Fort Pillow Trilogy (Three Spoon River Poems)

Caleb the Bartender

You never cared where I'd come from, Spoon River,
Just so long as I kept your glasses full.
As you guzzled your beer or sipped your whiskey
You confided in me, you asked my advice
As though I was your Father Confessor,
More in tune with the Holy than with spirits.
You fools!  You know as little of truth as I did
Before battle laid bare the evil of my soul.
Could you look into my heart and view my sins
As I've had to, you'd recoil from me in horror.
I did so from myself, fleeing  here from Memphis
With a new last name, hoping to run from my past.
It met me at the railroad station though,
And laid the crime of murder at my feet.
It was at that moment that I realized
That there was no earthly place where I could hide
From the shame of what I'd done at Fort Pillow.
I resigned myself to a slow suicide of spirit,
Pouring drinks, dispensing advice, and at night
Returning home to drink myself into a stupor
That drove everything away but my guilt.

Varina Devereaux

I was so proud when my Caleb enlisted.
To ride with Bedford Forrest; how romantic!
My beloved a dashing Southern cavalier,
A warrior poet, my own Sir Phillip Sydney!
What tales he would weave from his adventures!
But when he returned his muse had scorned him.
Her lodgings were now squatted in by shame
And a self-loathing that clung to his spirit
Like Spanish moss dripping from a gnarled oak.
He tried to tell me of a place called "Fort Pillow;"
Of men driven mad by hatred and blood-lust,
Of curses and snarled rage brutally punctuated
With gunshots and thrusts of blood-soaked bayonets.
I tried everything.  I held him in my arms.
I told him that it didn't matter, that the war was over,
That they were only thieving Yankee niggers
Who deserved what they got for invading our land.
Nothing that I could do or say could console him.
I sadly watched as he drifted out of my life
On a sullen dark sea of despair.

Jefferson Brown

For years my mind smouldered with bitterness,
Its hot coals glowing with resentment,
Blazing into anger when someone called me "Nigger."
I'd think of the rebel devils who'd killed my boy,
Shooting him in the head as he lay helpless
Begging for mercy in the name of their God too.
But when Mr. Caleb had hired me to help him
Lug his bulky trunk from the train station
To that lonesome little room that he'd just rented,
We both got to talking some.
When I told him of my son's death at Fort Pillow,
His face paled as though he'd just seen the hoodoo
That folks say makes its home in Jackson's Swamp.
His eyes filled with tears, and he lowered his head
And whispered "I'm sorry," as though he were Jesus
Reaching down to take upon himself the blame
For the sins of Forrest and his pack of animals.
After that, every so often I'd step out
Onto my porch to find a sack of groceries
Or a bottle of whiskey set next to my door.
I don't know what brought you to Spoon River,
Mr. Caleb, but your sympathy and kindness
Severed the bonds of hatred that had bound my soul.
May God bless you, and may he wrap you in
The all-forgiving comfort of his love.

What Lies Beyond

Since I believe that there's no God,
No Satan, no heaven, no hellfire.
Since I believe that when we expire
We need fear no judgement rod.
Why do I cling to every breath?
Why do I still fear death?

Haiku

The condemned meth house
Was loved once.  Tulips gaze up
At boarded windows.

Pigeons tend their young
On the roof of the porn shop
Where love is defiled

Daffodil heralds
Raise golden trumpets to sound
A fanfare to Spring.

Gleaming fairy-eyes
The wanton winks of fireflies
Sparking in the night

Family Secret (Three Spoon River Poems)

Tamara Sinfield

Lizzie Borden's trial goaded me into action.
Victims of incest can always read the signs;
Years of suppressed anger suddenly exploding
Into a rebellion of murderous savagery.
Mother, how could you have ignored the evidence?
Your empty bed, my blood and semen-stained sheets,
The embarrassed silence at the breakfast table
All pointed to the sins of a depraved parent;
His lust-filled eyes that could send me to trembling,
His voice, husky with passion, and his touch,
Repulsive as the feel of a tick on one's leg.

Smarter than Lizzie, I bided my time til
I could slip the sleeping potion into their stew.
A candle tipped onto a can of bacon grease
That had "spilled" onto the hardwood floor.

Fire!

I stayed in the  burning house long as I could,
Then burst through the door, my hair singed,
My lungs rebelling against the acrid smoke.
Everyone exclaimed that my escape was a miracle.
Desire too can be an all-absorbing fire,
Yet it's said Hell's flames burn hotter, Father.
If God hasn't forgiven me I've joined you there.

