Over 25 years of expression in poetic verse.
Excerpt
EGASUS AT THE PLOW
You sit there and you swill the coffee
You ‘re forced to prefer to gin
You choke down some crumbs
Of your meaningful self
When the higher lackeys barge on in
Your friends all call it burnout
Switching files on old Chrome Dome
Changing careers ‘d make no difference
It’s just nostalgia for home.
Some days you feel like Pegasus
Pegasus at the plow
Though your wings are at their service
Over one decade now
Til their billboards block Parnassus
You ‘re gonna feel that plow.
The girl’s transfigured body
Shoots rays from that Other Place
You know in your mind
That you’d been there some time
And you’d hoped she’d provide the trace
Instead her love became the Luxury box for wealthy bores
Pragmatists piss in the Holy Grail
While idealists do their chores.
Some days you feel like Pegaus
Pegasus at the plow
Though you’ve worked for their vile causes
Over one decade now
Til one key deletes Parnassus
You ‘re gonna feel that plow.
You sit there and you swill the coffee
You’re forced to prefer to gin
You choke down some crumbs
Of your meaningful self
When the higher lackeys barge on in
And though you’d love to fly away
Kicking dust on old Chrome Dome
The invisible hand has tied your wings
And sells you videos of home.
THE COWARDLY LION’S EVENING PARTY
You brave their faces once again;
You sense the eyebrows lifting
As though you were some novel strain
That had researchers buzzing.
You circulate from tongue to ear.
You dominate the room
As might some tyrant, gripped with fear,
Whose mere nods could deal doom.
You walk on eggs, you skate thin ice,
You pull up on a dime.
You later say, “Jeez, it’s been nice.
I’ve sure had a good time.”
A WAR POEM IN TIMES OF PEACE
Life, had you but asked a more modest fee
To issue again my heart’s glory days,
When Diane, mad huntress, held sway in her camps,
I’d yell, “Quick, fetch firebrands again for me.
God damn flaccid bards and their impotent lays;
Let ’s make war, not commemorative stamps!”
Ah, to sing her fierce arms when she was young,
Castrati themselves would have given tongue.
Love, had you but proved a less costly whore,
I’d gladly resume those dear martial uses
Which have sucked my heart ’s coffers so dry of late.
Ah, but then it had been a defensive war,
And what red blooded man stands for truces
With the foe brandishing spears at his gate?
Why, pressed by her fierce lips when she was young,
God ’s angels themselves would have given tongue!
Copyright 2008 Patrick Walker. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
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