Dragon’s Blood

Long ago, each dragon had its slayer.
The hoarding of gold was always a crime.
Armed with only a sword and a prayer,
The young knight tracked the serpent by its slime.
Some thought the worm slept on his rug of gold,
Never wakening, but like all creatures,
It must eat -- a lady perhaps, not old,
With pleasing form and nice facial features.
Surprised by the knight while guarding its lair,
The dragon, too sated to run, plunges
Forward as the terrified knight lunges.
Its last thought glimmers: "This is not fair."
The bloody sword drips on the knight's fingers.
He licks them. Only the gold smell lingers.

The Headless

A tyrant seeks with tongue or sword to erase

In his conquests every other race

But his own, put defenders to the chase.

He doesn’t have to kill to cut off heads;

He can speak black words of hatred instead.

By doing so, his voice, his anger, bled

Of honor, leaves him only his blunt spear

To throw blindly at what he thinks is fear,

As one by one his soldiers disappear.

The “headless” ones begin to speak of truth

With the insight and energy of youth,

And refuse to accept their headless state:

The tyrant himself, mumbling, “I am great,”

With nothing left beneath his balding pate.

The Thief

The Capitol, a home of belief —

It doesn’t matter which — slowly decays.

The roof beams go first, nothing wooden stays.

Moss paints the stone arches in bas-relief, 

Images of dead and forgotten grief.

We live in roofless rooms with a sly thief,

Who steals, first our parents and eldest friends,

Then our useless youth, which he quickly spends.

Our music and books are replaced with fakes,

Our mirrors with odd faces, double takes.

Though I would not kill the thief if I could,

I defy him — plant flowers, kiss the wind.

I have children I hug; I’ve seldom sinned.

He can’t have my memories, bad or good.

The Dancing Monster

If you dare to tell him he can’t,

The monster starts his dancing rant.

The noise blasts an half-empty House

Where nothing stirs, not even a louse.

His legs lift just so high and pound

And pound the ground like myriad rounds

Aimed to shell the foundations

Of once allied loyal nations.

(He makes of enemies his friends

For obvious and evil ends.)

His confused shrieking grows louder,

Anger eloquent as gun powder.

When dance and rant become one,

The work of dictatorship’s begun.

Pandemonium

Potus, a defeated devil of Pandemonium,
Is lonely tonight for want of a loyal friend:
Anyone, sick or foul, human or fiend,
Even a specter enriched with plutonium.
The lights glare like angry souls at the palace,
And the burning rivers between here and there
Drown out the sweet, anguished tintamarre
Of endless victims of others' so-called malice.
Cold comfort for Potus, who once boasted
The brightest shield and the longest spear,
Who stalked the palace halls without fear,
Now to stand out here, alone and untoasted.
"Curse you all!" he cries, "I don't deserve this!"
But knows there's no leaving Satan's service.

The Rhinoceros

The rhino, armored like a knight,

With two weapons — his sheer tonnage

And the horn sticking from his snout —

Will never hesitate to fight.

The least intrusion sparks his rage.

He’s a bully, a brute, a lout. 

He stalks my back yard foraging

For greens he pulls with toothless gums.

The songbirds, opportunist bums —

Chickadees, titmice, and waxwings —

Blanket his back all day for free,

Though he’s kept bug-less by the bee-

Eaters. I’ve learned to swallow fears.

Each day someone boxes his ears.

Unless, Sonnet #633

Is the word a tautology?

It seems to mean “if less, less.”

Or is it, as in theology,

Tinged, like faith is, with a guess?

What will happen is contingent

On (an unless) what might not be,

Should the past or future invent

Some unclear possibility.

We use the word every day.

Are we afraid to speak the truth,

To even believe what we say

(Old, we say it — less in our youth),

Nor mean to understand unless

We think unknowing to express?