by David Roderick

The gov's cruel gruel.

I stood before the poetry tree,
Drinking mere cups of tea.
I stood before the idle door,
I stood before wanting more.
I knocked, and found the solid ground:
I did not want to be so found.

I live here; I shall remain.
I shan’t leave that I may gain.
Commendations from the gov,
Smiling though he be a dove.

A nonsense ditty, idle muse.
Be as though it be a ruse.
This means nothing, that is clear.
Clear as though I shall appear,
To be above the holy one:
Life anew has not begun.

I write these daily. That’s a fact:
As though it be a devil’s pact.
The moon shall wane -– what does this mean?
What can mere poems glean?

A cup of wine. The cup of men.
The noble chalice. Dale and glen.
The bread of life. The staff of truth.
Where is the mercy, and your ruth?
Why, oh why? The noble cost.
The earthen mantle, and bread’s crust.
The whole entire of the moon.
The gravity of ancient runes.
The kangaroo in the park.
That is very plain and stark.
The plane that flies unto the far.
The bestowed place. Our angel’s star.
The pit where I no longer dwell.
Dale and mountain. Fen and fell.
The felon man fell from a tree,
Mortified by liberty.
The smooth gruel soup of prison riot.
The cruel harsh winters of the fiats.
Let me go. That is plain.
Codicil to trenchant same.
Lame mute lions in the park.
Lame mute heathens in the dark.