That Far South

by Brett Rutherford

A friend writes
that he is moving to Chile
to get away from
you know, everything.

Chile, really? I know
of pine forests
on the Pacific coast,
the last refuge perhaps

for those who yearn
for fjords and streams,
but what of the winds
that tear through
Tierra del Fuego,

unending hurricane
so fierce that trees
grow only in one direction,
flat to the ground;

what of the Mapuche
Indians, untamed
and yearning still
to expel the gringos?

And who knows what
those Santiago
oligarchs are up to
and for whom they'll come
when they get around to you
and your invading kind.

Chile, I think not,
not while the Andes,
razor-sharp, pierce clouds
that scream in agony,
not, and worst of all,

not where, because
so far below
Equator's line
(just check a globe)

everything
is
upside
down!

Elizabethan Tavern

by Brett Rutherford

The sot in the corner
no one felt sorry for,
begged for another
full tankard of ale,

and it was given him.
Hirsute, long-beard
all clotted with grease
and suet, foul mouth

of crenelated teeth,
asmile, he reaches out
arthritic hands
to seize his bounty.

They'll roll him out
into the pissy gutter
just as the hour is cried
when all good men

must to their beds
and proper wives
return. He only
must sleep alone.

Boy actor once
on the Globe stage,
his fame good now
for nothing but

the way he quotes
the Bard in full.
Men close their eyes
to remember

how he had fooled
them all, and made
them swoon amour'd.
"Give drink!" he'd say,

and it was given.
"I, Egypt's Queen
and Juliet was.
Give drink! Give drink!"

He was what was
and shall ever be,
the daisy spring
of beauty.