A Quick Benison to the Sundry at the Bar

(loquacity being our chief fault)

The day is late as you well know
and I must soon be on my way
Tomorrow's pains will soon be now
a fact of life we can't allay.

Forget the past weeks pecadillos
the sturm und drang of life
And briefly rest in this night's laurels
ignoring last night's strife.

Besotted louts across the hall
stare pleas beneath the tumblers
"Kindly please do not disturb
our atavistic slumber."

Sly ladies perched upon the bar
pick up your noses from your plonk
You'd do much better with a man
to satisfy your want.

Blithe lads with quick and eager glances
in search of this night's tryst
Don't overplay a hurried hand
I'd like to wish you best of luck.

The moon shall wane, the sun will rise
And in the hollow of your heart
The ache will fade but still abide
You've made of emptiness and art.

Let's drink our sorrows, drink them down
A toast and then we're through
With hops and malt I bid you all
Vertiginous adieu.

Ode to Bacchus

(for Fred and Donna)

Bacchus, canst thou, O liberator of a million tortured souls

Confine thy merriment amidst the constraints of a meter?

Never mim for the onset of a ravishing temper,
No qualms regarding whom we hack and chew
So long as it's a warm, full-conscious body:
Let your blessings grace our fuggy minds to rest.


And as we sleep, sleep to dream, grant us the comfort

That we may know that all we say and do remains

Unsanctioned by the sun: yes in that time we are things
To hand, unwitting objects not of wrath (non, c'est cliche)
But of a far subtler servant content to name our fidelities
Fool and make light our easily undone expectations.

Serving you, those Thebans, did they wake rejoicing

To find bits of small intestine strung out across the rhododendrons,

Viscera compounded with the earthen soil? Or did they rejoice
To wake at all? You were always more for the nocturnal romp
Than sober machinations over coffee in the early morn. Yes,
Ethanol exacts is homage: odious orisons over a stringent altar.

Not Our Father, surely, though no doubt the sometime-patron

Of our dreams, play us a ditty on your pan-pipe, let not

The revels end in the screams of those unfortunate enough
To defy you: prohibitionists, prudes, all of a kind, their punishment
Is their own neglect - a handy cup of hemlock and rational discourse
Over death - no, we protest, optimism shall not be our hubris.

You ass-tutor imparts, with no qualms, his quick wisdom

Which we stoutly refute in our classrooms and commons

Blank teachers, we are sad to say, can't confirm our logic
At midday. Would that we could casually dismiss his claims
With a nod towards Homer and a tip of the hat to any well-dressed
Octogenarian, pipe in hand, out for the Sunday morning stroll.

First among all gods vying for my homage and Last

Among those I'd willingly deny, I know the truth

Now: your all is none, there is not place
For me among your permanent adherents, no niche for you
Upon my windowsill. Let me choose the flesh I feast, the sanguine
Cup to sip, for the outcome is too dire to abdicate that decision.

But maybe, just for tonight, lend me your blessing again...

A Limerick on Failure

There once was a boy learning Dutch

Who studied it ever so much.

He learned to say “vrouw”

And “Ik hou van jou”

But found that he hadn’t the touch.