irreversibility

Six weeks and more, there's no one in that seat;
there's no one at the galas, chasing checks.
Kentuckians inured to ceaseless heat
deserve some slightest clue of what comes next.
The spirit's fled; the empty house of clay
might be sustained as labs would culture cells.
What's crossed the river Styx goes just one way
and can't rebook the slated date with Hell.
Heroics no one undertakes for fun:
machines to breath, and pump, and cleanse the blood...
But after everything's been said, and done,
this turtle's not emerging from the mud.
McConnell's damned us with his dying breath;
he even falsified his date of death.

Past tense

The mind that stole Supreme Court seats for fun
no longer animates the turtle's shell.
McConnell's rule in Washington is done;
but he's reserved a special place in Hell.
Tripartite governments been known to work
"ambition [can] be made to counteract..."
but not collaborating with a jerk,
who won't concede the plainest point of fact.
Kentuckians deserve to have a voice
in how we're gonna divvy up the tab.
Beshears must let them verbalize their choice
since Mitch is chilling out on his morgue slab.
A shell as empty as an angler's float
must not control the Senate in a vote.

Let it go

McConnell's gone; his party won't admit
that nothing animates the Turtle's shell.
Todd Blanche's nomination takes the hit;
his chance of confirmation trends towards Hell.
Beshears now feels the urgency to act
to fill the Seat that corpse still occupies.
Behind the smoke and mirrors, there's a fact;
what had been Mitch, is now attracting flies.
Kentuckians have rights we can't forget
by propping up a stiff to fill the seat,
their basic needs just aren't being met
where leaders have no motive to compete.
Tripartite government's had a good run
but if we let this stand, our day is done.

Only To Rise Again

Age-long they fell, Olorin and his foe
and 'though in freefall, never paused their fight.
drol spectacle for nameless Things below,
before ascending to the snow-capped height.
Matched Maiar, each a specialist in fire,
ablaze like Glorfindel at Bruinen.
As if the noon day sun were turned up higher,
they'd scorch the retinas of elves, or men.
That stair's destroyed; there could be no retreat,
had either pondered that he might survive.
The Balrog's Middleearth time's now complete;
the wizard's inexplicably alive.
Their seismic combat might not mean a thing
except to rearguard Frodo, and the Ring.

Legacy

The grass grows lush on Mitch McConnell's grave,
a destination few will want to miss.
The footpath there, Kentucky had to pave;
so many come each day to dance, and piss.
Tripartite government worked passing well,
two hundred years and more with scarce a hitch.
But now, one man has shot it all to Hell;
no Founding Father had foreseen Trump's bitch.
Ambition had been meant to counteract
ambition, and so stabilize the whole.
Now, what had seemed so sturdy's deeply cracked;
the People keep no pretense of control.

Too often, good we've done is quickly gone,
but evil men have wrought in life lives on.

Time's up

Dick's bargain with the Devil's due at last;
no cardiologist butts in, this time.
There's Hell to pay in earnest for his past
and nothing to extenuate his crime.
Unbounded by conventions, or constraints
contemptuous of morals, and of laws
Geneva, he dismissed as merely "quaint"
and tramples on our treaties, clause by clause.
One vote for Kamala can't expiate
his decades waging Class War from above.
Abe Lincoln's party's sold on Greed, and Hate.
despite the Scripture's stark command to love.
His sulfur stench may take years to dispel
For now, we're much relieved that he's in Hell.

may his name be erased

There's silence, where encomia would be;
Dick Cheney'sv legacy's embarrassment.
Five trillion blown on wars lost overseas;
at home, a more intrusive government.
The principles he'd brayed he holds so
dear,
fell silent once there's power in his hand.
entrenching power by purveying fear
moved power from the People to one man.
To preach that torture isn't always wrong
as long as it gains power for the Few/
perverted what it had meant to be strong,
obscuring what real men would never do.
For years, I prayed that any flag half-mast
would signal--finally--Dick's age is past.

What endures

Immortal horses balked at being blamed,
and told Achilles what Apollo'd done.
No Trojan spearman'd stained his boyfriend's name;
against Olympus, no man could have won.
Too young to bid for Helen's fabled charms,
no oaths compelled this pair to sail to war.
Each happy to sleep in the other's arms,
they'd come to settle Sparta's cuckold's score.
The Trojans never really stood a chance,
once Agamemnon'd rallied all of Greece.
Since Paris failed to keep it in his pants,
the House of Priam'd nevermore know peace.
Domestic bliss was never in their fates;
their mingled ashes guard the trade-route straits.

generation gap

Immortal Thetis can't have aged a day
since Peleus first claimed her for his bed.
Her first-born's flesh had mouldered into clay,
before she would concede that he lay dead.
Mortality's a "gift" in Tolkien's eyes
to never weary of the tolling years.
A sacred thing, to love what has to die;
to season feasts of pleasure with hot tears.
The immortality Achilles won
was not the sort a mother'd hoped to share.
His glory glows as long as songs are sung,
but she prefers he'd left one heir, one Spare.
Fleet-footed sea-nymph brooding in her fjord
know all too much of mortals, and their wars.

memorial

On moonless nights, the dogs are unperturbed
they know each path, each rock, each root full well.
While I risk injury on every curb,
they're game to navigate, as if by smell.
Sweet prince, some pound proposed to euthanize,
lest someone take his woof for an attack,
intimidated by his lupine size,
was only fierce in loving his new pack.
The squirrels stripping fruit trees in the park
might miss the charm of predators beneath.
The nightmares haunting rodents in the dark
wed 'Tasha's speed to Odin's crushing teeth.
One day, we're hiking; next, he's wracked with pain.
There's scarcely time to bid a last 'so long'.
Eroding tibia can't take the strain;
abrupt old-age strikes hard in one so strong.
The Frisbee she disdained to ever share
lies idle now that Odin's just not there.

