BELSHAZZAR AND ANTIGONE
AND OTHER POEMS
By G. E. KRUCKEBERG
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2012 by G. E. Kruckeberg
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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FOREWORD
There
are many reasons why
People poetry might write
(And many things
they could do worse
Than pen a line or two of verse).
Some
write poems to make you cry,
Some to make a lover sigh,
Some
for money, fame, or pity,
And some to ease indignity.
Some
write poems to make you sad;
Others write to make you mad.
Some
write to make you laugh or blush,
But most write poems because
they must.
Rhyme and meter might enthrall
Those who read his
doggerel,
But to the poet, poetry's
A method of discovery.
Poetry's
a private thing,
And its writing often brings
A new perspective
that will help
The poet understand himself.
Yet no emotion is
unique,
And poems oft to all bespeak
The thread of
commonality
That binds us in humanity.
Let
me therefore offer you
And your progeny a few
Lines of poetry
that I've penned
(And that I highly recommend)
In hopes that
they'll give you at least
As much as I hope they'll give me.
For,
though I wrote them for myself,
I've always hoped that they might
sell.
APPOLOGY
Should
my habit of reiterating cogent points offend,
Or if you think too
often I repeat a common verity,
These three maxims to your
consideration I commend:
Redundancy is the soul of
clarity,
Redundancy is the soul of clarity,
And redundancy is
the soul of clarity.
This book is dedicated to:
ANNIE
My
wife’s a perfect lady – lovely as she can be.
I’ll never
understand just what she sees in me.
I know you’ll think I’m
crazy; I know this sounds absurd,
But I’m married to the most
beautiful woman in the world.
She’s
every inch a woman; she’s very much a child.
She’s everything
I need to make my world all right.
She’s all I’ve ever wanted
and more than I deserve.
I’m married to the most beautiful woman
in the world.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Belshazzar
and Antigone,
Two neighborhood felines,
Upon our garden fence
did meet
One evening just at nine.
They soon were busily
discussing
Feline world affairs,
And from my window up above
I
heard them talking there.
"I
wish I were an inside pet,"
Antigone meowed.
"I'd
never more be cold or wet,
And I would be allowed
To play with
pencils on the desk
Or sleep upon the bed,
And when I wanted
to, I'd let
My mistress scratch my head."
"You
ought not wish for things like that,"
Belshazzar then
advised.
"Remember that being a cat
Means being
satisfied.
For what is is; what's not is not,
And you should
never fret
About the life you haven't got,
'Cause life is what
you get."
"At
least I'm not a dog like that,"
Antigone then said.
She
nodded at our schnauzer napping
In my flower bed.
"How
such a stupid animal
Could be a man's best friend
I'll never
understand at all."
Belshazzar said, "Amen!"
"Dogs
just don't know the secrets of
Success," Belshazzar
said,
"Like never blink, and never bluff,
And never
hesitate.
One must learn, if he would succeed,
The first law of
the cat:
'If anything attacks, retreat;
If it retreats,
attack.'"
Antigone
scratched at a flea
And said, "Not long ago
I chased a
butterfly retreating
Through an open window.
I felt like such a
fool, although
I landed on my feet."
"Well that was
then and this is now,"
Belshazzar said. "Let's eat."
"Montoni's
garbage can is near,
And so is Wong's," he purred.
"Italian
or Chinese, my dear?
They're both quite good, I've
heard."
Antigone said, "This is why
I like being a
cat:
We never ask too much of life,
And so we never lack."
Then,
in a wink, they both were gone
Across the garden shed,
And in
my room I pondered long
Upon the things they'd said.
I've
learned to handle joy and strife
From winsome scamps like
that,
And much of what I know of life
I learned from watching
cats.
CATS
Cats have personalities
(Or
personal idiosyncrasies):
Some are mellow and some are mean,
But
all of them are neat and clean;
Some are solemn and some are
gay,
But they all like to sleep all day;
And whether outside or
inside,
They all prefer to roam at night.
