We like to think

 We like to think

we’ve got things sorted out.

Most major problems lie in logic bound.

Our world makes sense. All is ruled by laws

which in the main our boys by now have found.

 

Technology does buy security.

Time we keep in check with solar clocks.

We’ve universal life against gross chance,

on every door forged patent deadbolt locks.

 

These are, we think, fair guarantees.

Sufficient grams of fiber neutralize

the crab. We’ll not catch death. The car’s foolproof.

The kids look straight. Church holds no surprise.

 

All of this, and more, we like to think–

and better yet, to unthink what we know:

that things won’t keep’s the only absolute,

and thinking otherwise won’t make it so.

 

Reality remains a potent brute,

uncircumcised, unused to subtle tactic.

What will he do, when he unzips, to find

he’s stoppered with our high-tech prophylactic?

 

 

 

10. Jan. 80

Ways of Being

 

I.          Turtles

live

where you would expect

turtles

to live:

beneath

slow bubbles

and patchy surfaces.

 

Turtles

have always

lived that way.

They prefer it.

 

The breakneck heron however

on excited southwind days

goes stilting along

across the waves

and far away.

 

Where herons stop

turtles brink

in the sun

and blink.

 

 

II.         Serene

beneath his

leafy parasol

the rough husked

musk melon

ripens

thinking

round

thoughts.

 

            Chuck Merrill

            (revised) 10.Mar.05

 

 

 

 

 

Voice of God

Voice of God

 

God I think

featured in my dreams last night.

               

Hearken  unto me

I heard

as it seemed in tones

of curiously accented thunder

                I am the Lord.

                Lo I made all this

                All fishes flying things

                Flowers and fruits

                All things living or still

                All you perceive and more besides

                Likewise did I make you

                Little man

                And all your kind

                In my own image truly

                Were you cast

                Yea all this I wrought

                World and man

                Each for the other

 

                Look you now

                What have you done

                With yourselves

                And all my fair creation?

                Be this my glorification?

                Why do you persist

                In disharmony

                Contention

                And misery?

 

Ah Lord Yahveh

I gulped

You have a point

And we have much

to shame us sorely.

Still

You invite a question

if I may:

Since indeed

Creation is yours

Whyowhy

did you make us humans

so outwardly alike

only to confound one and all

with myriad unlike

tongues beliefs and ways?

 

                Why invoke you Yahveh

Came soon the rumble.

                My name is B’abel.

 

                                Chuck Merrill 

 Aug 98/Feb 04/Mar05/April 08

 

History of Religion

History of Religion

 

In the beginning

            time had no measure.

            There were no gods.

            Nor yet had apes come down

            to press their toes into the mud.

 

Then came a day

            when man stood up

            and went abroad.

 

Then was the world no longer womb.

            Among plenteous plants

            and endless beasts,

            man found himself

and knew he was small and few.

 

And lo, there were gods in the earth,

            gods beyond number,

governing all and each.

            And as the need was great,

            so was there all about

            a great communing.

 

But man desired more.

            Through pain and loss he learned

device and artifice:

to lengthen the arm beyond its span,

to muscle the hand to wrest and burst,

to amplify voice and sharpen the eye.

 

In time his seed spread across the land.

 

And as forests thinned

            and species dwindled,

            the gods of manyness

            found themselves retired

            to restive homes

            in ever higher places.

 

Or, supernova-like, they

            collapsed in upon themselves,

            and fell together,

            a distant, brooding, dwarf

            inscrutable One,

scarce seen or heard again.

 

                        Chuck Merrill

                        Nov. 85/2.Mar.08

The Second Coming

The Second Coming

 

 

He came in

looked around

as he took off his coat

hung it on a chair

said why

are you sitting here

sad like this

what is the matter

don’t you know

it is written

he will return

at least once

one day?

 

Why we replied

you just did.

 

Oh dear

he said

fingered

his collar button

which came off

rolled into

the middle of the room

round and round

in narrowing

circles. 

 

                        Chuck Merrill

                        (revised)10.Mar.05

The Seasons

   The Seasons

 

Spring: blossoms

            In a sudden burst,

                        effortless perfections

                        beyond accounting

                        perfuse the air.

 

Autumn: woodsmoke

            Sharp flavors,

                        exact balance of

                        bite and balm,

                        prickle the nose.

 

Summer: fireflies

            Aswarm in the night,

                        tiny lanterns strive

                        to light the way

                        home from work.

 

Winter: snowflakes

            Springing from nowhere,

                        splashes of ice

                        scrub the face,

                        quicken the heart.

 

While time is, every season

            yields unique glories

            to delight the sense,

soothe the spirit.

 

All these, intact and whole,

come forth for you as well.

            Only let pass the useless

                        ghosts of the mind:

            be not unquiet

                        and all is free.

 

                        Chuck Merrill

                        6.Jan.04/10.Mar.05/11.Mar.08

Talkin’ Cliches Blues

Talkin’ Cliches Blues

  

1. Well, the chicken crossed the road

And he made it, all right—

But at the end of the tunnel,

Did he really see a light?

1. Does it matter, I wonder,

About lights in the tunnel:

Did we have a lot of choice

When we were jammed down the funnel?

1. At the other end,

When that time hit,

Did we see a smiling face

Or get dumped in the shit?

1. Sure, you think this stuff’s crazy—

But you oughta take a look

At the stuff in the world

That’s not in any book.

1. There’re things out there

That you wouldn’t believe,

And a good part of ‘em

Makes you cry and grieve.