Sarah Sinfield

Daughter, I wish that I'd confided  in you.
Your father was once a good man, loving and kind,
But after I gave birth to you, Doc Meyers said
That another pregnancy would kill me.
Where can a Man of God go when he's denied
His marraige bed?  I couldn't fufill his needs.

Our shame came upon us gradually, like a storm.
First the forbidden thoughts rolled in,
Menacing thunderheads of carnal desire.
No longer could my daughter sit on her father's lap
Without the light patter of sin beginning to fall;
A leer, a lewd remark, an inappropriate touch,
Then comes the thunderclap of betrayal.
That "Sin that dares not whisper its name."
Then followed a downpour of fear, of hurt, of blame.
My faith in God became the umbrella
That I prayed would protect my family from harm.

It didn't.

Put yourself in my shoes though, dearest daughter.
Your father would've lost his reputation,
His pulpit, and we our home had his secret come out.
My only hope was to pray that the storm would pass.

The Reverend Isaac Sinfield

My congregation erected a beautiful tribute;
A weeping angel kneeling over a granite monument.
"Here Lieth a Man of God" it boldly proclaims.
My helpmate is buried next to me, of course.
She who couldn't lay next to me as a wife
Now rests beside me for an eternity.
What delicious irony.
I beseeched the Lord to pluck away
The desire that had taken root in my mind.
Evidently he never listened to my prayers.
Meanwhile, I preached hellfire sermons against lust,
Loudly proclaimed the virtues of the family,
Taught catechism, visited the sick,
Lauded the dead and consoled the living.
Vestments can cover a multitude of sins.
If I would have been allowed to compose
My own epitaph, I would have indulged
My wit with a nod to life's ambiguities.
"Her Lieth a Man of God no longer."
Read into it what you will.

The Mother Tree Trilogy (Three Spoon River Poems)

Rebecca Parsons

My heartsick parents drove their wagon
Into Lewistown to seek a doctor for me;
But it was no use.  I was six months old
When I died of the whooping cough.
Having no money to pay for a proper headstone,
My mother hesitatingly asked the sexton
If she could plant a tree to mark my grave.
The slender sapling took hold.  Eventually
Its roots embraced the rude wooden coffin
That had become my eternal cradle.
My maple whispers to me of the golden sun,
Nurturing rain and rich back soil.
It reassures me when I hear the crack
Of thunder during fierce summer storms.
I can feel my tree stretch toward the sun
As it sprouts its leaves to welcome Spring.
You were so wise, Mother.
How did you know that the tree that you planted
To mark my final resting place
Would become my teacher, protector and friend?

Rachel Parsons

The small sapling that I planted to mark
My daughter's grave was watered
With my tears as I slipped it into the earth.
I tapped the ground around it tenderly,
Pulling it up against the trunk of the little maple
As I would've my daughter's blanket around her.
I prayed that it would take root and grow
To become my baby Rebecca's protector.
Then I had to move on, following my husband
On a trek that had taken us from Buffalo
To this village of now bitter association,
To what we'd dreamed would be a better life
In Texas.  We did prosper,
But I never could conceive another child.
We were wealthy enough at the time of my death
To allow my husband to honor my last wish.
He sent me back here
To be buried near this now majestic red maple,
Close to my daughter.

Betsy Bannister

As the daughter of the sexton
Who'd recorded burials at Oak Hill Cemetery,
I'd heard the story of the young mother,
Never dreaming that it would pertain to me.
Then the gift of the body that I gave in love
Left me with a faithless man's parting gift.
Ashamed of my gullibility, and fearful
Of what my parents would think of me, and how
This town's narrow-minded prudes would react,
I covered my growing shame in loose dresses.
I resented the seed that had been planted in me
Until in the seclusion of a nearby woods
I gave birth to a stillborn little girl.
Sadness overwhelmed me as I gazed down
At her tiny hands, her delicate body, and her face
Wreathed in the innocence of sinless repose.
During those moments I would've given my life
To have given her the opportunity to breathe.
I thought of that other mother of years past
Who always mourned the loss of her daughter
And begged before death to be buried near her.
That evening I slipped out of the house,
Retrieved the sad little bundle that I'd hidden,
And buried her close to the Mother Tree.

I dare not ask to be buried near her.

