Randall Peaslee
THE GAME THESE DAYS
The pitch, the swing, resounding crack,
And then the practiced trot begins
As ball delights the gasping, screaming
Crowd by sailing high into the night.
A lone outfielder runs, then slows,
Then stops to watch. High fives at home.
A helmet lifted to the fans.
This is your age, muscled Kings of Swat.
Now rare the rope into the gap,
The churning race around the bases,
The windmill arm, the throw—cut-off,
Relayed—the slide and swipe; out or safe?
THE ORACLE'S ADVICE TO PODALAERIUS
Should Atlas slip, get thee to Syrnos;
Take all you own
within.
The destination's compass-less,
You're there once
you begin.
The stars may rain down on your head,
—May set
your house alight;
You may fight serpents in your bed,
— May live
the longest night;
But on the thieving, pitted road,
Remember your
birthright:
Your fortress is your Father's tent,
Your
strength—His endless well;
Should Atlas drop the firmament
And send the world
to hell.
ON TEMPTING THE DEVIL
(Or, A Mad Waltz)
In Mitteleuropa lived infantile people.
Times they were hard and the populace glum
And the factories silent; the trains were a mess.
The people suspected their neighbors, and pleaded,
"Someone must do something! Anything!”
Lucifer heard this and being a clever one
Granted their wishes and something was done;
Factory fires were lighted and chimneys spewed
Smoke and the trains ran on time—At last!
The boys marched away to make war on the neighbors;
Oom-pa-pah, Oom-pa-pah, Rat-a-tat-tat!
Such glorious times they were.
Ach! It was all an illusion. Just make believe.
Nobody truthfully wanted to know where
The trains ran on time or what chimneys were spewing.
Fire and factory brick rained from the skies.
A few boys skulked home—no longer boys.
Heaven was hell in disguise.
So what is the lesson to learn from this tale?
This: that times will be hard and the populace
glum and of neighbors we're always suspicious;
And the devil's a rogue who's so eager to listen
And grant us our infantile wishes.
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