OLYMPIAN CHESS

(screen capture from the film "Jason And The Argonauts")

A whale is swimming
In the wine glass
On the chessboard.
Zeus takes a sip,
Puts the glass back.
The whale, startled,
Thrashes its tail,
Spurts a geyser of wine
From its blow hole.
Unlike Zeus, the whale
Is getting drunk, drunker and drunker
With each breath it takes.

Elsewhere on the board,
The gladiator, angel, duck and frog
Are plotting their escape in whispers.
Zeus, who knows everything,
Finds this amusing
To no end. But he makes a mental note
Not to give the pieces
Consciousness next time.

Across the board, Hera –
Whose mind he cannot read,
Since she’s a woman and his equal –
Cooks up her own plot,
And discusses it
With no one.


-- © 2011 by Jack Veasey

(All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any form without the author's written permission. )

GRYPHON

(Bevan crest, 1892)



Your family crest
Frightens me.

Why the winged lion?

Are you trying
To lay claim
To some nobility or courage
Nature didn’t quite provide?
This symbol
Just says
“Predatory power,”
Boasting
That it can
Swoop down,
Not merely
Pounce.

Why would a normal lion
Be inadequate
For carrying the colors
Of your clan?

It might make more sense if your name
Were “Griffin.” Even then,
I’d wonder whether
You really intended
Irony.

The ability to make most creatures
Prey does not
Encourage us
To trust; it triggers
The impulse to run,
Futile as that tactic might be.

-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey


(All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any form without the author's written permission. )

MEDUSA

(Medusa by Caravaggio, photo from Wikipedia)


Long after the hissing
Had driven me mad,
Long after the venoms
Had twisted their roots
In my brain,
He finally came:

Naked
Except for his shield, bearing
A sword – symbol
Of liberation in religions
I would never live to see.

He would not
Look at me, but
At my image
Mirrored in his shield,
The shield
He didn’t bring
To hide behind;
He had nothing to hide.
His nakedness
Was beautiful. His sword
Would liberate me

From my body
And its thousand passions
I could never quench.
I felt them rage
For the last time
As I looked at him,
Flooded
With grave fascination.

Even if he could come close,
The lightnings in my hair
Would strike him down.
I lived beyond touch,
By the price
Of my own
Bitter nature.

So I looked at him,
And drank him in,
And let him stalk me,
Longing for the slice
To cut me loose
From my awareness,
From my restless
Smoldering.
I met his eyes
In that mirror,
And gave my consent,
Burnt out from centuries
Of living in my head.

Of all men, he alone
Would glimpse my face
And live,
And notice
It was radiant with anguish,
And be haunted
By regret.

Better to be
Turned to stone,
Believe me.

© 2007 by Jack Veasey

All rights reserved. This work is not to be reproduced or duplicated in any way without the author's written permission.

This poem appeared in Issue 9 of Fledgling Rag. Thanks to Editor/Publisher Le Hinton.