their distant lightning glowed;
muted like welding seams,
through foundry smoke
to sensitive ear
of honey eyes.
The rose-fingered moon,
the foster-child of the soft-laden grass,
hovered above
the tumbling hills
like a radiant gem.
``You're around here somewhere.
Don't worry!'' I would say.
``I won't,'' he'd say,
and think how full he is
of these small, generous openings,
each of them yet another
filament-like bond
between us,
the hundreds of which
made me love
my old man
beyond words.
He would be famous.
Everyone would love him.
He had that magic touch.
It made my mother weep,
just to think about it --
the shining future of his.
Before death came,
we kids heard rumours
about what was going on.
We went downstairs
to wait, and wait, and....
fixed something to eat.
Confused, we blinked back tears.
What should we do,
we wondered?
He died while we were
cooking breakfast.
It was fried eggs over-easy,
with a side of sausage-like links,
drowned in maple syrup.
Brother Joe and
Sister Sue
were in the living room,
waiting call to meal.
The sun rises near the Woodlands.
The chant of night is stilled.
There's a joyful singing in wild lands,
for the promise of dawn fulfilled.
Chipmunk, gopher, squirrel, hare,
came to dance from a runaway lair.
Mule deer, whitetail, elk and moose,
called from realms of silver goose.
Each magnificent, grandly bold.
Each a king in a world of gold.
Prairie chicken, grouse and quail
rose from berm, dune and vale.
Each one rocketing swift and free.
Golden sails on an amber sea.
The sun rises near the Woodlands.
The chant of the night is stilled.
There's joyful singing in wildlands,
for the promise of dawn fulfilled.
What I want more than anything
is to grab the quarry in my jaws.
Forget poetry! Forget prose!
Restrict editing! Don't publish!
Roll the Ugandan film.
I've just spied the army hunter
with his flashy auto-gun.
I've heard the jungle whispering
of prizes for no others, mostly academics,
delivered behind closed doors;
...like secret, leaky-wet handshakes.
I need only five minutes or so
of stalking in the dry Savannah grass.
Then one good sniff of my prey
nibbling weeds by still lagoon.
What better than a slow creep
behind unknowing stripped back
-- as deliberate as a sharp pencil.
Then the resounding pounce --
the real law of the jungle --
I -- with my claws around its rump,
my teeth at its twisted neck.
It -- braying, biting and bucking
in flight, with agonizing terror.
What I want from this life is
-- to trot triumphantly back to my den
-- zebra intestines flapping in my jaw,
like spaghetti.
So... they don't honour me
as much as the chosen one.
I'm at that point now
that if they paid me in zebras
that would be enough.