Tithes

I’ve offered my tithes;

stacks of inoffensiveness,

seeking my Urim and Thummin

and returned home

with nothing.

The temple, the storehouse

were full of tares,

and my adding chaff wheat

made me even more culpable.

I crossed the River of Poison,

thinking desire

could somehow fulfill me,

and returned home

still lacking.

My spiritual dullness;

my homage to person

made my mecca a prison:

I faced East

and saw nothing.

All the Children

ALL THE CHILDREN

some of them break my heart

and i don’t care

if it sounds

hackneyed or trite,

some of them break my heart.

the doe sleepless eyes

from the fortyyearold twelve year olds,

the porous cries of the noisiest silent ones,

the bruise in the apple that softens the crate of them,

                                                            some of them,

all of them,

break my heart.

In Passing

In Passing

The poet’s occupation,

death,

more gentle than the quill and stand,

softer than shorn fleece,

and kinder than she seems

to man,

is a poet’s inclination

toward

the graveclothes of a passing friend;

much more his own epitaph,

his someday’s final paragraph;

his end.

To My Cat

To My Cat

Even while saying it, I know it's a lie

I could no sooner leave him

Than I want to die.

I could no sooner stop this way that I feel

Than I would make up from my nightmares

And wish they were real.

I could no sooner walk thru this life all alone

Than I'd pack my belongings

And leave here, my home.

I could no longer function even as well as I do,

      If ever, oh ever, I had to leave you.

The Painting

The Painting

How long was she watching me?

I saw the brush dab furiously

And thought of her infinite subject with awe, touching envy.

What possible colours could her palette hold

Able to catch the wet, breathing coast,

The sky and sea fused as perfectly as they were?  What stroke

Could ever hope to bring the waves

Licking and foaming to canvas?

Amazed, eyes glazed by the wind

I looked again at her staring.  Was she sharing

The thoughts that I had, with me?

She smiled.  She motioned.  I went forth, and frozen

Saw a painting of me watching her watching.

For Julie

For Julie

Probably

No snowflake fell

On crackled tree

Or rosebush bendings

As lovely as

Your smile.

No rainbow arch

Encanvassed in pavement,

Resplendent in oil

From a passing car

Could catch the colors

In your hair.

Probably

A kitten or violet

Breathes closest

Your beauty –

Or a Russian winter

On a postcard

From a friend.

On West Depew

On west Depew

On west Depew

Behind the stone wall

In the pink house

Of stucco the

Dreams

Grew.

            Small and hard hate currants, shiny

            Still in memory those bad

            Dreams were. Night howls of mad

            Dogs and brittle men.

The other dreams were berried in day

Light.  Silly giggles on the head

Of the couch,

Looking across to a decorative

Mirror, singing

And preening our

Hearts out.

            We peopled plants

            Of dreams and ourselves

            In them.  Nice places

            Where kind teachers let

            You be somebody else

            (a fervent ever dream)

like our novel chirpings in our kind of

twin chatter

we believed in our

babblings

and still do.

Amanita Phalloides: Death Angels

Amanita phaloides; death angels

Flat, misshapen open pores

bring instant death,

my Angelus.

White, speckled, orange prickly caps

bring rooted logs

some colour.

Ah! Death waits ‘til Spring’s clear day,

When all the toadstools rise to stay!

Parasol shaped party hats

are fungal traps,

my Angelus.

Long sticky, spiny, cloying spheres

wait out the year’s

four seasons.

I watch Death wait for Spring’s clear day,

When all the toadstools come to play!

I think I'm Dying, I hope

I think I'm dying, I hope

i think i’m dying, i hope

it won’t take long

the pain is strong –

stronger than me.

i have to laugh when they say

your life goes before you in a flash

at the end. the past

is more painful than this dying could be.

i have to shake my head

at the tears, the regrets

from my friends who don’t know the relief

that being dead offers me.

i have to feel quite content –

life, tho short, has been full and i am spent,

so i’ll go quietly.

really i think it is better this way;

i was all too much and long too real

and i was locked up in my head

half-witted at shadows, for all purposes dead –

why keep me alive

when i think i’m dying, i hope.

    Jamise Hopper