Jims Poems Nov 2011
Dec 01 2011 Filed in: Jims Poems
The Secret Life of Jesus #4
On the first Christmas Eve,
Mary was in labor
A good many hours
Before Jesus was born.
Jesus was sorry
But who could blame Him
For taking his time.
He knew what to expect
When he saw the light of day,
And it wasn’t gold,
Frankincense or myrrh.
Lonesome Cowboy
A cowboy in Wyoming
Was shooting stars
To while away the time
Around the campfire.
He missed at first
But after adjusting his sights,
He started shooting them down
Like bottles on a fence.
They’d drop and flame out
And go dark,
Far out on the range.
The cowboy didn’t care,
Which was a shame.
Stars fall out
Of the sky’s pocket
A signal of something.
They should be gathered up
Like dead dreams
And autumn leaves.
Stars should be given
A proper burial.
The Secret Life of Jesus #8
When Jesus was born
All Mary wanted
Was a little sleep.
But company kept coming over.
Shepherds and Magi,
The innkeeper and his wife,
A host of barnyard animals.
Jesus was very tiny,
Mostly interested
In keeping warm
And eating his next meal.
Joseph was pleased and proud.
He marveled at
The little fingers and toes,
The incredible lightness of the child,
The incredible weight
Of his new responsibilities.
He wondering how he was going
To keep his family fed.
Jesus could have told him, of course,
But that’s just not
The baby way.
Heracles and the Amazons
Heracles stands frozen
In a fight with Amazons
On an urn
At the Legion of Honor Museum.
His black sinews bulge
On a background of rust colored pottery,
The three Amazons hectoring him
Right and left
With drawn swords.
I ask myself
Who painted these myths
With such precision,
The protaganists circling the urn,
Heracles’ eyes aflame
With masculine rage.
As the Amazons toy with him.
But isn’t that always the way?
Men thrashing beneath
The taunts of women
Like maddened animals
At the bullfights.
I don’t remember how the myth worked out.
Did Heracles fend off the women,
Or did they slay him?
I suspect they all left the field of battle,
Licking their wounds,
Like a paint brush on a vase,
For here they all are,
Thousands of years later,
Daggers drawn
Around a Grecian urn,
Where Heracles still stands at last,
Like all old men,
An exile from the past.
On the first Christmas Eve,
Mary was in labor
A good many hours
Before Jesus was born.
Jesus was sorry
But who could blame Him
For taking his time.
He knew what to expect
When he saw the light of day,
And it wasn’t gold,
Frankincense or myrrh.
Lonesome Cowboy
A cowboy in Wyoming
Was shooting stars
To while away the time
Around the campfire.
He missed at first
But after adjusting his sights,
He started shooting them down
Like bottles on a fence.
They’d drop and flame out
And go dark,
Far out on the range.
The cowboy didn’t care,
Which was a shame.
Stars fall out
Of the sky’s pocket
A signal of something.
They should be gathered up
Like dead dreams
And autumn leaves.
Stars should be given
A proper burial.
The Secret Life of Jesus #8
When Jesus was born
All Mary wanted
Was a little sleep.
But company kept coming over.
Shepherds and Magi,
The innkeeper and his wife,
A host of barnyard animals.
Jesus was very tiny,
Mostly interested
In keeping warm
And eating his next meal.
Joseph was pleased and proud.
He marveled at
The little fingers and toes,
The incredible lightness of the child,
The incredible weight
Of his new responsibilities.
He wondering how he was going
To keep his family fed.
Jesus could have told him, of course,
But that’s just not
The baby way.
Heracles and the Amazons
Heracles stands frozen
In a fight with Amazons
On an urn
At the Legion of Honor Museum.
His black sinews bulge
On a background of rust colored pottery,
The three Amazons hectoring him
Right and left
With drawn swords.
I ask myself
Who painted these myths
With such precision,
The protaganists circling the urn,
Heracles’ eyes aflame
With masculine rage.
As the Amazons toy with him.
But isn’t that always the way?
Men thrashing beneath
The taunts of women
Like maddened animals
At the bullfights.
I don’t remember how the myth worked out.
Did Heracles fend off the women,
Or did they slay him?
I suspect they all left the field of battle,
Licking their wounds,
Like a paint brush on a vase,
For here they all are,
Thousands of years later,
Daggers drawn
Around a Grecian urn,
Where Heracles still stands at last,
Like all old men,
An exile from the past.