Zombie-pocalypse

   It is the season of haunting, the season of terrors. All across the country, people adopt disguises in attempt to make themselves unrecognizable. They show up on our doorsteps with their hands out. They make dire threats and terrifying noises, alternated with begging in order to fill their pockets with goodies. We are held hostage in our own homes by these dark creatures that besiege us with their shrieks, threats, and demands.
   Yes, it is that most dreaded, terrifying season. It is the season of elections. Politicians span across the land like hordes of zombies. Their emotional threats and promises and their irrational arguments will steal our brains, if we allow them. Each candidate wears a mask of patriotic, benign, compassionate generosity, as each adopts a tone of sincere rationality. And each candidate depicts his opponent as a rabid, voracious creature intent on the destruction of everything we hold dear: our lifestyle, our economy, and our form of government, not to mention the desecration  of every dearly held value from the sanctity of life and family to the method of determining the NCAA football standings. According to each candidate, his opponent threatens the very bread and circuses on which we depend. If we are to avoid the Zombie-pocalypse, we must give them candy, in the form of votes and tax money. We must give one candidate treats in order to avoid the tricks of the demonic opponent (or so each would have us believe).
   So, on the morning after the election, when the politicians have retreated to Washington like spirits returning to graves when the cock crows, we are left with empty candy bowls and perhaps empty skulls (to go along with the empty promises).
   The winners chortle and celebrate, while the losers retreat to glower and lick their wounds as they plot revenge. The sun rises over the land. Those of us who have not surrendered our brains to the political zombies shake our heads in consternation as the cycle begins anew.
   And in graveyards across the country, we can hear the faint sound of whirling and perhaps a low moaning from the graves of the forefathers who started our experiment in democracy.

The Aging Satyr

I haven't posted anything here in some time. I am posting my latest poem. I would appreciate any response, suggestions, etc. I'll be interested in what people say.

The Aging Satyr

The image in the mirror contemplates

the kindly eyes, serene benignant smile.

The physiognomy reflects a mind

controlled by thoughtful structured intellect.

Behind the careful civilized façade

an alter ego lurks with leering eyes.

The satyr’s nostrils flare, inhale,

entranced by  wafts

of flowers’ fertile musk.

The pendulous flesh of fruit

that droops from languid vines

delights the lolling tongue.

The slurps of heady wine,

 juice of rounded ruby grapes,

               intoxicate and slake his burning thirst.

Nymphs frolic, innocent,

                              curved limbs of porcelain

flow to the flute’s enchanting call

               like Krishna’s milkmaids dancing.

The satyr leers and smiles

               at plies and pirouettes,

the flash of nubile flesh.

Their impromptu choreography

arouses memories

of lust

more ember heat than flame.

The dancing done, the graceful nymphs depart

like fading notes of music on the breeze.

The wistful wanton satyr sighs and turns

to the restraints of intellect that bind.

Perhaps constraints of thought that form the walls

of his confinement, shelter more than jail,

the consolation of philosophy.

As aging soothes the itch along the nerves

and appetites become a memory,

contentment’s mellow solace may replace

the rage of lust, voracity of flesh.

The satyr gazes out from smiling eyes:

the longing smolders, bittersweet, within.

Robert C. Covel

15 October 2012