The Newborn Bard

In celebration of this august thirtysecond,
a christian tingles with his christian brother;
a muslim drinks to gods of weather;
immortals die;
the flightless fly;
and devils are baptized into bornanew devils.

Yes, in celebration of this august thirtysecond;
a poet poes a poem, plodding
ringing, singing
sobbing, lying,
peeking, prying,
trying, trying,
scribbling in celebration
of inclines altered,
and rulers deadly dead.

Yes, in celebration
the poet poes his poem with
pink improper,
blue unbounded,
blended old and blended new;
bits of me and bits that don't belong.

Yes, in celebration of this august thirtysecond,
rules are bended,
bends are mended,
ends defended,
and words are wedded;
and the poet keeps poing his poem,
with purple poor,
and blooming black.

The poet poes for a daylong,
wishing for that newfoundsong;
hoping in that newborn bard,
to bring new rights and newborn wrongs.
He poes on musing, mending,
borrowing and wishing he were lending,
and everalways ending ending;
ever oversaying the said;
ever overshooting,
ever overrhyming,
ever overwriting the dead
         end.

[1998]