Their differences, it
seems, are less
Significant than their sameness.
They can be
yellow, white, or black,
But every one of them's a cat.
People
are a lot like cats
(Though some might disagree with
that):
Whether timid or masterly,
They all respond to
flattery;
And some love once, some many times,
But each one
loves one at a time;
They can be peasants, priests, or kings
But
they all laugh at the same things.
The similarities, I guess,
By
far outweigh the differences.
Whether we're yellow, white, or
tan,
Every one of us is a man.
TWO DOGS
Two dogs one day were
walking
When in the park they met,
And they soon fell to
talking
About their human pets.
"My people sure are odd,"
said one,
"Till ten last night they sat
And just stared at
television.
Why, they're dumber than the cat."
"That's
nothing," said the other,
"My humans stand around
And
bark at one another
Like crazy Basset Hounds.
Or else they sit
for hours and look,
Like some half-witted pup,
At something
that they call a book.
But don’t ever chew one up!"
"What
gets me," said the first one,
"Is how they're never
there.
They jump in their Suburban
And drive away
somewhere.
And when they finally do get back,
They don't have
time to hear
About the day that I have had,
Or to scratch
behind my ears."
"Most
humans seem enamored,"
The second dog observed,
"With
horribly bad manners,
If that's the proper word.
They conduct
themselves so crudely
It almost makes you blush,
And they treat
us so rudely
One would think that they owned us."
"My
humans lose their temper,"
The first dog said anon.
"You'd
think they had distemper,
The way they carry on.
Sometimes they
snap and growl like Chows
And yap like Pekinese.
And if I chew
inside the house,
They will even snap at me."
"Yes,
humans sure are funny,"
The second dog opined.
"There's
something they call money
They're after all the time.
It isn't
good to eat, of course;
I know, 'cause once I tried.
I don't
know what it's good for,
But it keeps them satisfied."
"Well,
it's been very pleasant,"
The second dog then said,
"But
I must leave at present;
That's my house up ahead."
The
first dog said, "I've much enjoyed
Our pleasant little
talk,
And 'though with humans you're annoyed,
Just be glad that
you're a dog."
BIRDS
Birds are the epitome
Of
freedom, and like poetry,
They sore above the spoil and strife
Of
our earth-trammeled prison.
They live in the unbounded sky
Between
the earth and heaven.
Thus
we say, "free as a bird."
From childhood on that phrase
we've heard.
And birds are
free - to be destroyed
By cats and cars and red hawks,
And
free to be shot at by boys
With beebee guns and slingshots.
Could
it be that being free
Is not all it's cracked up to be?
Do not
birds kept in a cage
Live longer than their brothers?
(But do
they thus improve the race
Or livelihood of others?)
Freedom
is not won by chance
But by eternal vigilance,
And each life
lived in freedom makes
A stronger, better breed,
For we're as
free to make mistakes
As we are to succeed.
Birds
display great staying power -
Descendants of the dinosaurs,
They
show us freedom isn't cheap,
But that it has no rival.
It's
cost: responsibility;
It's benefit: survival.
CLOUDS
The clouds are paper
cutouts
Pasted immovably
Upon the dim horizon out
Beyond a
painted sea.
Clouds like a backdrop on a stage
Without a play
we see -
Clouds without time or end or age -
A glimpse of
eternity.
Clouds
are cameos upon
A sky of Wedgwood blue,
Depicting gargoyles,
gyrfalcons,
And handsome ladies, too.
Their shifting images
inspire
Diligence and patience,
For they ignite the vibrant
fire
Of our imaginations.
The
clouds are fairy castles
Reaching up to the sky;
From their
marble towers tasseled
And wispy banners fly.
But they snow
upon the mountains
And shower upon the plain,
And their columns
rise in fountains
That can turn to hail the rain.
The
steel-wool clouds are fashioned
Like valkyries of old,
And
their woolen robes are fastened
By slender lightening bolts.
With
the voice of Thor behind them
They stride across the land,
Taking
all who would defy them
To Valhalla's misty strand.
