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Category Archives: Poems by Alan Reynolds
Tipping Point
The tectonic plates shift unceasingly beneath
the patter of our striving.
True to deeper dictates, the plates merge
motion into directions
each opposing the other—in a slow, mad whirl.
On the surface we chase happiness
as if it existed
in skirmishes won, in profits gained
at anyone’s expense—if we can bend
their wills and means.
What we call parties of politics
mirror the bloodlust shared
by men and rats
blind drunk on dark passion
when it suits them.
Facades of civility long nurtured
erode along a road paved
with short-term everything:
money resounds loudest when flung
after bad.
Climates of creeping entitlement,
promises made when it was easier
than not promising
come due, then overdue,
and are then exposed as shams.
New Himalayas, scaled to fit
our swollen views of self,
raise themselves among us
blocking all possible views of
shared humanity.
The solving of problems, always last
choice among us when empowered,
gain purchase and are then
discarded in orgies of name-calling
for what we dare not name.
Dreams purchased on the never-never
come due, and dilute, then,
into reappraisals
of what survival will entail
as we all buy guns.
The tipping point of a species,
this time our species,
breaks on the edges—
the conflicting, searing edges—
of the churning tectonic plates.
Losing My No-Claim
King Arthur strides the camel lot, his pointy shoes besmirched.
His thoughts had been on Guinevere; my dromedary lurched,
and he, descendant from lost kings, had cannonballed in mire.
His crown, when found, warn’t one to wear—
till hosed off, and cleansed with fire.
Perhaps it were a mite still warm;
my monarch has scorched hair.
No airy heir, no hirsute hare,
no night’s disordered garters
appease my king, who cries he’ll fling
my camel on the dump.
The bishop hastes to intervene:
‘Harrumph, it’s but one hump,’
but Arthur’s mad as when a lad
and Merlin called him Wort.
I’d remonstrate had that a chance,
but should I head him off?
He might then think of ‘Off their heads’—
the court might lose a toff
I’m passing fond of, seen it’s me.
We’ll trot to Coventry,
my dromedary and my cat,
my bagatelle and me,
and wait the king’s displeasure out.
Who knew he wore her heart,
crocheted in silk on where he sat?
I’ll send him Spandex hose
in the hope that they and passing time
will end this morning’s spat.
Taking in the News
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Hitchhiking Nigel Gets Florida Holiday Ride from Psycho Patti
Nigel, thinking full frontal means lobotomy
and wondering should the church oppose free sects,
walks along the highway from Ochopee.
He looks for where the tarred state road connects
to take him down to the Everglades. He sees a wind tee
and guesses where the airport intersects
the flat horizon is where he wants to be.
A Dodge Viper, kicking gravel, disconnects
him from his thoughts, and he looks in to see
a short-shorted, tank-topped driver who erects
her middle finger at him. ‘You mean me?’
he asks. ‘See any other derelicts?’
Psycho Patti pouts. ‘Do you want a ride? It’s hot?’
Her décolletage makes hot, tired Nigel mute.
He jumps into her car before he’s got
a glimpse of the Glock she points to show the route
to the Everglades. She offers him some pot
and things go well until he says, ‘You’re cute.’
Patti’s eyes pop red. She brakes, makes Nigel squat
at gunpoint and duck waddle to the boot
of the Viper and get in. She bangs it shut,
She’s sweating, knows this time she can’t be late!
She races fate to reach her swamp-edge hut.
She wonders how long alligators wait.
Bare Witness
The witness knows the truth he shows
will never make a difference.
The king has set men proven bad
enough by being bought once
to be his congress and his courts.
The witness does not matter.
The proofs he brings are disallowed.
The judges just get madder
at him, not at the crimes against
the nation and the people.
Their verdict is to hang the witness
as an example from the steeple.
The execution day arrives.
The baying mob is festive.
If Truth is honoured anywhere
it’s not this place, suggestive
of Dante’s rings, of auto de fé.
The witness, broken, bitter,
is trundled along in a wooden cart
behind the crazed king’s litter.
It is now, in the books you’ll read,
that the saving angel appears.
It won’t—not here. The witness lives on
only in fairy tales, my dears.
Alive and Kicking
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Blink and You’ll Miss It
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Earth Tourist 