his buzzer was sore.
But Old Man Ebenezer just lay there and snored.

So Zachary Zye, the loud-buzzing black fly,
Zipped out of the house… with a tear in his eye.

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Alphabet, Schmalphabet – X, x

Posted on 25 April 2014 by Thomas Kearney

Xavier’s vexing X-ray eyes
Would certainly make him an excellent spy.

He’s a wizard at poker and hide-and-go-seek;
He can tell what a squirrel has stuffed in its cheek;
He can locate the needle in any haystack;
He knows what you’re hiding there, behind your back.

And he sees lots of things that he isn’t supposed…
But I’d better not say any more about those.

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The Dwarf Bids Farewell to His Wife, the Elephant Lady, Citing Their Sexual Incompatibility

Posted on 21 April 2014 by Thomas Kearney

One ought not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediment. But then again,
Let us be reasonable, dear. I find,
Though minds be true, still bodies may present

Some difficulties – and, in point of fact,
Impediments there are, though you admit
Them not. Let’s not mince words: putting all tact
Aside, we both are freaks: I am a midget;

You, my love, are grossly fat. That’s just
The way of it, there is no blame. However,
After all our trials, I think you must
Admit some things just can’t be done, whatever

Minds may think of it. With this in view,
My body’s left you, though my mind’s still true.