THE PURPLE FRUIT OF OMAR KHAYYAM

Regret! for I, within the dead of Night,

Have eaten Plums you’d saved for your Delight.

 And Lo! away I slink, and leave this note:

So cold were they, so sweet, so right.

Pacing the Kitchen as you slept in Bed

I paused: a Voice within my Stomach said

 “Refresh, my hungry one, and fill me up

Before Life’s Ways leave you too long unfed!”

And, as my Pangs grew, the Voice within me cried,

And yea, it shouted— “Ope thy Fridge Door wide!

 You know which Shelf holds Dish of Tupperware,

And what Delights your tongue shall meet inside.”

Come, fill ye up, then in thy Rapture sweet

A post-Meal Garment of Repentance meet:

 The Owl of Opportunity has but inches

To go—and Lo! rises already to its Feet.

There with a Dish of Plums beside the Stove,

A Glass of Beer, a Magazine—ah, Love!

 By your quiet snoring in the other Room—

The Kitchen was as Heaven far above.

O! my Beloved, fill your Heart with Tears

TO-DAY of my Regrets and guilty Fears—

 TO-MORROW?— Why, To-morrow may not come

And I’d regret those Plums not eaten all my Years.

Ah, drain the Dish:—it foots not to repeat

The Provenance of this or that cool Treat:

 Unpicked LAST WEEK, gone off TO-MORROW,

Why sweat it, if TO-DAY be sweet!

In Vision, by the Westinghouse struck dumb,

Beheld I—in the Dusk a Shape did come,

 Bearing a dish in Angel’s Hands; and

He urged me sample it; and ’twas—a Plum!

The Munching Jawbone chews; and having chawed,

Gulps down: nor all thy Remorse, nor God,

 Shall lure it back to undo half a Bite,

Nor all my Tears wash back a morsel of the wad.

Ah, Light of open’d Door who shine’st e’er bright,

Past Jugs of Milk, they meet my Sight:

 How oft hereafter, rising shall you look
Through this same Fridge for Plums and find—no Bite!

.

Some plum verses

2013

EDDIE POE STOLE YOUR PLUMS

Last night, as I wandered weary

Bored of teevee chatting cheery,

Eyelids gummy, optics bleary,
Drearily with rigid stare,
Forth my mind went glumly, dumbly,
To a small container, plumbly
Full of purple fruit, so comely
Lurking in the Frigidaire

Dare I eat them? Would it matter?
Could they make my figure fatter?
Eat I must, or be a hatter,
Madder than a marching hare!
Grabbed I they, did fairly huff them,
Cooked them I did not, nor duff them
Merely did I seek to stuff them,
Stuff them in my face, just there.

Only then my conscience teased me,
Though the stolen bounty pleased me,
Pangs of guilt straight after seized me,
Feazed me in the frigid air.
Thus, this note of explanation
Begging for some expiation
Of my sin of annexation
Of those sweet, cold fruits, so fair.

By this note, I full do blame me.

Stoop ye not to mock or shame me
Promise you will not defame me
For this midnight treat so rare!
For I suffered in that second,
Racked with purple pash unreckoned,
At those plums that lewdly beckoned,
Wishing I could grow a pear!

2011:

i
Your bag of fruit is but a pile of pits,
My feast of joy is but a pang of guilt
My still small voice is in a plague of fits,
The sweet blue juice pooled on the plate is spilt.
My snack is past, and to the trash heap comes,
And now you know that I have et your plums.

ii
Waste not your time, nor hunt in vain pursuit
Peruse, instead, this humble witness mute,
That I, regardless of your own intents
Did raid the fridge for sweet and purple fruit.

O Thou, who sought, both cleverly and wise,
To save your plums and hide them from my eyes—
Know that I—I did consume them all—
And taste them still, as I apologize.

iii
Little boy hides in the pantry alone.
Fingers and mouth of a purple-y tone.
Hush! Hush! Silence your gums!
Christopher Robin is eating your plums.

iv

Blah blah blah plums, blah blah fridge,
Blah blah blah blah sweet blah cold.