RogerFogelman.com

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(“How long does a road meander down…”)

How long does a road meander down
Through stark monotony
Of varied, varied greenery
Till, tiring of the scenery
Finds a town.

And Time attenuate a life
Launched as an owl in flight
Upon a black and star-burnt night
Till, tiring in the dark delight
Finds a wife.

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(“Shrewd brown woman,…”)

Shrewd brown woman, what are you gathering?
And I fear to approach you, a fear understood
By the small breeze that scuttles in the leaves before you
And the bent asters hobbling away through the wood…

“…I search, for the purse of the long-dreaming poppy
And the tumid sweet apple that startles the bough
With its presence. For the thick streaming dyes
I will twist from the substance of leaves gathered now.

For the spring’s thin smile, that was merry and wise
Has bent to a frown in afe
And a resolute hand turns leaf on leaf
In the fall of a giant page.”

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(“In ancient times…”)

In ancient times, when chill winds blew
And folks for lunch drank reindeer broo
Each passing day the sun held sway for shortening duration
This lessening of lightening
Was generally frightening
And none but durst expect the worst from an overt cessation

As this fact deserved of mention
It was brought to the attention
Of the Magdalenian monarch and his court
Who were most of the opinion
That what passed in their dominion
As consternation, constituted sport?

But the public’s loud bewailance
Finally forced a mild prevailance on the King
Who, at any other season
Would have had sufficient reason
Not to do a thing!

And so, with superstitious rite
They chased away the hasty night
And drove the dread devourer to his lair.
And that the sun, at this request
Resumed its course, should well attest
To all the sure effectiveness of prayer.

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(“What a day this is…”)

What a day this is
The clouds striding across the sky like lions upon a plain
The long manes of the hills rising all along their backs
For God’s sake–Friends I have
And in the swordlike swish of an eyelash
The widest, deepest silks are irredeemable
And individual voices flapping on the wind
I am the milkweed pod, scraped hollow,
Or that which has its home there
Peering from a boat at mooring in the air
To see the silk umbrellas tire and furl
Or tip to tip blow through the middle distances
But those that ever found their way to me
Were doves teetering on a new cote’s edge
Who, having sheathed themselves
Spun out determinate as thistledown
And forced back as much emptiness with their wings
Twirled far, and left to see
Nothing but a pair of trees
Talking into the curve of their branches
Strolling beside the path and going somewhere

I remember pinkfire azaleas

And the dogwood’s floating white

And the warm and slanting sunbeams

of the living Virginia light.

Try to write! And I tried to rise

Still the clogs were on my feet

And the wings of depressed angels

About my downcast eyebrows beat

Sheila came and I not ready

So I lost my happinesses

Mystic moons her twin blue eyes

Amid the cascade of her tresses.

Virginia, speak of me softly then

Your time with me then cherish

I keep with me your memory

Until at last I perish.