[John Isbell]

New Year’s Day

A sort of cantileña – or a sketch
of some song that has not been written – in
the January air. I cannot speak
to what bird has begun to sing, but each
trill and cadenza thrills me. At about
the time the sun lifts in the East, and those
who rise to greet the dawn are making breakfast,
the first birds stir. Now there are those who wend
their way through blue air, opening their wings
to pulse across the heavens; there are others
who choose to sing, and from their singing throats
comes melody. It breaks and scatters, like
a rainfall hitting foliage, or like
an army in defeat. But there is glory
in each raw note; it is a testament
to how this silent planet can unloose
its fetters, and reclaim its voice. The language
escapes my ken. But it is fresh as dew
in my contorted ear, and I begin
to be someone quite different. I might
grow wings yet and take flight myself. I might
yet sing and not be understood. The sun
is looking through my window, it is morning.

[RCL]

A No Man

If he could warmly croon
or play a bass bassoon
that would be a boon
but it would stop too soon.

This kind of man’s a no-man
molded from a man-plan
a man without a life-span
an isolated now-man.

The faux man is jejune
head echoing the moon
his torso a balloon
and vapor in his ruin.

Our essence turned to ice,
he mirrors mankind twice.

[RCL]

Nearly forgot, it's the last day of the holidays:

Epiphany

We journeyed those gray days to see
the source of light diminishing night
and found a babe. Hopefully,
we journeyed those gray days to see
a Magus: he glittered brilliantly,
enthralling us with magic light.
We journeyed those gray days to see
the font of light diminishing night.

[Ken Brownlow]

Where to go on vacation

England came to mind.
Except I was born into a nation of rude shopkeepers:
why bother.
.
Then I thought of Paris, the continent!
However, the smell of piss on cobblestones is universal
so what would be the point.

The big cities of North America appeal.
But I’ve had a gun thrust in my face before
so there is no need to go there.

A sunny beach in Mexico would be nice.
Although, they say the toot around here is laced with violence enough.
I can save myself the trouble.

Possibly some oriental magic: Tokyo, Beijing
or even old Mandalay.
But I must admit it doesn’t matter where you live
smog is smog with only the occasional acidic variation.

Nope, there’s no need to travel anywhere exotic
everything I need is here.

I will holiday at home.

[RCL]

The Santa Claus Rock

This hauler of stuff still stuffs our socks
from sacks he rolls to the world’s rooftops.
Each empty sack rolls back and mocks
this hauler of stuff who stuffs our socks
to the ticks and tocks of incessant clocks.
Our avatar, he never stops
this hauling of stuff to stuff our socks
from sacks he rolls to the world’s rooftops.

[Michael Cantor]

Tum-ta-tum-tum-tum-parum-pum-pum-pum

December’s here and I can hear the thrum
of that obnoxious kid; the dumb-dumb-dumb
and droning, chirping, moaning hum of hum-
bug sweetness fills the mall with every strum
and echo like a film of honeyed scum.
It cloaks and gums the jam-packed shopping slum,
reverberates inside each tympanum,
until I think my ears and mind are numb.

But, hey, these nifty, complementary rum-
laced egg-nog thingies go down well; and come
to think of it, I shouldn’t be so glum
when I can have another sugar-plum -
hey, hon’ –a double one please, for my chum –
parum pum pum pum, he and his drum.