nuanced

Patrocles decomposes on the bed
while Hector sprawls, unspoiling on the floor.
Old Priam pleads both sides should tend their dead;
there's time enough next week for waging war.
Two enemies can bond in mingled grief.
The hero's human here, far from the fight.
His whole career--'though glorious--is brief
he plays the gracious host for this one night.
The poet's sympathy's half with the Greeks
but Troy's defenders tug his heartstrings, too.
The lifeblood that from either body leaks
bears no simplistic label "red" or "blue".
The text that educated Greece's youth
bows less to jingoism than to Truth.

sun rise, sun set II

The greybeard kneels to clasp Achilles' knee
proposing both sides pause to tend their dead.
A vision, what the hero'll never be;
old age won't thin the tresses on his head.
Diminished to out-live his therapon,
his destiny's fulfilled with Hector's fall.
There's Neoptolemus when he'll be gone
to devastate the city and its wall.
Undying Thetis grieves for such a son
who'll never get to hold his  little boy.
She's done with mortals' trifles "lost" or "won"
that grandson joins him on the pyre of Troy.
He'll die without a grey hair, or a scar
eclipsing--briefly--every other star.

sun rise, sun set

The greybeard kneels to clasp Achilles' knee
proposing both sides pause to tend their dead.
A vision, what the hero'll never be;
old age won't thin the tresses on his head.
Diminished to out-live his therapon,
his destiny's fulfilled with Hector's fall.
There's Neoptolemus when he'll be gone
to devastate the city and its wall.
Undying Thetis grieves for such a son
who'll never get to hold his  little boy.
Committed now, to see his project done,
that child's dispatched to seal the fate of Troy.
He'll die without a grey hair, or a scar
eclipsing--briefly--every other star.

Fourth Age

Galadriel came East with Feanor
the golden West had come to feel too strait
she craved experience, not merely lore
defying Mandos to embrace her fate.
A demi-goddess in the world of men
she came, with passing ages, to feel torn
the world grew old, outside Lothlorien
and maybe she grew bored of Celeborn.
The hobbits' plight evoked her distant youth
before Ungoliant devoured the light
although she'd gazed unblinking at the truth
the fate of mankind's hidden from her sight.
She gave the emerald to the mortal king
and went home Westward, with her elven ring.

tempus fugit

the Second Law decrees our flow's one-way
we can't undo the thing that has been done
at best, we'll make the best of every day
but youth's too often wasted on the young
Achilles never counted thirty years
his corpse--save one small puncture--was pristine
but aging athletes suffer tendon tears
if we keep skiing when we're no more teens
live fast! die young! the world will sing your song
most glorious of all the sons of Greece
but such a candle must flame out ere long
and fits in poorly when the world's at peace
to guard our worn-down knees and aging back
we can't keep chasing kids down double black

carpe diem

the Past is known, our tracks are plain to see
the Future's dark to any mortal eyes
each branch point's rich in possibility
among which we get to extemporize
forever gazing into the unknown
extrapolating from what's been before
each mind's a helmsman on dark seas, alone
far out of sight from any friendly shore
the Present's all we've ever really got
what's gone before permits us now no role
what's yet to be may come to pass, or not
and only fools believe they're in control
yet all of it--from horror to sublime--
is bounded in the days of one lifetime

Z'man simchateinu

Qohelet dwells on our mortality
as Sukkhoth has us dwelling in a shack
because the finest things in life are free
but values drift perversely out of whack
the tabernacle built to God's own specs
sufficed to keep His presence in our midst
forced labor's yoke lay heavy on our necks
when Shlomo built his cedar edifice
rejoice! we're told; tomorow,we may die
the life we make here's as good as it gets
the cosmos isn't gonna justify
its ways to you, nor pay off your bad debts
for rich or poor, this phase is quickly done
the rat-race can be lost, but never won

that time of year

four New Years rabbis mark as seasons turn
the function's cyclic, going 'round the bend
no vestige of beginning to discern
no prospect that we'll ever see an end
the species oscillates within its range
while individuals age breath by breath
Brad Artson finds divinity in change
imbuing meaning in our trek towards death
the linear and cyclic interplay
regeneration makes up wear and tear
the metronomic flickers of each day
comprise the moving picture of the year
the Fourth Dimension's key to the sublime
each Rosh haShanah bids us mark the time

asking only workman's wages

"you guys are nuts!" the wuffo shook his head
"to trust your lives to such a wing as that"
and drops his eyes and turns his weary tread
to treat his kid to yogurt (small, non-fat)
well-socialized to never leave the mob
subordinating spirit to the team
identifying wholly with his job
repressing any trace of childhood's dream
perchance, when no one's looking, he'll get high
and think he's put one over on the man
but leaves us to our playground in the sky
still making payments on his minivan
before we gaze our last upon the Light
let's seize the day to live the Dream of Flight     

therapon

when Enkidu discovered sex is fun,
he left his Eden, never to go back.
Cast out like Adam, once the deed was done;
his brother wolves reject him from the pack.
The woman's favors didn't mean a thing;
she'd done for him like any other trick.
But now he's caught the eye of Uruk's king
who's totally enamored of this hick.
As close as Achilleus to his friend,
these two would do what one would never dare.
Sweet partnership that only Death could part,
when Gilgamesh, bereft would taste despair.
A buddy screen-play from a distant age
still plucks the heartstrings with each time-worn page.