STOPOVER (ON THE ROAD TO DAMASCUS)
© Ian Thorpe


She stopped me in a downtown street,
Pushed a tract into my hand
And asked if I would like to meet
The others in her happy band
And follow to the Pentecost

Her eyes shone bright with holy zeal
Her breasts heaved with sincerity
I gave a coin, turned on my heel.
She called out as I walked away,
Saying “I fear your soul is lost.

For you have walked the paths of sin
And set yourself against the light.
The Lord will welcome your return.”
I lingered, we discussed my plight,
Haggling about redemption’s cost.

The room was warm, the wine was strong,
Blue eyes shone bright and pale lips flushed
Soft music played; a lover’s song.
I dawdled where another might have rushed
To where a threshold must be crossed.

Later on my love - worn bed she lay,
All doubts stilled in these serpent arms;
The Holy flame extinguished by
Nature’s urging and a sinner’s charms.
A desert flower watered by lust

Burst into bloom, her colours bright,
Soft body clinging like a vine
Truth she’d denied now was proved right
She understood the great design.
Sweet love had thawed  religious frost

Religion makes war on human truth,
Binds beauty fast in prejudice
But the holy promise carries no proof.
When temptation tastes too sweet to miss
In Aphrodite we must trust.



EAT THE OYSTER
© Ian Thorpe


To the neophyte it can be a daunting challenge 
to unlock the enigma  of the oyster
and taste the secret within. 
Once the knack is learned, eating the Oyster 
will become the sublime pleasure.

First apply light pressure at the point
Where two halves join. See beads of
Released moisture anoint the bearded lips.
Now the shell may be opened.

Prise the halves apart with deft touch
and bow your head to sip liquor
smooth as nacre and tasting 
of mermaids' kisses. Next seperate
the flesh and reach with seeking tongue,
probe slowly as if looking for a pearl. 

Savour with pleasure silken texture,
Enjoy the salt - smacked taste without haste. 
Allow the tongue to linger and explore
the interior of the shell until with a shudder 
of satisfaction the act concludes.

The Oyster is eaten.



THE MUGGERS
© Ian Thorpe


They have me pinned down, 
a cold blade is pressed to my throat,
they are stealing my posessions.
Not money nor gold trinkets,
they want things I value far more.
Laughter will not echo in quiet moments,
They have stolen my humour.
Every day is full of busy emptiness,
No time for treasured solitudes,
They are stealing my sacred hours.
Flowers bloom where I cannot see their colours,
clouds do not linger to play, making
stange faces as they morph through space.
I think they are stealing my power to see.
No more beautiful women excite passion,
nor do good wines make me drunk,
I smell fresh bread, my mouth does not tingle.
Can they be stealing my senses ?
Every day is filled with forms, regulations,
Bank Statements, rules, laws and appointments.
No time to think, explore, enjoy,
no more precious hours waiting for me.
Are they stealing my life ?



AFTER YOU
© Ian Thorpe


A Hedonist's Accusation of the Self Righteous.

After you 
have found the holy grail 
and proved your rightful claim to it, 
after you 
have saved the whales 
and other endangered species 
protected 
your conscience, ignoring
the weak who reach out  for help,
After you 
ride like Arthur 
through  armies of injustice, 
your smug 
Excalibur piercing  
illiberal hearts and closed minds
to liberate 
each minority 
that did not seek a saviour
but only
the right to speak
for itself where you presumed
to speak for
everybody, never listening, 
dictating which
thoughts and ideas
are proscribed, which voices silenced, 
after you 
have said a prayer 
for each child who was not fed 
bitter bread 
baked by your 
caring liberal charity 
but had to starve 
on crumbs dropped from
your table of conspicuous consumption 
while you
regretted your 
inability to conjure with bread and fishes, 
after you 
have washed your guilt
in sterile words that disinfect no wounds
and cannot heal tumors
of greed that consume humanity, 
after you 
have slain the serpent 
in your belly, reached into the wound and held up 
its twitching body 
so all can see the purgation of
your failures 
will the world then 
be a better place for those who must come after you? 

 

SEND BACK THE STATUE OF LIBERTY 
© Jim Dunlap


Democracy lets us think for ourselves,
Or so the pundits tell us.
Really, though, we mostly just think
Whatever the Prez might sell us.

The French dared disagree with Bush.
What a heinous thing to do –
How might he "punish" them though?.
What could be his follow through?

Conservatives want to change the name
From French to Freedom fries –
Now there's a potent statement
That will cut them down to size.

Two thirds of English is actually French,
But I think we simply must root it all out.
We'll let the whole world see 
What WE're really all about.

I think that Conservatives do have a point.
The French truly should be chastised.
They've no right to disagree with us,
Intolerance should surely be prized.

That French statue can't represent us.
Let's replace it and let the world see
True compassionate conservatism:
Let's erect a statue to bigotry.



LAMENT FOR A SOLDIER
© Jim Dunlap


A soldier in the trenches,
Like a lobster in the pot --
Though it be his finest hour --
May 'Quayle' to face his lot.

And though some are more than happy
To go off to fight alone,
Many more still fear the conflict --
Fear to fill a grave...unknown.

Though he hears dire duty calling
Him to serve so far from home,
Yet he won't regret this absence
If his sweetie doesn't roam.

He feels she'll be there waiting
When the long war's done at last,
And he hopes that all that hating
Will forevermore be past.

In the meantime, let's remember
That this valiant young man's voice
Has not always been consulted --
He's not always there by choice.


TUCUMCARI LIT. REVIEW, Nov./Dec., 1992, issue # 38



HUBRIS AND HAMARTIA
© Jim Dunlap


Nearly every human being shares
The approximate same human form.
Trunk, legs, arms and head
Seem the basic,  accepted norm.

Eyes, nose, mouth and working brain
Are common attributes of most.
Yet constant search for differences
Allows the small of mind to boast.

Onerous and unfortunate,
It's  no credit to our race –
No one's worth is circumscribed
By flag, foreskin, or face.

We're wolves pretending to be dogs,
Yet carnivorous impulses reign –
It would help, if we'd only endeavor
To engender less grief and less pain.

In truth, we can't escape the facts:
Reality's cold lights illumine
Our shared denominator –
We're no more, nor less, than human.

   

WORKINGMAN'S BLUES (for Fred Roland)
© Jim Dunlap


The boss just called to tell me
That I had lost my job --
Not so!  I know right where it is.
They've just hired some poor slob

To fill the chair I used to fill
Most loyally each day...
While I'll be reading want ads
While some clown collects my pay.