A
flock of dirty gray sheep
Driven by urgent gusts,
A slowly
moving pirate fleet
With sails of cumulus,
Angels, demons, and
manatees -
All sculpted by the wind.
Clouds are whate'er in
them we see;
They're a mirror of the mind.
THE WIND
It's still as death, and stirs
not a breath
In the hour before the dawn;
Then the stars depart
and the west wind starts,
To her lover, Phoebus, drawn.
And the
first faint breeze in the live oak trees
In a husky whisper
speaks
Of love that's lost and of bridges crossed
And of things
that ne'er will be.
The
wind is soft as a lover's touch
When she's steady in her
course,
But she's loud and wild as a restless child
When she's
blowing from the north.
Then her cry is spiced with the sting of
ice,
And she numbs the naked cheek
And molds the snow into
smooth windrows
Over road and fence and creek.
She
brings the rain and the hurricane
When she's blowing from the
south,
And her voice is keen as a woman's scream
As she howls
around the house.
But the leaden sky and the clouds piled
high
Make the blood course through your veins,
And gusting air
in your dancing hair
Makes you feel alive again.
When
day is done and the fading sun
Sets the western sky ablaze,
Then
the night wind creeps from the purple east
To caress her lover's
face.
And as we reflect and resurrect
All the day's defeats and
sorrows,
Her calming breath murmurs promises
Of a better day
tomorrow.
SUNRISES AND SUNSETS
A sunset is a splendid
thing;
On the inverted bowl
Of heaven, brash Apollo flings
His
evanescent coals.
But finer is the blush that springs
Pale
Venus to enfold,
And sunrises are better for the soul.
A
sunset poets may inspire
Its beauty to extol;
Their words
vicariously aspire
To gild its liquid gold.
But it's far better
to admire
A sunrise than a scroll,
And sunrises are better for
your soul.
The
world with endings is concerned
Too often, on the whole;
In
each beginning we discern
An ending as its goal.
Yet endings
even sundown spurns,
For sunrise is its foal.
And sunrises are
better for the soul.
CARPE DIEM
Now in the roseate East
Bright
Lucifer proceeds
Apollo's fiery steeds
To Heaven,
And men of
toil arise
To pain and compromise
And hate that blinds the
eyes
Of reason.
And
women comb their hair
And don their cloaks of care
And pray
God's aid in their
Endeavors,
While children rise to play,
All
unaware that they
Alone will seize this day
Forever.
SEA MOODS
The sea like a woman
beckons;
Her arms are the roiling foam,
And the swell of her
heaving bosom
Has lured many a man from his home.
She's a
beauty to behold,
But the depths of her soul are cold.
The
sea is a woman angered,
Hurling herself on the land,
And
lashing with fury untrammeled
The pretentious inventions of
man.
With the lightning in her hair,
She's a hellion of beauty
rare.
The
sea is a brazen harlot,
In a gown of sea haze spun,
And her
diamond studded tiara
Is ablaze in the afternoon sun.
She's a
lovely thing to see,
But her favors are far from free.
The
sea is a gracious mistress
Wrapped in the robes of the night,
And
the moon on her raven tresses
Glistens silver and amber and
white.
She's as gentle as a child,
But her heart is restless
and wild.
The
sea is a wanton lover,
But the whisper of her breath
On your
hot cheek as you embrace her
Has the haunting aroma of death.
For
it's equal to the sea
Whether she grave or lover be.
SPRING
The ice is gone
from the
lake, and on
The island in its center,
A loan, white patch
on
the parchment grass
Is the last vestige of winter.
And black
and thick
as the river Styx,
Is the water at the
shoreline,
With golden specks in
its murky depths,
That
reflect the morning sunshine,
The
sky's blue bisque,
and the morning mist
The trees from earth
dismember.
The old pine tree
lost its top, I see,
In the
sleet storm last December.
The sound of geese
on the warming
breeze
Whets our anticipation,
And crocuses
are preparing
buds
For their sudden celebration.