Monday, June 21, 2010

The Web

The spider wove its web across the door. The spider, black and gold, sits still above the zig-zag on the web while Sarah, black and blue, stands tense before it, uncertain, frightened in either direction. She feels his breath on her shoulder. She feels his hand on her arm. If she jerks away, her hand will shoot into the web, become enwrapped in the silk. She feels her silk nightgown slip off her shoulder. His soft lips replace the soft fabric. She faints into his arms.

The web flutters in the breeze of the closing door. The garden spider sits, unmoved.

Sunday, June 20, 2010

Tragic Hope

Does lack of destiny kill tragedy?
The Age of Great Napoleon brought forth
No tragedies. And Stalin's Russia, too,
Produced no Aeschylus of their far north.

But they believed in Destiny! They ruled
Two countries who believed in Destiny.
Instead of Shakespeare, all we saw was death --
Blood flowed with every promise we'd be free.

Perhaps it isn't destiny, but hope --
No Golden Age behind us, future bright
Instead -- the promise of emergence with
The dangers still in sight -- but we will fight.

This is the promise and the threat of hubris --
The tragic hero must be born in hope --
And he must struggle to break free and stretch
Us to new worlds while tethered to a rope.

This isn't Destiny. This isn't death
That just destroys, inhuman, in its good
Intentions. No. It's growing tall so lightning
Rounds off our top -- a massive, tall redwood.

I pray then that we're ripe for tragic art,
That we are pregnant now with future, not
A Destiny that destroys man and cuts
Him off from his humanity, to rot.

Friday, June 18, 2010


So, asccording to the poll I had at the bottom of my blog, out of 24 voters, 9 are smart-alecs (my hotel auditor position does not require a Ph.D.). In fact, only 11 voted correctly that only spontaneous order scholar requires a Ph.D. Adjunct professor at a community college only requries a Master's Degree. And anyone can be a poet or playwright.

Now, time for a new poll...

Thursday, June 17, 2010

Little Father Time

When little Father Time looks grimly at
The tick-tock time of bubbles bursting blank,
He's certain what he has to do. His love
Misplaces death. He thinks that we will thank

Him for this sacrifice that he intends
To free us with. Instead, it just transforms
Us, drives us into what we hate. The school
House shuts its doors; life hides out in its dorms.

The cold rain shivers us to death, or so
We like to claim when we in fact give up
On life and cut short time. What suicide
Will bring, what murder fills the marble cup

We kept our hope in, hoping we could learn
The secrets of the word. Oh, Father Time,
Why did you take the best of all I made?
Oh why, my love, did you commit this crime?