Poetry from Duane Vorhees

THIS STREET

This warm wide street

murders the infant ice.

It carries benefit and debt

from Perdition to Paradise.

It’s walked by gamblers and planners,

sharers of a barrel

or a quarrel.

Perceived to be staid

by beseechers and besiegers

looking for worship or a war,

by flatterers, benefactors,

prophets, and the perfidious–

it’s radical and erratic,

as wild as a wave.

PHASES

1

The horned owl would hunt at night.

I watched it from an egg,

blinked

and couldn’t find its flight.

Worried that it went extinct,

unable to sleep, I mourned

until I found, faint, its horns.

2

Fishes glimmer in the nets

spread across the deep.

Trapped, they surrender to death

in their cold, dark, and cramped keep.

But, oh! What schools they inspired;

when stars spawned, no one higher.

3

The orange on the sky tree

is burnished like polished brass

trumpeting Eternity’s

emergence from a dark past.

How sweetly that orange glows

all today and tomorrow.

ROSES OR LOTUS, LINE AND POLE

My self lives with several selves

that confront, ignore, cooperate.

Sometimes the Army of Roses quelled

rivals with promises of passion.

The Lotus Ashram would dominate

through its acceptance of inaction.

Or I’d be the weathered bosun’s mate

on discovery from Line to Pole.

I oscillated from soul to soul.

I joined that Army but deserted

when I learned passion had gone awol.

Alas, when romance eluded me

I tried the Ashram to forget it.

I got to Bali and Moosonee

but then got strapped to mast, unshirted.

Now content, selves meld with line and pole.

BESTIALITY

White teeth

I mourn–

they’re shorn

like sheep–

and bones

grown limp

like shrimp

and prawns.

My thumb,

adrift,

a skiff

of chum;

my tongue,

threatened

vegan

dugong.

The knees

wobble

and stall

like bees,

and toes

crackle,

rattle

like crows.

The heart

quivers,

shivers–

tense hart.

A MAN’S MOTIVATION, EXCUSE, AND RULE

An idea, an acre,

an ounce, an inch of skin–

a man’s motivation

for mayhem may be quite thin.

By fiat, by fire, by fist,

by bullet, or by blade–

a man’s excuse and rule

can be tradition or trade,

opportunity or lust,

inspiration, or luck.

A try will lose, will triumph

through cowardice, through pluck.