Melville in Bondage

"Oh, devilish tantalization of the Gods!"
Fayeaway, the sea and the faraway islands
And spice
Still tugged at the man who labored
At the Custom House desk.
The damnable drudgery was just a bone
Of existance
That had been flung his way
By a contemptuous government.
He!
Who should be leading expeditions
Into the impenatrable
Dogma-shrouded jungle of thought
That had grown to mask
The inscrutable Almighty's intent!
Prometheus-bound by import forms
And cargo manifests
While drums in the darkness
Pound the message of his failure.

Passion-fruit and pineapples
Plucked from a South-Sea paradise.
All had to be recorded
Like one's sins in the Book of Life.
"To produce a mighty book
You must choose a mighty theme."
Here he was
Scratching entries onto a cargo ledger,
Shackled to wage-slave monotony,
Enduring serfdom to "free" himself
From dependence on his wife's family's income.
They assure him that this job will help him
To evade the clutch of madness
That had entered his life once
And had wrested his father from him.
It buys him respect and honor
In the eyes of the world
While his lance lays abandoned
In the inkwell in his study.

He'd hurled it in anger
At an image of a great white whale;
Paradise Lost rebellion
Seasoned with the madness of Lear.
"A book broiled in hellfire."
Ishmael, Ahab, Elijah and Rachel;
Old Testament allusions rained
From his pen like a baptism
Exploding from the coat
Of a vigorously shaking dog.
It had just come bounding in
From a cold New England brook
With a stick of diabolical truth
Clamped tightly in its teeth.
"From hell's heart I stab at thee,"
He growled, unwilling to let go
Of his treasure.  "For hate's sake
I spit my last breath at thee."
He'd railed at the world
And at its architect of injustices.

"Talk not to me of blasphemy, Man!"
He again raged angrily,
Feeling landlocked and deskbound.
"I'd strike at the Sun if it insulted me.!"
And an insult it was too
To have to sullenly endure the curses
Of sea captains.

"Hey Melville! Get off your ass
And check us in!
My boys have been round the Horn
To Hell and back!
Now all we want is to be logged off
This floating coffin!
Hustle over here, dammit!"

Yea, to endure a damp, drizzly
November of the soul in this place,
With a world of adventure,
The seven seas and exotic ports
Beckoning just beyond the horizon
Was just too much to bear.
Was his family worth it?
His wife?
His children?

Was anything?

He wrote "NO!" in thunder,
Then shrugged and bent over his ledger.
He had pretty much made up his mind
To be annihilated.

Algorithm

Have you ever noticed
How the amount of shit
That a wife will put up with
Proportionately increases
In relation to the size
Of her husband's paycheck?

Sickos! All of Us!

Confess it!
All of you.
You'd get a vicarious thrill
Out of walking the Jack the Ripper Tour,
Or spending a trepidatious night
In the O.J. murder mansion,
Or the Lizzie Bordon Bed & Breakfast.

And admit it!
I will.
We've all followed newspaper accounts
With a morbid fascination
As a serial killer's tally mounts.

Monster Truck Bitterness

Cousin Hemmy slams into family gatherings
Angrily, snorting like a powerful monster truck
Entering an arena.  On the blunt, menacing hood
Of her face is painted a savage smile,
Like that of a P-52 Tiger Shark
Diving down upon a Japanese Zero.
She growls like a rotweiller through the mud-pit
Of amenities, aggressive as big tires
Ripping ruts into a wet track, Crunching
Conversations into frowns of dismay,
Confrontational as a game of chicken.

Embarrassed, her mother begs her pardon.
"She's just bitter because of her failed marraige."

Yeah, her husband saw himself about to be crushed
And had the sense to get in his car, step on the gas
And get the hell out of her way.  Now here she comes.
Unfufilled dreams hang on her like the acrid fumes
Of deisel fuel, and the battered fenders
Of her psyche mask scars of even deeper pain.
Now she's a malevolent behemoth
Fueled by her early disillusion with love.
Heartbreak's passion has curdled to emnity's sludge.
An emotion that she's far more at ease with.

Writer-in-Residence

He wears his black beret tilted at a jaunty angle
(So the word is whispered among awe-struck freshmen
Aware of his reputation) in homage to Joyce's genius
And his defiance of staid beef and potatoes morality.
Like Joyce, he dines on the ambrosia of literature.
His beard is scissor-trimmed perfect every morning,
Shaped to cultivate a resemblance to Hemingway.
His attire, a heavy woolen sweater, is just casual enough
To suggest an Artist's contempt for the whims of fashion,
And self-absorption that he hopes they'll mistake for genius.

