JAMES W. REYNOLDS - POEMS

James W. Reynolds is a writer who lives in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia.

The Honor Men
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Good God -
I almost forgot the Honor Men!
Those pillars of conformity
with their orange blazers
and Jeffersonian rectitude, 
afflicting us with their boozy breath
and stale pretensions in the rotunda.

And look how rotund they’ve grown to be!

They’re oranges teetering on toothpicks;
oranges soaking in whiskey and
squirting bourbon when squeezed;
oranges that should have been left 
to rot on the trees.

Humor the Honor Men!
They upheld the Hypocritic Oath 
for as long as their withered arms could.

Humor them because 
their members have shriveled and 
their influence has petered out -
leaving them petulant and confused
because their time has come and gone.

But what will happen to the country clubs?
Who will boldly sail the shallow waters of our bays?
Who will smoke cigars and waylay waitresses?
Who will presume to know what everyone wants?

Just as I think these thoughts,
a vast image of the Tower of Babel 
troubles my sight.
And hundreds of disparate parties
espousing thousands of opposing beliefs
swell on the lawn like some tumorous growth;
each wearing orange
and each vowing to uphold the Hypocritic Oath.



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The Barren Sand
​

1.
The poor are everywhere
so they’re easy to overlook.
As when you stand on a beach
staring at the pregnant sea,
you forget the barren sand.

2.
In a perfect world
the poor would be taken care of
so we’re erecting stockades
where they can be put.
With so many scattered everywhere
it may become tough keeping them under foot.


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Let the Poets Sleep Guilt-Free
​

Love takes nothing I don’t freely give -
so let the poets sleep guilt-free.
Though they tell shameless lies
and unwelcome truths,
they can’t grow roses on the moon.

A poem won’t cure cancer
or stop a middle-aged man
from being a bore.
Poetry can’t make me see
what I would rather ignore.
And I choose to ignore a lot:
how that look on your face is smug;
or how you’re the salt of the Earth
and I’m the slug.



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