political sonnet

LAST WORDS

                                  i.m. Alexander Litvinenko

Some Russian in a London hospital

is losing all his hair, can barely speak.

The doctors are confused.  His liquids leak.

It seems he may not make it, after all.

He slumps his ugly body to the wall.

Polonium-210 is quite unique –

this instrument of power at its peak

reduces fractious elements to nil.

And yet a feeble whisper emanates

from dying lips (all victims are pathetic).

You’re a bona fide barbarian,

he croaks (to Mr. Vladimir Putin).

You’ve proved you don’t deserve the trust

of my beloved Russia.  Last words stick.

the rubles flow from here to there

SAND UNDERFOOT

A mouse ran across a bridge

one winter, in Leningrad –

his name was little Vlad.

He had a key, which was his badge.

He wanted to be Czar one day.

It made things easier.

When life got crazier

he took control – things were okay.

The rubles flow from here to there

in pockets of his underwear –

he makes a face, to scare

the other wolves (the sheep won’t dare).

He liquidated people in the way.

It wasn’t always easy...

Scotland Yard (like Stasi)

fingerpoints (Polonium 1-A).

The light flutes in another realm –

coral reef of seraphim

& monks on mountain rim

(Kievan polyphonic Argo-helm).

A scattershot of goldfinch tunes

or chords of Marian

sis-diva Anderson

lift off cimetière dunes

Pushkin or Berryman would know.

Sparse salty grass.

Sand underfoot, hélas.

A Black Sea seething, as of long ago.

8.28.18