SELECTED POETRY

by
Maurice Oliver

UNTIL VENUS IS SYNONYMOUS WITH BEEKEEPER

She describes herself as usually resembling a honeycomb.
She says she always feels like the back seat of a car with
her emotions in the glove compartment. What else. Well,
she is the first to admit she can swirl any lead drink while
weaving an impeccable sailor with one leg raised. She
claims her red beads conceal a domestic stage and that
her affection for a believable tomorrow hinges on one rare
morphemic tide. I have personally seen her slice a lemon
with bathtub cleanser then stuff the rest of the rose garden
in a trash bag. I've bared witness to the power of her Dorian
Gray which can literally cause cats and dogs to mate or a
professional lair to prosper. Three is her magic amigo
using a Disney movie rated GP-13. In short, utter has to be
her madness, where the nature of Bach is not to stand still.
And let's face it, you can't help but appreciate the way she
bounces on a starter, like a diver on a board.

And sincerely encourages everyone to do it.

� Maurice Oliver

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LIFE, PORTRAYED BY INTENTION'S BLIND FAITH

Forget that version, here's what your upgrade will look like:
- Riddles carved out of stories about gender benders.
- A rue accused of skipping a couple of month's child support.
- The first prairie fence to boycott the "No Trespassing" signs.
- A diamond ring that is swollen with the intricacy of faith.
- The whole state of Vermont hammering away at bedrock.
- A Poseidon adventure intended to lodge in the throat.
- Postcards from one of history's crudest hideouts.
- A war holding up tourist at gun-point.
- The arm of a catastrophe, broken in two places.
- A man caught stiffing the rear of a cul-de-sac.
- A bus of strangers, in the third person.

� Maurice Oliver

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A REOCCURRING DREAM, SWALLOWING TREES

In this scenario
the audience is encouraged to believe
there's a cold war raging in the pitcher
of milk, performed by a secret
agent disguised as the lit interior of a late-model
car. Life is a
bed wetter that likes a constant temperature of 88 degrees.

Hand shakes are the accepted gesture when first meeting.
The demilitarize-zone wears a name-tag and is
set-up between
the wrist and collarbone.
If anything aches it's OK to rub it.
Foot soldiers do. Some even open the window when they
dream. And if they get lost,
they subtract the remaining body
fluids then multiply their mother's age by two. What's left equals
religion or a canary in a coal mine. Either way, most people
don't mind
eating off paper plates and have
no problem writing a letter now
and then to a convicted felon.
They find comfort in knowing the getaway car has a full tank and
say they keep the extra voice in
a jewellery box, simply because it's the
last place anybody would look.

� Maurice Oliver

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"THE OBSCURE APPROACH" SONNET

It could begin with car wheels rolling
across gravel. A dog barking on the
beach. The kind of blue found at dusk.
Black shoes. Stone bridges. Rain that
turns into snow. Veins under the skin.
Campfires. Hayrides. Too much salt
in food. Cattle troughs. Answering
services. Young girls with red ribbons
in their hair. Honey. Pickles. Scaffolds.
Cartoons. The sun drawn by a child.
Almost anything mechanical. Angels
in the architecture. Scissors but not
knives. Or a squirrel in the birdbath.

� Maurice Oliver

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ORCHIDS FOR HER HOTHOUSE

Dear Samantha,

The orchids that accompany this letter are from a hothouse in Delaware. At least, that's what the florist says. He's the same guy who insists that the social interaction between individuals of varying demographics over the limited space on this planet should be settled with enough squabbling to counterweight the power of the State. But he smokes a pipe so what else would you expect. Sometimes no one speaks to him for days. They just make their purchases and leave the correct change on the shiny counter after giving him a supercilious stare. You're nothing like him. You're an idea that replicates itself like a virus. Your symptoms pass from mind to mind and can be found in the latest fashion statement. These orchids are intended to be my way of saying I miss your little bare pantry and the way your farmhouse smells. I miss putting my Balinese bench where your corral is. What I guess I really mean is I need you to recommend my next set of power tools. And the stamp in the snow is definitely foreign. Why even my elves stay up all night imaging backyard barbecues. Sure I have my faults and I'll always be dishonest. But I'm getting much better at predicting when I'm about to do something stupid.

� Maurice Oliver