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A cow at market to be sold,
A hen, a harp, a bag of gold,
A wife who tells her husband lies,
A common thief of normal size
Whose blood has a distinctive smell—
My bulk impelled how hard I fell
When he outran my lumbering legs
Who listens while collecting eggs.

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I can’t see, hear, or use my tongue
Because, when I was very young,
I witnessed a horrific scene.
I later met the Acid Queen
Who tried to open up my mind.
But I remained completely blind
To Truth until my mastery
Of Pinball finally set me free.

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I’m up before the day’s begun
And set out earlier than the Sun,
Announcing to the Earth and Air
His imminent arrival there
With dripping tears and rosy fingers.
The brief time that my presence lingers
The world’s enchanted by my light
And celebrates the close of night.

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Down in the lowest, inmost layer,
Neck-deep in ice with my betrayer,
I feed on him that immured me.
Your speech says you’re from Tuscany
So you’ll have heard of Hunger Tower,
But not of my most desperate hour
When, as I chewed my hands in madness,
Starvation overpowered my sadness.

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Unmarried man, beware my bite,
For I am the Screech Owl in the night;
I am the demon devouring souls
Of children, mentioned in the scrolls
That comment on the Pentateuch,
Mother of every monster or spook,
Sucker of blood and seed of life,
Your first father’s first true wife.

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Although we both were old and poor,
When strangers knocked upon our door
We brought them in as welcome guests.
Others denied their meager requests
For lodging, food and drink; but we,
With modest hospitality,
Unknowingly were host to gods
Who spared our goose from desperate odds.

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I met my friend in a wood, at night,
Under a lonely lamppost’s light
Beyond the furry winter coats.
His horns and hooves were like a goat’s,
And he invited me to tea—
It was all very queer to see!
I didn’t stay long or go too far
And sensibly left the door ajar.

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A Scientist in days of yore
Conducted from my upper floor
Experiments on gravitation.
Due to my gentle inclination,
The setting was ideal. But those
Observing would not bend, and chose
To deny the proof in plain sight,
Saying the Philosopher was right.

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Back from beyond the Great Green Sea,
My true parents abandoned me
Before my life force fully formed.
But when the frosty weather warmed,
Preferring me to her own brood,
My foster mother brought me food—
A bastard bird, from whom the shame
Of jilted husbands takes its name.

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Here where I drew my final breath
A shrine commemorates my death,
Where four knights from across the sea
In God’s cathedral murdered me,
As every pious pilgrim knows.
Their rationale, in standard prose,
Is what the reading audience learns
In a verse play by Thomas Stearns.

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Removed from civilization’s cares,
From uptight snobs and straight-laced squares,
We munch on this narcotic tree.
A chronic case of apathy
Comes over us, and we’re so wasted
The moment fruit or flower is tasted
Or smoke of smoldering leaves kicks in
That we’re not sailing home again.

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I woke one day completely changed.
My family wasn’t yet estranged
And begged me to unlock the door.
It took a while to cross the floor
And longer just to turn the knob.
My first concern was for my job,
But now they all pick up the slack
While throwing apples at my back.

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On winter’s eve or summer’s dawn,
The Hunter holds the bowstring drawn,
Ready to let his arrow fly
Straight through the Sacred Bull’s red eye.
Though we are distant, deep and dim,
Eternally evading him,
We seven sisters jointly shine
Along that imaginary line.

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The Master of the Vineyard hired
Us in the morning. Now we’re tired
And hungry, though it’s only noon.
With half the vines still left to prune,
He goes to town and hires more.
Assigning them an easier chore,
He promises to match their pay
With those of us who’ve worked all day.

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Still wet with seaweed, muck and brine,
The Oracle speaks: “Now leave this shrine
With veiled heads and dress unbound,
And cast behind you on the ground
Your mother’s bones.” We can’t profane
Our ancestors—we must explain
This riddle in some other way.
So we throw stones and walk away.

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A giant rhombus floating in the sky above a field of cows. The sky and landscape are full of bright colors.

Till cows come home in old Vermont
The critics’ words will always haunt
Our story of grassroots success
Despite how much our fans obsess
Or how complex our compositions,
Allowing that we’re fine musicians
And each of us can clearly shred…
We’re just a ringer for the Dead.

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I’m well-to-do and well-respected.
I’ve never yet done unexpected
Things or gone on an adventure.
Indeed, I’d be subject to censure
If I should take my daily stroll
Without returning to my hole.
All this explains my sense of warning
At a gray, old man saying, “Good morning!”

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With scythe for sword I ride and reap,
A wandering knight without a keep
Mounted black on a pale horse.
I am the one unstoppable force
To whom both kings and bishops bow.
But don’t despair—the Cards allow
A less macabre interpretation
Of simple change or transformation.

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Not every scientist is mad,
But when they are, they’re always glad
To have me with them on the screen—
And that’s where you’ve most likely seen
My hunched outline in shadows lurk.
I always do the dirty work
And sycophantically assist.
But in the book, I don’t exist.

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Thirty-one pilgrims trek this trail.
We each take turns and tell a tale
To while away the long, slow miles.
The language of the British Isles
Transitions between old and new.
I document with much ado,
In couplets of iambic rhymes,
Daily life in medieval times.

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With bare feet and a tin-pot hat,
I made sure that your cider-vat
For years to come would still be full.
A generous and gentle soul
Anticipating future needs,
From sea-to-sea I planted seeds…
Or so they say—if not, at least
A handful of states in the northeast.

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The Emperor called all his best
Philosophers to try and test
The soundness of my faith with prattle,
But I was victor in that battle,
Convincing several to convert.
He tried to hit me where it hurt
And break my spirit on the Wheel,
Then milked my neck with sharpened steel.

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An illustration in the style of ancient Egyptian art depicts the sky goddess, arching her star-covered blue body over the green-skinned earth god, who reclines below her. Her body is dotted with golden stars and a crescent moon, and she stretches across the sky with her fingertips and toes touching the ground. The earth god gazes up at her with a gentle expression. To the left stands the ibis-headed god of wisdom, holding a staff beneath a radiant sun. To the right is a group of four canopic jars with stylized human and animal heads . A crescent moon hovers in the upper right corner. The entire scene is framed with a geometric border reminiscent of papyrus manuscripts.

Afraid his power will be undone
When Earth and Sky make love, the Sun,
As king of our celestial sphere,
Decrees: on no day of the year
Shall mother sing a birthday tune.
But Wisdom gambles with the Moon
And wins enough of silver rays
To buy five extra golden days.

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I kept upon my gold watch chain
The sovereign coin that once had lain
Close to the heart of a rare woman
Whose shrewd finesse and acumen
Outdid my powers of observation.
Though quite below a queenly station,
She equalled me in sense and wit
When we both played the counterfeit.

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Enticing them with meat and bread
And soft rest on an iron bed,
I welcome weary travelers all.
And if the bed’s too large or small
I stretch or saw accordingly.
Detesting difference, thus I see
My guests and goals to execution
With a one-size-fits-all solution.

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Desiring peace and cooperation,
We signed a treaty with the Nation
But broke it for the love of gold.
Their cause was just; their claim was old;
And at our hands their people died.
Then, being yet unsatisfied
With minted coins and paper bills,
We carved our faces in their hills.

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Five centuries’ discoloration
In landscapes of imagination
Whose line of the horizon lies
Above my neck, behind the eyes,
Where icy mountains fade from view,
With faithful realism, true
To life, in the Old Masters’ style,
I sit with enigmatic smile.

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