Justification, or Apology
There is Verse and Worse, the cliche goes
Don’t say, please bring back your prose.
This is a New Year gift and,
I hope, no cause for rift
Between me and you
Sacher Cake in Vienna
Untasted I always equated Sacher Torte
With chocolate surfeit, and Nirvanesque
Whipped-cream-topped coffee of heaven
Strong, and water glass brimful cold
Served by patient unattached waiters in
Parody of Paradise Lost they also serve
To the attic of memory banished old
Desires fade till we nuzzle kakao
The frictional delights of our skins
Burnt to Mocca rapture the smoky taste
Mocking really of any other torte but
After the meal I wake to its loss
Meanwhile the angry traffic snarls
The streets outside and pays homage
Base to that celestial hole ozonic
(heavenliest orifice known to man except
In the stratosphere of my dreams)
Fuming waiting for the lights to change
This then is my ode to joy of life
The myriad facets of it all revealed
In wondrous encounters with the minds
Or spinning bodies in a path ordained
Ignoring what the popular censure shuns
There is but one right choice to make
Some blood was spilt in the wadi
The night the warlord fled.
He left behind joyous slaves, a hundred asses,
Sixty-six horses, forty goats, numerous sheep,
Palaces and princely dwellings,
A jewelled sword, and one grieving wife.
The usurper freed the slaves, watered the asses,
Rode the horses and the concubines,
Princely feasted in the palace,
Presenting the grieving wife the jewelled sword
With which to prove her undying love.
On high wall fragile perched
Breeched, well-shod rotundity.
Smooth-surfaced, bland, white, and searched
The heedless throng for serendipity
Scurrying by, egg-blind and unaware of terminal
Sentiment that raged above their heads.
Gravity caught hold of gravitas
And splattered golden yolk
Among the common folk
An unfulfilled embryo
Dreams of chickenhood dashed
On unforgiving flagstones crashed.
He was a right good egg the princess thought
And she the king besought:
Father, use your divine right
To raise the fallen from their plight,
And restore to me this faithful vassal
So he may abide forever in my castle.
At this the king his men despatched
With steed, buckle and armour all attached
They toiled for hours and hours in vain
To make the noble egg whole again
Failing, they fetched a monk, a Benedictine,
A devout man, a Florentine.
The monk determined the egg was truly dead
And made a dish of it, immortal, instead.