by Brett Rutherford
What is the point
of freedom
if you do not do
the things
that others frown upon?
Showing posts with label epigrams. Show all posts
Showing posts with label epigrams. Show all posts
Saturday, October 14, 2023
To the War Criminals
by Brett Rutherford
At the end of your path
is the hangman.
He, too, is only
following orders.
Friday, November 11, 2022
Father and Son
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The Titans were a nasty lot. Saturn (Kronos in Greek) always devoured his own offspring to prevent a new generation of gods. A rock was substituted for Zeus, so that the boy could be reared in secret in an oak tree. Later he would attack his father, cutting him open and releasing his brothers and sisters from the Titan's belly.
All of which provoked me to write this little epigram this morning:
FATHER AND SON
Zeus slipped away,
oak-coddled
by his mother Rhea,
taking with acorn-milk
the seed of rebellion.
One day your bloated
belly will be cut,
the never-digested
rocks and Titans
spewn out to make
a whole new Mythos,
somewhat less cruel
and capricious
than the elder
monstrosities.
Saturday, October 8, 2022
Bringing Home the Bacon
by Brett Rutherford
You’re late. Is that dinner?
Put your club by the door.
The child is not home yet,
God knows where’s it’s gone.
Maybe for good this time.
Sit. The broth is ready.
Same as yesterday.
What’s in the sack? Looks
like it’s still moving.
Is
that blood on your mouth?
Wednesday, October 5, 2022
The Why of It
To see the world
from within it,
above and below,
inhabiting each
and all of its beings,
not self-effaced
but self-expanded,
to sort significance
from noise and boredom,
to put aside all pain
for the sake of a thing
made only of words —
Saturday, September 17, 2022
Monday, August 1, 2022
Some Epigrams and Short Poems
by Brett Rutherford
WHAT’S THE USE?
I am the burr
on the foot of God,
the thorn
on his son's temple,
the thirteenth guest
who was turned away
at the Lord's supper.
I warn of Satan,
Caesar, Judas.
No one ever listens.
THE HUNGER
Life is one thing
that eats another
and continues on.
Every tree wants
to devour the sun;
each blade of grass
wishes to be a razor
deterring all tread;
the appetite of shark,
the vampire lust
of the crouching spider,
the tongue-lick
of advancing mold,
your gourmet dinner —
what life is, is what it wills.
DO NOT EXPLAIN
Defend an epigram? Explain it?
I would as soon expound
a sunrise, or good sex.
The epigram, at least,
outlives the other two,
and clings with hooks
to its intended target.
AT THE SPECKLED EGG
Where two had breakfasted
in splendor, one returns.
"Only one," the host sighs,
as he leads you there,
to that special table, front
facing a blank column,
back to the in-out door
of the restrooms. You know
the rest. A sleepy waiter
looks down on you
as though you had six legs
and intended to infest.
Your order comes last,
as tables for four and six
order and finish in time
for their appointed dayjobs.
The pancakes are cold.
The bacon you ordered
and had the waiter repeat
"Bacon?" "Yes, bacon please,"
is nowhere to be seen.
The iced tea was made
some days ago, and when
you send it back, no offer
of other beverage comes.
You pay, and shuffle off
like the insect you are,
the solitary diner
they hid between
a column and a flushing
toilet. Take care
when you wait on a poet!
KNOWING
Knowledge is always
"knowledge of."
Religion,
concerned with things
that are not
and never were,
is not knowledge.
OUTSIDE IN
We have lived to see
the outer planets,
rings, moons, seas and all;
craters in rich detail, poles
North and South, cracks
into hidden water seas,
bust-outs of frozen gas
into their sparse and fatal
atmospheres.
Oh, but with all those comets
ellipsing in and brushing by,
what if there are eyes
and cameras, convex
antennas and radios
reporting back everything
as they graze near
the warm blue world
with its white blanket
of ominous storm-clouds?
What if the outer planets
look back
and are much displeased?
AMERICAN EDUCATION
Out on the playground
it's cowboys and Indians,
Yanks and Confederates,
soldiers and Viet Cong.
A stick suffices.
"Bang! You're dead!"
is all it takes
to score a point,
the victim obliged
to stage a death,
hand to heart
or belly,
death cry of Aaargh!
or No!
limbs shaking, and then
the stone of rigor mortis.
Back in the classroom,
James raises the stick
and tells the teacher,
"Bang! You're dead!"
No problem. This is
the moment of moments
that Mr. Morrison
has been waiting for.
All in a day's work.
Taking his AR-15
from under the desk,
unlocked and loaded
for just such a threat,
he aims and fires.
One to the head.
Two to the heart —
that's just in case,
you know. James falls.
No Aaargh! or gasp
since the boy's head is gone.
Arms and legs twitch
for lack of instruction.
"Gotcha!" says Mr. Morrison.
"Damn! I love
being a teacher."
WHAT’S THE USE?
I am the burr
on the foot of God,
the thorn
on his son's temple,
the thirteenth guest
who was turned away
at the Lord's supper.
I warn of Satan,
Caesar, Judas.
No one ever listens.
THE HUNGER
Life is one thing
that eats another
and continues on.
Every tree wants
to devour the sun;
each blade of grass
wishes to be a razor
deterring all tread;
the appetite of shark,
the vampire lust
of the crouching spider,
the tongue-lick
of advancing mold,
your gourmet dinner —
what life is, is what it wills.
DO NOT EXPLAIN
Defend an epigram? Explain it?