He sits in the faculty lounge stroking his meerschaum pipe
As though poised on the brink of uttering some profiundity
That can compress all the secrets of the universe
Into a concise, pithy microchip of an utterance
As inspired as the poetry that he wrote twenty years ago.
Now he pays lip service to all the popular causes
And publishes learned monographs on obscure authors
Whose work rarely merits his efforts to resurrect them.
He's up for election to become the head of the department.

He's become adept at quashing the enthusiasm
Of naive and over-fervant literature students
With an intimidating arch of an eyebrow,
Or a cruel, cutting sardonic comment
That springs from the academic veldt to attack students
Who dare overstep their place in the college caste system
To extoll the virtues of some high school favorite.

"Indeed.  You're still reading him...I see..."

"I really don't think that her output addresses issues
That are of any concern to today's enlightened readers."

"Hmmm....He's popular enough.  I guess..."

Then he eases back into the plushness of his chair
Behind a low-hanging fog of Borkun-Riff tobacco smoke,
Studying the students through his serpent slits of eyes.
Study him though.  If you watch him long enough
You'll catch him glancing furtively about the room,
Desperately hoping that no one else will ever discern
That his reputation is nothing now but an empty shell
From which that mollusk, Genius, has fled long ago.

On Jailhouse Conversions

Jesus loves me, this I know
'Cause my lawyer tells me so.
This is what he says to me,
"Praise the Lord and cop a plea."
Yes, Jesus loves me,
Yes, Jesus loves me,
Yes, Jesus loves me,
My lawyer says "Say so."

My Vices

I'll cling to my vices,
Thank you.
I hope that my spirit never atrophies
To the point
Where I'd rather spend my time
In a church
Rather than a bar room.

Buonarroti and the Bureaucrats

His guts twisted into a taut knot of frustrated disgust
At human stupidity.  "Sometimes I wonder," he grumbled
To himself, so as not to disturb the two-legged cattle
That plodded dumbly through his studio,
"What demon possessed me to pick up
This God-cursed chisel in the first place.
Jehovah is said to have shaped the universe in six days.
I've spent three years working to wrest an image
Out of this stubborn block of marble."
He paused to use his sleeve to wipe the sweat
From his forehead.  A bitter, thin smile
Creased his face as he consoled himself grimly.
"Of course, it's easier to shape clay
Than it is the unforgiving hardness of stone."

Two young boys were peering in at him, pausing
In mid-play to watch him labor for some moments.
But a sculptor works slowly.
It's as tedious to watch as it is tiring to the artist.
His arms felt as though some strange incantation
Had given their life to the statue
And had turned their sinew to stone.
A soldier's life looked far more exciting.
The boys picked up their wooden swords
And charged off to storm a Venetian breastwork.

Two shepherds straggled into his studio,
Bedraggled fellows who had travelled to Florence
To flee the scent of sheep, to get drunk,
To loose their manhood at "The Carnivale de Amore."
"It looks as big as I was last night," one boasted,
Pointing at the stone penis of the shepherd
Who was beloved of God.
"Bullshit," the other bellowed, poking his companion
A good one in the ribcage.
"It looks a lot more like a horse's cock."
They left in search of more carnal adventure,
Having paid their homage to art.

In swept the mayor with his retinue of sycophants
Following close enough behind him to feel the breeze
When he breaks wind.
"Can't you pick up the pace of this project a bit,
Buonarroti?" he demanded, with that air
Of self-importance that one acquires with an office.
"It would reflect positively on my term as mayor
To have this thing in place before the upcoming election."
As he spoke, his his boot-licking lackeys crooned their chorus
Of agreement.  Michelangelo silenced them with the look
That would someday grace his formidable figure of Moses.

He set his mallet down and reached for his wineskin.
Red liquid trickled down his chin, similar to the rivulets
Of blood that would sometime spring from a cheek
That had been pierced by a small sliver of marble,
Tiny shards that would spring forth to avenge
The assault on their parent stone.
More intruders.  He picked up his maul,
But paused to listen for their reaction.
Two stableboys were swapping rude suggestions
About his figure's slender buttocks.
He restrained his urge to hurl his chisel
In the direction of their laughter.

