Coming In

The storm comes in with curling swell,

Its curling strength upcurling well.

Some trees curl down while others snap;

Long waves curl up a high white cap!

The gulls now wheel and scream delight

To feel the storm’s whole curling might.

Then suddenly the whole thing’s past,

And Blackie snuffs the long wet grass.

Now sun does burst, and blaze and shine,

And this fair drama, it is mine!

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Abortion: the final word.

When a woman decides to put an end to her fetus, she may do so. (Also, though this may rarely happen, if she decides to drink and smoke throughout her pregnancy, she may do so.) It is her fetus, she owns it, just as she owns her own body. The right she has over her body extends to what is in her body.

There is no more to be said on the subject as pertaining to individual rights. She, the pregnant woman, having been born with her individual rights, keeps them throughout her life. When she gives birth, that new individual is born with its own individual rights. There is no conflict of individual rights.

Now, suppose this new mother drinks, smokes, carries on and barely remembers to change and feed her baby. Yes, it is a terrible state of affairs. But are any rights violated? The baby is living, getting by; it has food and shelter. Then, in a few years the baby is ready for school. The mother keeps her child at home, gives her books to read, reads to her— as her sole education. The child down the street goes, all dressed up, carrying a lunch, to a public school. All the teachers praise her, teach her about the greater good of society, about how the individual is nothing and the group everything.

The first child grows up to be a novelist and short story writer. The second child commits suicide—as a late abortion.

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The Golden Law

Up in Heaven God pressed a bit of invisible tissue between his finger and thumb and said, “Tiny soul, l am putting you inside this human cell, which is too small to be seen, where you will grow to almost an inch after a few years. But never forget that you are a bad, bad sinner, deserving of the worst punishment. As soon as you are born you must begin feeling guilt for your evil nature. Oh, what a terrible, horrible thing you are!

And the body you inhabit is even fouler than you!

Oh, who created such loathesome things!?

You begin dreaming and hoping, planning, then loving. Oh, such a plague of badness! But really no worse than you are right this minute! An ugly, contemptible, inexorably evil thing! Sinner! Sinner! Sinner!

I have said it, and therefore, it is so!

I could have said differently, but chose not too. My whim is the Golden Law.

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Hypatia (written for a painting of the great intellectual. She is depicted holding a scroll (of her own writings?) Scroll of the soul of the mind of me, Writ of my wit that was speaking free; Mine in possession, none take away. I am Hypatia, one with the day!

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You Said

You said l praised you—

Much too much, too much.

I cease—Ah, only

Touch and touch and touch.

Now you urge more—

More and more and more!

My fingers’ praises truly you adore

That are my thoughts run on before,

With never too much, too much, too much!

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The news is all Notre Dame, forsaken in flame. I love Notre Dame, but you, you are alive, moving alongside of me.

I worship you with lip and mouth and tongue, and half-closed eyes, with the intensity of my hands and arms and soul.

You are more than cathedral. You soar with your own thoughts and desires, filling my vision. We lean together, fall together, growing great. You fill my consciousness. Just you and you and you.

We will sleep all night together. In the morning we will wake happily and cleanly into each other’s easy breath and sparkly eyes.

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Lyre and Lyrist

I take off your clothes where the moonlight flows,

I undress you with hands full of fire.

Through my fingers l watch how your soft skin glows

As l fondle my moon-lit lyre.

“Ah” is the note of you; “Ah,” and then “Oh,”

Trembling—free sky-born wing.

Too, our mouths are made true of ourselves beautiful

As clean greed is the song we sing!

Then, my hands through your hair, and my body through yours,

As the moon is shut soft by a cloud,

And in darkness we move to the muse that endures,

While the waves crash about us so proud.

On this shore by the sea we are totally free,

As we lay in this love-going moon.

While the lyre and the lyrist—it is you, it is me—

Hum matchless one magical tune!

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