August, or Walking Through the Field Before Work

Light in August is too playful
To sit, dust-crusted, on a shelf.

Balmy, pink glaze between trees, not
The holy darkness Faulkner saw.

Longish shadows portend autumn,
But clenched humidity lingers.

It adds up to the need to go
Walking through the field before work.

Musky August light hits snakeroot,
Joe-pye, and rabbit tobacco.
Chickadees wheeze, partridge-peas tease
Bees, goldenrod, and ironweed.
Deer rise, turkeys take affront at
Tangled steps through dewy grasses
When that same soft light casts my frame
Walking through the field before work.

Image: Walking through the field before work, Chattanooga, Tenn., August 2018.

Classics Revisited: Literary Limericks

East of Eden
When your father has dubious means,
And you’re not too sure of your own genes,
Your mom is a witch,
And you’re a snitch,
You can’t buy anyone’s love with beans.

Pride and Prejudice
Hearing the truth quite often hurts one,
But ignorance is even less fun.
Darcy and Bennett
Might take a minute
To figure out just who they should shun.

The Brothers Karamazov
Fyodor Pavlovich was some kind of a jerk.
His three (or four?) sons each a unique piece of work.
Grushenka lived loud.
Katya was proud.
Priests rot, but in the loud dark, both death and hope lurk.

The Power and the Glory
Everyone’s sin is a nonstarter.
Church on the lam; wine on barter.
You shouldn’t get drunk
When you’re the lone monk,
For conscience will make you a martyr.

Les Misérables
Said Hugo, “No one can write bluer,
But ev’ry injustice I’ll skewer.
Valjean’s the hero;
All others zero.
Wait! I forgot about the sewer.”

Ebcosette

Image credit: Émile Bayard engraving for 1886 edition of Les Misérables. Public Domain.

Canticum Vitae

By what mystery does a man become alive?
With whose grace and power does his heart drum “alive”?

Strive. Flail. Drive. Rail. Keep afloat amid the wreckage.
Not one day can we add to keep the sum alive.

Sin and sorrow; today, tomorrow, tear and burn
Thought, sinew, bone, barely leaving some alive.

Love and mercy, justice, thanks and praise demanded
To be real, not a burdened, sallow bum alive.

Out of hope, out of joy, out of peace, out of strength;
A soul cannot remain on but a crumb alive.

Dare he remove the shroud, nameless horror beheld?
Stare it down, be still found with those who come alive?

Despair never keeps him who dies to be reborn.
Death’s defeater knows who to wrest you from alive.