Earlier this morning a Vatican representative
Had paid him a visit, accompanied
By more disciples than Jesus.
"Just checking to see if your David conforms
To Old Testament details," he wheezed sanctimoniously.
The day before it had been the Florentine Garden Club.
"Flowers live and breathe," its chairman had whined.
"What life can you find in a chunk of rock."
How could he explain to those who would not see
That the rendition of his vision would last ages longer
Than one riotous summer of color.
They were blind to all but their own conception of beauty.

A pompous clearing of a throat "harrumphed" another trial.
Michelangelo turned to face it with his angriest glare.
Now the Department of Transportation had sent him
Two nuisances to try his already departed patience.
They were checking their figures to make certain
That the pedestal that his David would be placed upon
In all his marble majesty, conformed to regulations,
That it wouldn't impede the smooth flow
Of cart traffic, and that it could withstand a collision.
The bald-headed cretin with the double-chin
Was bemoaning the size of the capital outlay.
"It's a lot of money to spend on a rock," he muttered,
Glaring at the artist as if he were to blame.
"A grant from the Medici Foundation's a possibility,"
His aide suggested in a bureaucrat's expressionless monotone.
"Yeah, Lorenzo the Magnificent.  He's a sucker for art projects."
They laughed.  The generous patron was just a cow to be milked,
Another resource to be plundered.

The artist gripped his chisel as though
It was a bureaucrat's neck and struck it hard.
His thoughts were heating to a forge-hot resentment
That his genius could be held hostage by such cloddish
Cliques of literal-minded, regulation-enslaved,
Unimaginative, pot-bellied dolts.
In his mind he became the mighty Samson
As he strained to pull their temple down upon them.

Then he gazed up at his creation
And felt a sudden surge of pride.
Silently, he thanked the God that had given him the mind
That could see the figure imprisoned within the stone
That was begging to be released.
Yes, he guessed that he could put up with the simpletons,
The uncultured rabble and the rude, overbearing bureaucrats
For awhile longer.  He could even forgive
The gaggle of servant girls that had shyly slipped in
To gape at his young warrior's genitals.
Yes, to extract the image of the muscular young David
From that block of discolored stone, was almost
As great a feat as the young shepherd's victory
Over the Philistine giant.
He set down his tools to stare in awe
At the stubborn stone that he'd coaxed to life
With the breath of his creative genius.
Looking at his masterpiece, he had a moment's inkling
Of the exhaustion and pride that God Almighty himself
Must have felt toward the evening of the sixth day.

Let the bureaucrats bask in their petty moments.
He sensed that his name would live on forever.
Long after their names have long been forgotten,
Long after their pious pronouncements
Have ceased to be relevant, and long after
Their vision statements have crumbled into dust.

Winter's Last Patch of Snow

Obstinately resisting Spring
Winter's last patch of snow
Takes refuge under a stand of pines,
Crouching under the boughs
Like a homeless person,
Fearing today that the Sun
Will intrude upon his hiding place
And order him sternly to
"Move along."

Ida Toilwueri

I leafed for my last time through the yellowed envelopes
Adorned by postage stamp visages of dead statesmen.
Familiar faces that now mock me, impudent rebukes
To my once so vivid dreams of immortality.

Seeds of ideas would drift onto the soil of my mind,
Putting down roots into my fertile imagination.
Transplanted into words though, they'd wilt and die.
Images that bloomed in my soul droop lifeless on the page.

My pile of rejection slips grew larger than I'd ever dreamed
My reputation would.  This trunkful of manuscripts remains;
Brittle pressed flowers of visons that seemed to me beautiful,
That I'd nurtured and pruned in my mind until I plucked them.

A bouquet once picked, quickly dies.  Petals fall from stems
And are caught by the wind, fluttering onto the frozen ground,
Or an icy editor's desk.  From there they'll be swept aside,
Often unread, into neat little piles of leaves to be burned.

The grey walls of my mundane existance slowly pressed in
Upon me like the remorseless grip of a tightening vise.
All I'd gleaned from my existance was grey hair, aching bones;
The potter's field beckoning me like a hooded spectre.

The Horatio Alger creed that avers that failure
Can be overcome by dogged persistance is a lie.
Each rejection slip confirmed my worthlessness;
Another manuscript of mine had crawled home to die.

A soul bereft of pride is as ready to be toppled
As a statue of the leader whose regime's been overthrown,
As the fragile house of cards when its base is lightly nudged,
As a castle of sand at the onslaught of high tide.

