Five Poems

Anno Trumpus

Dear God, you know how you have this way of not granting prayers
That are delivered by fervent words
And imploring cries,
With tearful eyes
And fretful fire?—
But you do have a way
Of making true
Those thoughts that speak
To shameful, meek and
Hastily withdrawn desires?—
Well, I must request I be permitted to formally retract
Any lark, thought, wish, fantasy, or act
That may, however fleetingly,
However lyingly, have implied
That the country should go to hell just
To enjoy the ride
Please this one time don’t make
That one come true
Make that job offer or marriage proposal instead
Fall through


—

I know for a fact I am no good
When I see the police cars outside the neighbor’s house
Of whom there were rumors
 – Hooking, dealing – and other portentous gerunds
And through me passes a little chill, a frisson
Of smacking Schadenfreude
And I cluck “Oh dear, what a shame, what a shame.”
And the neighbors bleat, “BAH-Ah-Ah -- It’s sad, really.”
Oh yes, yes, MEH-Eh-Eh-Eh
That’s how I know I am a fraud, and a fake
And at the judgment of the nations, by unanimous vote
I’ll be doing my bleating with the goats

—

I am tired of the persistent consignment of boredom
To the ranks of the trivial emotions
Boredom is a serious thing, it is
A kind of pain, and one that’s keen
It smells of parking lots and gasoline
It fills one’s nostrils, a
Memento mori
Saying, this is what you have of life,
I’m sorry.

—

When it happened it
Was like a pair of scissors that
One wide snip made
Along my torso, length-wise
So that inside I didn’t
Touch anymore and I
Don’t mean to go around complaining
It’s just that
I was such a novice at
Happiness, I am a beginner and
It seems a shame, like Blake
Said, to snip
Flowers on the make
Or mend
And have it torn again

--

People seem to like that stuff

Poems about fens, nature,

Sex, and trees; it

Never did a thing for me

            What a relief that they kept from me

Everything that was really interesting

So that when I found it I’d know,

            It was mine for keeps