Moments at the Reptile House

All glory to the ever-fleeting now:

    Hibiscus blooming in blood-centered pink,

        Rank ferns and gold acuba in the wake

Of red volcanic rock, geckos on the prow.

    Inside, small children fuss about the stink

        Of lizard piss—all’s ripe for nature’s sake.

In another slice of now, we watch the grand

    Komodo dragon and draw near to link

        Present to future with the pics we take

Of black-eyed, scaly creatures in the sand:

        All now at stake.

Bert Woodall

A Purpose for Death

Death causes us to love the world

Desperately, each little thing,

And to regret the times we quarreled

Stupidly, the abuse we hurled

At the beloved, recall the sting.

Death causes us to love the world,

Remember how rainwater swirled,

Flooding gutters in early spring,

And to regret the times we quarreled

About lunch while maple seeds whirled—

Which café, with swallows on the wing.

Death causes us to love the world,

Viewing in May the wreaths unfurled,

Red and white tied with delicate string,

Bringing regret for every time we quarreled.

How hair hung limp or wildly curled

Is precious to the one lingering.

Death causes us to love the world,

And to regret the times we quarreled.

Bert Woodall

Ah! Sun-Flower

Ah, Sun-flower! weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the sun;
Seeking after that sweet golden clime,
Where the traveller's journey is done;

Where the Youth pined away with desire,
And the pale Virgin shrouded in snow,
Arise from their graves, and aspire
Where my Sun-flower wishes to go.

William Blake

The Sick Rose

O Rose, thou art sick!
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night,
In the howling storm,

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy;
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.

William Blake

Richard Cory

Whenever Richard Cory went downtown,
    We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
    Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
    And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
    "Good morning," and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich--yes, richer than a king,
    And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
    To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
    And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
    Went home and put a bullet through his head.

    --Edwin Arlington Robinson

Squirrel Tale

There once was a chubby young squirrel

Who went by the nickname of Merle.

    He'd do anything for bread

    But stand on his head.

For a peanut, he'd give it a whirl.

Bert Woodall

Cat Ownership

You  have to love them to sift their latrine,
The uric fragrance burning your nose and eyes
As you render their special place fresh and clean--
One of them watches, impatient, and sighs.
You have to be ready for sleep-rending howls
When one recovers his ragged cloth ball--
At twelve or two--shaking it with feral growls,
Boasting his prey up and down the hall.
You must be attentive--even at four--
If bowls are empty and bellies not full:
Rude rattling and scratching on the bedroom door
Has such a hypnotic, nerve-racking pull.
How apt the pharaohs decreed them divine,
While litter-box slaves were treated like swine.

Bert Woodall

Dime Store Mug

What will I do with you,
Old battered dime store mug?
You were Mother's favorite,
When she cared about such things.

Old battered dime store mug
With your bluish crackled glaze,
When she cared for all her things,
You perched on the highest shelf.

On your bluish crackled glaze
Dust motes were spores of time
As you perched on the highest shelf,
A bookend for her best-loved poems--

But dust motes devoured time,
And our dusting was all in vain.
As a bookend for her best-loved poems,
You could only hold your place,

When our dusting was all in vain
And she left her world of order.
It was yours to hold a place
Among her once-treasured things

When she left her world of order
(You being Mother's favorite
Of all her few treasured things),
But what will I do with you?

Bert Woodall

3 Spring Haiku

Pill bugs wet with dew
as crawling gray domes mirror
green turf, salmon sun.

Copter seeds whirling,
a squirrel chases paper
treasure for her nest.

Young cat mock-tweeting,
wily sparrows unheeding,
paws press on the screen.

Bert Woodall

Summer Shrine

They cast a lengthy shadow lurching forward,
Straining beneath a sun that doesn't turn,
So faithful to the heliotropes bent toward
Its heat and light: They never fear the burn,
These supplicants of Ra, both men and weeds.
Straw-hatted pilgrims--canna lily stalks
Attending as they kick puff balls of seeds--
Carve with mower tracks soft emerald walks
In sacred courtyards of a humid shrine.
Nearby, the priestly irises preside,
Anointed lightly with the workers' brine,
While the weary drudges serve their cult with pride:
They sense the god who made them is aware,
But drenched and dirty, doubt that he could care.

Bert Woodall