I would as soon expound
a sunrise, or good sex.
The epigram, at least,
outlives the other two,
and clings with hooks
to its intended target.
AT THE SPECKLED EGG
Where two had breakfasted
in splendor, one returns.
"Only one," the host sighs,
as he leads you there,
to that special table, front
facing a blank column,
back to the in-out door
of the restrooms. You know
the rest. A sleepy waiter
looks down on you
as though you had six legs
and intended to infest.
Your order comes last,
as tables for four and six
order and finish in time
for their appointed dayjobs.
The pancakes are cold.
The bacon you ordered
and had the waiter repeat
"Bacon?" "Yes, bacon please,"
is nowhere to be seen.
The iced tea was made
some days ago, and when
you send it back, no offer
of other beverage comes.
You pay, and shuffle off
like the insect you are,
the solitary diner
they hid between
a column and a flushing
toilet. Take care
when you wait on a poet!
KNOWING
Knowledge is always
"knowledge of."
Religion,
concerned with things
that are not
and never were,
is not knowledge.
OUTSIDE IN
We have lived to see
the outer planets,
rings, moons, seas and all;
craters in rich detail, poles
North and South, cracks
into hidden water seas,
bust-outs of frozen gas
into their sparse and fatal
atmospheres.
Oh, but with all those comets
ellipsing in and brushing by,
what if there are eyes
and cameras, convex
antennas and radios
reporting back everything
as they graze near
the warm blue world
with its white blanket
of ominous storm-clouds?
What if the outer planets
look back
and are much displeased?
AMERICAN EDUCATION
Out on the playground
it's cowboys and Indians,
Yanks and Confederates,
soldiers and Viet Cong.
A stick suffices.
"Bang! You're dead!"
is all it takes
to score a point,
the victim obliged
to stage a death,
hand to heart
or belly,
death cry of Aaargh!
or No!
limbs shaking, and then
the stone of rigor mortis.
Back in the classroom,
James raises the stick
and tells the teacher,
"Bang! You're dead!"
No problem. This is
the moment of moments
that Mr. Morrison
has been waiting for.
All in a day's work.
Taking his AR-15
from under the desk,
unlocked and loaded
for just such a threat,
he aims and fires.
One to the head.
Two to the heart —
that's just in case,
you know. James falls.
No Aaargh! or gasp
since the boy's head is gone.
Arms and legs twitch
for lack of instruction.
"Gotcha!" says Mr. Morrison.
"Damn! I love
being a teacher."
EASY WAY OUT
Those who turn to religion
for answers
do not even know
the actual questions.
LATE JULY
It is that time
of year again.
Answer no doorbell.
Turn out your lights
of an early evening.
Park the car elsewhere.
As sure as the bite
of mosquito and gnat,
or the wave
of unwelcome spiders,
a multitude is coming,
car after car, tread
upon tread on the sidewalk;
two buses, even
some will take to reach you.
The menace is green
as seen through peep-hole
or the security cam
and it just keeps on coming
until the first frost
has done its business.
Ring! Ring!
Do not answer it!
If you forget
and swing the door open,
their anthem rings out,
“Hi there!” and “Gifts we bear!”
“Zucchini from our garden!”
WHAT'S LEFT
Just one dead leaf
from an autumn past,
a single lost arrow
from whom
to who knows where,
a solitary quill
some long-dead porcupine
stuck into a would-be
predator,
an epigram in Greek,
returning an insult
or starting a war,
small things adrift
in the dust of planets.
UNDIAGNOSED
According to the then-prevalent
theories of psychiatry/psychology,
I would have been sent away,
and probably lobotomized
for the protection of society,
before I turned sixteen.
I fooled them
by reading their books first.
Chameleon am I,
master of ink blot
and personality test.
They will never get me,
not like the auntie
who drooled and died
in the state asylum,
or the other, a suicide.
I dwell in my madness,
and not alone --
oh, there are others, others!
Those who turn to religion
for answers
do not even know
the actual questions.
LATE JULY
It is that time
of year again.
Answer no doorbell.
Turn out your lights
of an early evening.
Park the car elsewhere.
As sure as the bite
of mosquito and gnat,
or the wave
of unwelcome spiders,
a multitude is coming,
car after car, tread
upon tread on the sidewalk;
two buses, even
some will take to reach you.
The menace is green
as seen through peep-hole
or the security cam
and it just keeps on coming
until the first frost
has done its business.
Ring! Ring!
Do not answer it!
If you forget
and swing the door open,
their anthem rings out,
“Hi there!” and “Gifts we bear!”
“Zucchini from our garden!”
WHAT'S LEFT
Just one dead leaf
from an autumn past,
a single lost arrow
from whom
to who knows where,
a solitary quill
some long-dead porcupine
stuck into a would-be
predator,
an epigram in Greek,
returning an insult
or starting a war,
small things adrift
in the dust of planets.
UNDIAGNOSED
According to the then-prevalent
theories of psychiatry/psychology,
I would have been sent away,
and probably lobotomized
for the protection of society,
before I turned sixteen.
I fooled them
by reading their books first.
Chameleon am I,
master of ink blot
and personality test.
They will never get me,
not like the auntie
who drooled and died
in the state asylum,
or the other, a suicide.
I dwell in my madness,
and not alone --
oh, there are others, others!
WHAT NOT TO SAY
I think I have been
in this bedroom before,
in this bedroom before,
and your cat
knows me.
knows me.
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