THE WANTON FOLLY OF ME MUM

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Once a bad poet but a good man

my mother destroyed both

with the same fiendish barbs

and made of me voracious killer,

mindless thief and demon pawn.

Mother’s harsh words laid me low;

her sexual advances lay like butterflies

atop the cruel weight of her

rejections. But I could deal with neither.

She stood before me, pale hair glowing,

doting matron newly come to mischief

and its uses, bedeviled, dare I say,

with quite a tempting morsel

of a son. I so cared for her,

I stole her soul to gain her health,

long life and pleasures.

She cared for me as well,

and showed me so, though hence

unable to tell agape from eros,

(and what’s it matter – all just words).

Never a quick study, weird magics

and electronics intruded in my brain

before I realized what I should have

could I have only thought beyond the pain.

Once more ensouled, in nights endured

while sunlight shines outside, I cry,

a century later – with mores changed –

and poetry –  with lusty cougars on the prowl

in every club and bar, and I ensorcelled

by an inappropriate passion of my own –

Mother, you loved me, I know it now

for sure, in every way your mind and body

taught you and I should have known love

to be true despite the cruel words

in which your demon

couched its benediction.

Alas, had I then but had my soul

I might have raised my hand to you

and struck with more forbearance,

and not returned to dust

the wanton folly of me Mum.

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