Five Fabulous Poems by Duane Vorhees

 

AGE OF AMBITION 

 

When I was a youngyoung man 

I was borne on the shoulders 

of triumphant tomorrows. 

Crowds cheered my trophies and rings. 

 

I ran with a golden horde 

when I was an oldyoung man. 

We believed our zodiacs 

and in the bright future flame. 

 

Through the fractures and debris  

that remained from our thinned horde, 

when I was a youngold man 

I shouldered my weary way. 

 

I limp and stumble alone. 

The inertia of my intent 

bears me toward dim glory 

now that I'm an oldold man.

 

 

HER WARNINGS, HER FATE

 

The man with too many fingers

married the one with too much gold.

And the two of them were drinkers,

and they liked their gin tonics cold.

 

Her sister's warnings against his grasping hands

fell like waves of surf between the grains of sand.

Her mother's sermons on passions and liquor

failed to make the flame of her candle flicker.

 

The man with too many fingers

married the one with too much gold.

They sang along to old singles

as he loaded his .45's.

 

Her father pointed to his penchant for guns

but none of dad's batters could score any runs.

All of their warnings about his grasping hands

fell like waves of surf between the grains of sand.

 

The man with too many fingers

married the one with too much gold,

and together they grew wrinkled

and their love never lost its hold.

 

WHY THE HAPPY BIRTHDAY WISHES?

 

The Fortress reverts to sand, the Library to pith and pulp.

The battle flag's a bumper sticker now.

The Monk's test celibacies (sorely tested before),

threatened no longer by the Monk's own testes.

Yesterday's Lion is today's singapura,

and my former Stallion a burro.

My old corpus composed of gaps caused by lost companions.

 

DOUBLING THROUGH 

 

the eating and the eaten 

the rower and the drowned 

we play our heads-up poker 

under all day-breakfast sky 

solar yolk and lunar white 

the cosmic egg is broken 

my IQ equals ice cube's

 

while i consume my whiskey 

and my packs of cigarettes 

my cigarettes and whiskey 

are active consuming me

 

 

O MOON 

 

Shakespeare was too polite calling you inconstant. 

You’ll flash your waxed silver clit for anyone. 

Your fabled vagina spawns the stars and poems 

but when I most need you to arouse 

you hide, as though demure.

Duane Vorhees lives in Thailand after teaching for the University of Maryland in Korea and Japan for many years. He is the author of The Many Loves Of Duane Vorhees, Heaven, and Gift: God Runs  Through All These Roms, all published by Hog Press of Ames, IA.