END GAME

When the chips are down,

when the fuel’s gone,

when the sun has set,

when the planet’s dead,

then the deepest cold

of the universe will claim

the remnants of our planet

for a convenient black hole.

Graffiti on a wall,

weapons so immense

to wipe out Mars as well,

loos’ning bonds of sense,

dogs and gods of war,

rabid presidential men

bent on taking out

all others than themselves.

Is this Eliot’s whimper?

Will it make a noise

when tokens are cashed in?

We won’t be there to see

all this intelligence destroyed

art, music, all the animals,

trees – so will we care?

No, not at all.

WIST YE NOT?

Spring juice has spiked the drinks of the wisteria.

Baby buds betray their deathly origins

and fling forth unexpected blossoms - 

no one would guess that parental branches, 

tangled and conservative with age,

could produce such children

even under the influence of spring.   

This is ridiculous, this riot of new life

flying in the face of entropy. 

Things are supposed to slide 

to chaos and disorder.  

But myriad pathways

of regrowth confront us

as we seek to come to terms

with limits of our lives.  

Spring defies our understanding

driving artists, singers, poets

to seek out ways

beyond the limits of cognition

to describe miraculous events.

And, dear reader, are you implicated

as you listen to or read

this, another poem, about spring?