Why so shy in front of strangers?
Pale and blushing,
soft blond hair from her eye;
a cordiality of praises,
deflected with downward glance
the more imposing gazes,
then trembles away, “Good-bye”.
But home –
before her vanity,
far from peering humanity,
she still interrupts her beauteous care,
holding a silent mirror stare
and confused by the picture there –
turns diffidently aside this
strange look of someone else’s reflection.
From birth the lonely one;
though one of six,
acting merely in prelude to better offspring.
All for naught, I say,
all for naught the garden sown.
Precious stem and ripen
the weeds of our destruction,
loosening and choking out
these meager hearts –
by the salving balm of God.
A crisis of Christ in the making,
if every time we seek the Truth,
You change its name;
seek inspiration of the Word,
then heaven itself causes prophecies to fail:
our beginnings and our endings
shaved and finished
Going, going, gone:
what has America done?
A syndrome of Pearl Harbors,
of finding one’s paddle after the flood;
preparing only for rehearsals,
precognitive only in reverse,
resolute only in afterthought.
“Ah, but next time”, so say the patriotic elders …
“Not again a next time”, replies their physician
(a doctor of some means),
in a hospital full of intoxicating spells,
who would rather see patients dead and gone
Where my mind has gone, nobody knows;
up Maryland, down Constitution,
and across Pennsylvania Avenue:
loyalty for trade,
logic for ransom,
in a plurality of professional throws
astride emotional throes.
Dr. Walter Boswell