Each slip hissed its message of failure, as age and despair
Hovered about me like winged demons extending their claws;
Sent by the Prince of Darkness to pull me into his pit,
I'd become ripe fruit for his minions to harvest.

This frail old woman had to finally let go of her dreams.
They've fled the grasp of my arthritic fingers, as do needles now
That I used to thread with such ease.  I guess an old clothesline
Will suffice now to finish the novel that nature had begun.

That bulky trunk, with its Flying Dutchman cargo of ghost
Of penned passion that has blotted stillborn onto paper,
Squats like Satan's black dog at the foot of my bed,
A mute reminder of the failure that has hounded my life.

That trunk could perform a service for me now, though.
I pulled it over to a spot beneath a rafter,
Stepped atop it, slipped a noose around my neck
And leaped
                  To meet whom I hope will be a merciful God.

Performing "Slam" Poetry

Three minutes, huh?  That won't give me much time.
It's not enough time to weave a complex analogy,
It's not enough time to weave an interesting narrative.
It's time for metaphors without direction;
No delving for deeper truths, no paths to knowledge,
But then I'm performing for an audience
With a short attention span, an audience
That's there to hear word-craft being dumbed down.
This is poetry compressed into a few sound bytes,
Into quick, slam-dunk Sports Centre imagery,
Into snide campaign commercial innuendo.
Here style earns more points than substance,
So like "Fed-Ex," you'd better learn to deliver.
Here an "in-your-face" attitude always plays well
With an audience weaned on trash-talking athletes.

I'm a poet, not some goddamned trained seal,
But if you're waiting for me to perform,
Then just toss me the beach ball
And I'll show you what I can do with it.
Maybe I'll perform some crude "put down" sketch
Like this one about a pretentious poet.
Yeah, this one ought to grab this group's attention.

At some of the poetry readings
That I occasionally participate in,
A fortyish woman, with dyed-blonde hair
Introduces herself,
Then adds in a syrupy voice
Dripping with New Age banality,

"My spirit name is "Moon Dancer."

When my turn to read follows hers,
Only my wife's cautionary
"Please don't embarrass me again" look
Prevents me for displaying my contempt
For such saccharine phoniness
By introducing myself,
Then growling in a voice
Drenched in packing house cynicism,

"My spirit name is "Fart Blossom."

Boris & Natasha Learn to Deal With Detente

"Welcome Moose and Squirrel," was hand-painted
In white on a silk sheet, "red" of course,
That was draped to cover a large sign.
Boris' moustache was barbed-wire grey;
Late Joe Stalin, grey as the Siberian sky,
Grey as a concrete prison complex.
Natasha's long hair was a waterfall
Of salt and pepper cascading down her shoulders.

"Ah...Marlboros," she cooed excitedly
As she opened the box that Rocky had given her.
"Real American cigarettes!  Thank you, dahlinks!
And Levis too!  You shouldn't have, Comrades."

"Yes, we're all COMRADES now," Boris intoned
Unctuously as he held the door of his dacha open.
Its plywood panelling looked tacky, but fresh paint
Gave it some color, and mums, a spy's favorite flower,
Nodded their heads from a recently planted garden.

After they were seated, Natasha went to the kitchen
And returned with a sterling silver samovar
Fragrant with the aroma of strong coffee.
Natasha poured Rocky a steaming cup.
While the moose admired the urn's lovely scrollwork
Rocky eyed his cup dubiously, then set it down.

Boris grinned at the squirrel's hesitancy.
"Don't worry," he assured him, "we won't poison you.
I'm a peacenik now.  I'm no longer nogoodnik."
Then in a hurt tone, he added, don't you trust us?"

Rocky still looked at his cup of coffee nervously.
Natasha picked it up and took a sip from it.
"See.  It safe to drink.  I've even kissed it for you."
The leggy Russian held up the samovar proudly.
"A gift from Fearless Leader," she boasted.

"Where is he now?" Rocky wondered.

'He didn't handle detente too well,"
Boris apologized in a sorrowful voice.
"The Politboro finally decided that he was ill.
They shipped him off to a sanitarium. 
The notorious "J" Ward.  He came out diffrent man.
He raises roses now, spoils four cats and owns
A dacha near a resort on the Black Sea."

Rocky gazed about at their bare-bones home,
Cheap panelling and whitewash covered concrete.
The few pieces of furniture looked military functional
Rather than homey.  Boris noticing him eyeing the place,
Spoke quickly.  "Squirrel.  How about trading hats?

