Act Three

You are still,
almost part of the chair,
before a drawn curtain
and wondering, “Is there not an act three?”
while those around are standing,
offering applause,
putting on coats,
gathering purses,
hats,
scarves,
excitedly chattering about
what a great show it was.

Over time, the theatre clears
of friends and neighbours,
dear ones,
lovers, dreams,
but you remain,
for what must be an eternity,
pondering.

Have you not
understood the joke?
or learned the lesson?
Are you expecting
cleansing fire
when only houselights struggle to life?

Me, Pussycat, God

If I were the Pussycat
and He
were
me,

I wonder exactly
how that
would
be.

I might sit,
contented,
my own simple business
to mind and,
suddenly,
find

my whole self lifted in air,
to be cheek by jowl
and ear pressed to ear.

I’d struggle,
push, lean,
and rather
not be there

but I’d have nothing to fear.

All powerful,
the Pussycat’d
have no reason to be mean,

I’d feel loved
and He’d rub my chin,
whispering, “Tell me, Pussycat,
where have you been?”

Fred Sits Down

Fred feels thoughtful – says to the waiter,
“I’m but a short while here.

Your warmth and sun against
my precious wind and bitter
do battle,
deconstructing as they’re able,
the space I live within,
where I clutch at old things,

familiar and dear.

You offer me slowed moments,
an island vacation,
a time to set aside the immediate
of past and future busyness,
a chance for
relaxing blindered obedience.

I am doing nothing,

knowing nothing’s to be done
more than savour this night of sea breezes,
squawking radios,
languages other than my own.
I see dark humps in the distance
which sparkle,
perhaps lit by candles, laughter and
the tinkling wind-chime cocktail glasses
of someplace else.”

“As well,”

Fred notices and to himself muses,
“above, shines the quartered moon
as if it were a fault in the dome of sky
where light effuses, betrays another world,
maybe one from which we came
or another which we go toward,
if we ever die.”

Turning his head
enough to view the enclosing cap of
star-chipped black,
with its obvious crack,
Fred thinks,
“I didn’t end yesterday,
or today.
Though I have witnessed loss and sorrow,
the hour I finally disappear,
is distant, uncertain as tomorrow,
a bright light that is outside, teasing,
not truth yet,
nor proven yet a lie.”

He leans forward, says,
“Hell with it! Make mine a Mai-tai.”

Where Did It Come From,Why Is It Here,Where Will It Go

The great river is alluring chance,
it’s old, graveled edge
an over-one-shoulder
seductive glance.
I am teased to wanting 
for sunny days and bright sand
that some folk say, 
“lies further south, around a bend, 
where each may go one day.”
 
Hushed rushing quickens the hour. 
I fear inertia’s awful power
to draw this weak swimmer, unready,
from the sheltering, familiar eddys.

Through western history,
the same books bore three great prayers
as cross-sparred boats
true enough to stay afloat,
steady
against the deep, rolling simmer
of liquid ambivalence.
I have little breath for those nor confidence
for the eastern sense of
layers.

My wandering heart beats timid,
its toes testing the water.

The river’s source, explained by science, 
is frozen things that thawed once
and a big bang made it all begin.

The ancients, equal as me, stood awed, 
gave massed water a sturdy name
based on its nature, understood as God.

Neither worship nor in-depth study
make swift currents the less muddy,
illuminate what’s ‘round the bend.’

In the end,
we’ll ride each cresting wave’s crown,
destined, born to and bound.

There’s a moment for each to decide,
to trust we’ve at least three times down
before we drown.

Plunge in, set hesitation aside.

An Emperor’s New Clothes

Passion glows,
witnessed through back-lit windows.
It’s nothing more again than darkness
and certain death called progress.
Where is what was promised thee?

This looking-glass, called ‘Galaxy’,
has empty pixels, tamed,
unlike the place, for which it’s named,
that’s balanced, occupied by everything,
mass and time and nothing.

Stripped to bare,
a changeling preens and we are unaware.
At first sight bright, much ballyhooed
by shopping malls and Hollywood,
the Emperor Future

weakens social sutures.
An amplified mind
spills fermented truth, unkind,
in ‘tweets’, ‘comments’, and ‘posts’
via a thousand growling stomach
hosts.

A beast has been set free,
and none can see,
that same old set of clothes.

Sunday, At Church

It is raining.
Tiny brown/grey birds
(I believe they are sparrows)
huddle under eaves next door.
A dirty and thirsty one hop/flies up
for a drink and quick bath at
the metal trough above him/her while
the rest stare into a slanted downpour,
perhaps thinking private thoughts.
They are waiting for the rain to stop,
possibly chatting with each other
in the way that birds must do or
simply waiting for a clear spot in the weather
so as to take off and fly about their business
in relative safety.
These winged ones are patient,
having little else pressing
save the daily ritual of
eating, sleeping and procreating.
I don’t see a single
protest sign.
None are shouting,
“Down with the damned cats!”
None are shouting,
“Arrest the hawks!”
None are shouting,
“Pack the Supreme Court!”

The precious creatures can fly in the rain,
I have seen them do it.
Today, they choose not.
It is an ordinary day and
I don’t need to ponder what life means,
I can see it. (oooh, there’s a Cardinal!)

A Photograph of St. Aubin Street, July Twelfth, Nine-thirty P.M.

Everything the camera can see, it doesn’t show
about this ordinary street that wasn’t quiet
a couple hours ago.
In foreground, one door hangs from a last hinge,
another sprawls on the front porch floor,
echoing that hearts were singed
either by love’s impromptu riot
or shattered in methodical war
over that smashed-to-bits radio.

On the lawn’s barren husk,
up against commerce’s concrete wall,
with half-attempt at shady pleasantry
and from which dying birds might call,
a street-wise, disheveled tree,
blistered by the day’s remaining heat,
leans into the depth of dusk.

Within the frame, neat,
There’s a bit more about this scene
not described in the black and white,
those two between which
share every colour –
null to bright.

Friends,
linger with me in this moment collected,
stare into what is, by its absence,
resurrected.

A New Way

After a couple of wrongly directed shares (by me) and some tweaking of my tech abilities, I have a new plan. I am here sending a link to my website. If you want to check it out, please do and help yourself to a like if you think you want to read more as it comes along. I will otherwise not be sending links or shares. We all need a little peace and freedom from the hard-sell. So, here y’are, do what you will or don’t what you will… I am doing some further tweaking of the website in the immediate future and no advertising will appear, no information will be collected. I need to coordinate the update with a July cycle date. From that point forward it will be just me, no Google, no Facebook, nada

robertontheair.com