The Lute Players

Blue Ballads

For whom did he intend that kiss--
for some shy lass with wispy hair?
Or his mother, or his mistress?
It flew lightly through the air
straight to where it should repose.
I could wish . . . but dare not dare--
its resting place he only knows.

Your letter is so often read
the ink is faded;
the paper wornout, nearly shred,
the reader jaded
and longing for another line--
and biding and abiding time.

Other folks may greet you on the street (and do),
but I fear I'll never meet you--
not for lack of wanting to,
but for lack of opportunity.

You might have walked in keyless
at any hour last night--
I left the door unbolted,
the parlor filled with light--
but I suppose so then
might have the bogey man.

Dreams end to end!
I have numbgee esoteric--
append Apollo.
Come down to earth and look him in the eye:
he appeals but is not handsome.
Words whispered in corners:
"Smothered Oven," "Open Buntlet,"
"Buntlet One," "Buntlet Two."
I have aspirations, I have heart,
delicate and blue.

Impotent ego-tripping,
silent snuffing,
sniffing briny wine and dope--
The Spineless Hope. I flow, you flow,
with the washes, ebbs, and eddies.
Crushed and blushing, dizzied, dazed--
I shadow-box a paradox:

You are everything to me
and
you are nothing to me.

The End of the Story

It was the poet not the wine
pressing you to stay
then lapsing into gloom when you declined--
though she knew that it was fated
you would have to leave sometime.
As you walked out I reeled her in--
I would not let her cry.
We sat and talked, and by and by
she fell apart un-feeling in my chair.
Miasma in the air,
I rose, tied up my hair,
and went upstairs.

The Butterfly

It was--after all--
just a homely moth
that, having lately shed
its seven-year cocoon,
aspired to fly out to a star--
and singed its wings
upon the moon.