It's an old Russian custom," the spy suggested.
Rocky examined the old fedora Boris had handed him
Skeptically. "A gesture of friendship," the spy insisted.
"Glastnost.  Here, I'll even throw in a couple
Order of Lenin medals just to sweeten the pot a bit."

"Well, if it's a gesture of friendship,"
Rocky sighed, looking at the fedora dubiously.
He removed his aviator cap and handed it to the Russian.

"Here,"  Boris said, as he hung a high-tech camera
Around the plucky little squirrel's neck.  "I have no need
For this anymore.  It's my old spy camera."
He looked at it wistfully as he bid it adieu.
"It and I have snuck into a lot of places together."

The conversation turned to which was colder,
Siberia or Frostbite Falls, and to the current
Whereabouts of Captain Peter Peachfuzz.
Rocky had heard that he'd had charge of a tour boat
At Disney's Pirates of the Caribbean attraction,
But that he's lost that job when he'd run his boat aground.
The two ex-spies pledged to return the visit someday.

As squirrel and his moose buddy were leaving,
Natasha smiled sweetly and made a request.
"Would you mind putting on a flying show, Rocky?
Boris and I have always wanted to watch how you do it."
Bullwinkle picked up the game little rodent
In his right hand, ran forward with him, then hurled
Him into the air like a forward pass,
Like Brett Favre throwing a desperate "Hail Mary."

Airborne, Rocky dazzled them with a routine
Of barrel loops and Immelmann turns until,
Exhausted, he levelled out and took in the scene below him.
"Hokey Snoke, Bullwinkle," he gasped in alarm,
"I've been flying over a military base!"

Sirens were blaring and troops were grabbing rifles
And firing shots at the airborne intruder.
A well-aimed round hit the little aviator.  Plummeting
Down, he landed with a "thud," as dead a squirrel
As any you've seen fried by a power transformer.

Bullwinkle stood stunned as he watched angry security
Run up to him and shackle him in handcuffs.  Bewildered,
As the plywood walls were pulled down to reveal
A concrete blockhouse.  When Fearless Leader arrived
He said, "Superb, Badenov.  I liked the Potemkin village bit."

Boris grinned.  "Search the tree rat," he suggested.
"No doubt you'll find pictures of our military base
In that spy camera that you'll see hanging from his neck.
And to think that I trusted him," Boris sighed, padding
The case against them.  "Look.  He even stole my fedora.
You just can't trust anyone," he concluded piously.

"But, but, but,"  the confused  Bullwinkle stammered,
Sounding a lot like Captain Peachfuzz's tiny motorboat.

As the authorities led the squirrel's accomplice,
The shocked and thoroughly befuddled moose, past
A sign that now clearly read ""Military Base,
A No-Fly Zone.  Trespassers will be Shot"
Boris was grinning.  Natasha put her arms around him
And gave him a long, passionate kiss.

"Boris, my love.  You're still a nogoodnik."
Then she smiled suggestively and whispered in his ear.
"One favor, dahlink.  When we go to bed this evening,
Would you mind putting on squirrel's aviator cap?

George Keats

Left England
Seeking opportunity
In America

He settled in Kentucky
Built a flour mill
Built a lumber mill
Amassed a fortune
And built one of the first
Stone dwellings in Louisville

His brother John
Turned his back on
A promising career
As an apothecary
To devote his life
To writing poetry

That didn't sell

He died young

George always considered
John to be
Somewhat of a disappointment

A Portrait in Love's Gallery

Your perfumed vision drifts into my thoughts
Stealthily, like fog's enveloping embrace.
From the ivories of my mind's drawing room
The mellifluous music of desire
Wafts a passionate sonata to my soul.
I drink in your harmonious presence
Hungrily, like parched dry earth soaking up
The welcome moisture of a summer rain.

I respond to you like a plant does to light;
You've given me the impetus to grow.
The bright radiant warmth of your being
Has become the chlorophyll connection
That has coaxed this dull, sullen weed to burst
Its seed of self-absorption, to ascend
From its damp sepulchre of black despair
To dare the blinding bewilderment of love.

If I could paint the ecstacy of life
In love in words, I'd do you a field
Of fragrant clover wet with morning dew,
An emerald carpet of sun-drenched calm
Where rabbits frolic, their fur soft and warm
As your touch.  But my words are lifeless oils
Of inadequacy, doomed never to attain
The passionate eloquence of your kiss.