The Hippo-posthumous

“You cannot get a hippo!”
That’s what my mother said,
But I told her it’s much cheaper
When your new pet hippo’s dead.

And truly she’s a marvel,
This new friend that I’ve acquired.
We even save on vet bills,
Since already she’s expired.

Her ghostly form moves softly,
She is gentle and benign.
She comes when she is summoned,
(I’ve named her Madeleine).

A hippo can be frightening,
A truly savage beast,
But they mellow out quite nicely
After they’re deceased.

Feeding her is simple,
And goes without a fuss,
She floats on through our breakfast,
But she leaves the food for us.

She comes to get me after school,
And meets me at the gate,
And (but in ways she cannot help)
She’s never ever late.

And if I need a nightlight,
Then she sleeps beside my bed,
Her phantom luminescence
Enlightening my head.

And so my best suggestion
For a pet of whom to boast,
Is a hippo large and friendly—
And preferably a ghost.

Thalia's Age

Thalia’s age is a three-step process:
palm thrust forward,
thumb tucked in,
hand flipped around.
This many.

Are you
five? she asks.
Or six?

Together
we gather my age
in handfuls,
three bunches
and a big,

as someday I
will gather
all my bunches of years,
hold them up,
turn them inward,
and show them
to eternity.
This many.

Answers Without Questions

Hardly ever never, but sometimes always.
Eighty-nine at least, and twice on Sundays.
The square root of fifty, minus your bus fare.
Two cherries, three kumquats, one mango and a bear.
The year 1840 on the West coast of Panama.
201 Main Street, Broadmoor Heights, Omaha.
Every fifth Tuesday, except in April.
A hitherto unknown subspecies of maple.
From under two seconds to up to a month.
If blue, three or four, but the yellow ones once.
Home-grown rhubarb and the juice of an orange.
A little less paisley and a little more fringe.
You’d think so, yes, but it’s not really silver.
Porcupine petals and daffodil fur.
A word that appears in all prayers but no hymns.
Answers without questions, and titles without poems.

Tremolo

Each
note a
life each
life a
thought each
thought a
breath each
breath a
vanished
trembling for-
ever of
instants that
thought turns to
breath turns to
life turns to
notes and are
gone.

Pontius Pilate

What is truth? I knew before today,
Before this man that I have sent to death
Appeared before me. I have no love for Jews,
Nor ever feared them. What had I to fear?
Or what to love? And still I do not know,
But now I find the question troubles me.
And this man, Jew despised by other Jews,
He had no fear of me, and as for love,
I cannot say, and as for truth, he claims
It as his birthright. And were he not in chains
I do not know who I myself would be.
Chained there he stands, as if before my mercy,
Acknowledging my power over him,
As granted from above, and yet I know
He means not Caesar. In his eyes, a kingdom
Further removed from here than I can see,
Beyond my spirit’s compass to perceive.
How can a man judge what he cannot know?
The only guilt I found in him was this:
He gave me leave to name the truth myself,
When I, for the first time, am caught uncertain,
This strange permission reaching farther into
Authority than I have ever dared.
What is truth? Little enough I see.
I knew him for a Jew, for they were Jews
Who brought him to me. I knew him for a king,
For who could not? But all else I disclaim.
And so I ruled, and so I wrote the words
My prisoner permitted me to choose,
Proclaiming and condemning by my hand.
Therefore what I have written, let it stand.

Easter Fools' Day

The situation, it seems, was misread,
but now all our darkness has fled,
for he saw our surprise,
and with twinkling eyes,
said “What? You all thought I was dead?”

Ghazal: To Shiva

And as I begin, I bow to Shiva.
May these lines soar, even now, to Shiva.

In darkness, delusion, despair or death,
look, through the light in your brow, to Shiva.

A mountain falling in love with the sky:
Parvati making her vow to Shiva.

Thou male-female, creator-destroyer,
single-duality: Thou Two, Shiva.

I could, like Ganesha, travel the world,
or cut to the chase, and bow to Shiva.

D.I.Y.—Destroy It Yourself, a book
not for dummies, titled: How To Shiva.

Om Namah Shivaya, I bow and sing,
my soul a transcendent shout to Shiva.

The end of life, the end of creation,
we will all return, somehow, to Shiva.

Tandava dancing, this music, this poem—
this life, an offering now, to Shiva.