1. It’s generally agreed

That life’s a big crap-shoot:

If you don’t get good odds,

The table-boss don’t give a hoot.

1. Does it get any better,

As your life continues,

Or does the craziness go on,

Just in new and different venues?

1. To these really big questions

I don’t have a solution:

Things will come as they will—

Just go on with resolution.

1. On life’s interstate,

Good traffic cops are rare;

When you have a breakdown,

Hope for someone who’ll share.

1. As for me, thus far,

It’s been a pretty good run:

Had a lot of stress and strain—

But in between, damned good fun.

1. What has made, all in all,

All the difference in my life,

Is the luck that I had

When you chose to be my wife.

1. You’ve been the best part of me

For more years than I’d have guessed;

And so long as we’re together,

I can handle all the rest.

The Scholar

The Scholar

 

 

Scarcely a tragic figure he

            in whom unleashed

            the hound of mind

            hunts down unknowing

            in its lair.

 

Yet somehow

it is too bad

about him.

 

For in the name

            of some thing holy

            or just ephemeral

            devotion to a butterfly

            pursuit of perfect circles

            he overlooks to love

            the crass context itself

            to which his monarch turns

            when his time comes

            to make the circle squared.

 

                        Chuck Merrill

                        10.Mar.05

On the Eve of John’s Retirement

On the Eve of John’s Retirement

A little “rap”

 

So: you’re gonna quit work,

You’re gonna retire,

Make room at the plant

For a brand new hire.

 

You filed your reports,

                Your desk is all straight.

You’ve said, “See you later!”

                And you’re feelin’ great!

 

Enough of all this!

                You’ve just had your fill

Right up to the ears

                Of that old company swill.

 

Getting’ up at all hours,

                That’s for the birds—

Told ‘em, “you can keep that!”

                And some other choice words.

 

Got your pencils collected,

                Some Post-Its also,

A stapler and such—

                Who’ll ever know?

 

Paper clips and some stamps,

                You can use them at home—

Shoot, they’re good to have

                Wherever you roam!

 

An’ a couple of diskettes

                With your Playboy pix—

No sense leavin’ them here

                For this bunch of hicks.

 

And your family photos

                In the fold-out frame—

Although…on the back of the dresser,

                They won’t look quite the same…

 

Gosh, in this little old box,

                You got all your own stuff.

After all of these years,

                Doesn’t hardly seem enough.

 

Well, no matter now,

                Too late for that.

Where’s that cardigan sweater,

                And your old extra hat?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Look around one more time,

                Heave a heartfelt sigh—

Then on to the door

                With a final good-bye.

 

Did they throw a thank-you party,

                With a nice new gold watch?

-Or a trip to Cancun—

                even a fifth of cheap scotch?

 

Well, of course they didn’t.

                But what the heck?

You can now forget

                All that corporate dreck.

 

So, out to the lot

                For your final commute

In your spiffy new car—

                Oh man, what a beaut!

 

Now you’ll have the free time

                To make it really clean—

Lay on a gloss shine,

                Make it bad and mean!

 

You could do that tomorrow

                If you take a notion—

Or just sleep in—

                Man, that’s the best sleeping potion!

 

Next week’s good enough.

                No need to hurry.

When 8.00 comes on Monday—

                You don’t have to worry.

 

For a little while,

                It’s time to kick back.

Stay up late if you want…

                Or spend all day in the sack.

 

Now you actually can do

                All those things that you couldn’t—

And maybe, by Golly,

                One or two that you shouldn’t!

 

So now: what is gonna be

                On your future agenda?

Got a “honey-do” list

                With things to be mend-a?

 

Are you gonna go fishin’,

                Catch a coupla fat bass?

Hit a city council meetin’,

                Kick some politician’s ass?

–2—

 

 

Take up a new hobby,

                Or go back to school?

Takin’ classes without grades—

                Wouldn’t that be cool?

 

Or will you get bored

                And go look for a job—

With a few new faces

                With whom to hobnob?

 

Well, whatever you decide,

                It’ll be OK—

If you don’t ignore

                What I now have to say.

 

Whatever you do,

                Better try to look busy.

An unoccupied man

                Puts a spouse in a tizzy.

 

Just remember: no matter

                Where you may be:

Little chores can be found…

                For you, as for me.

 

 

Good luck and happy Retirement!

Chuck, Murph and Katie

30 March, 2001

Literary event

                  Literary event

 

A poetry reading

to be exact

as doubtless poetry should be.

 

Setting:        mid-afternoon

            auspiciously astraddle

            the local heroes’ pivotal

            football contest.

                        a decent

            dowdy public parlor

            funeral home chairs arrayed

            with axial exactness

            apologies for buttsprung seats.

 

Event:         slow settling in

            creaks and coughs on hold

            the ritual unfolds.

                        Litanous recognitions

            of network stalwarts delivering

            this rally of dutifilled appreciators

            chapbooks at the ready

            to receive an authentic voice.

 

Before the end

                        lo

                             poetry indeed.

 

A wise guy breeze

      used to taking shortcuts

            slips through uninvited

                  palpating damp foreheads

                        for signs of resident life

                  wabbling whole walls’ worth

                        of important portraits

                             sober oils ineffectual

                                    against the drafts of disregard.

 

Behind us all unseen

      one aleatory mockingbird

            importunes and taunts

                  needing only hint

                        at his virtuouso repertoire

                             of borrowed authenticity

                                    to intimate the purity

                                          of being’s constant joy

                                                in unrestrained immediacy.

 

 

                                                                              Chuck Merrill