James Doyle

GODLY

The preacher cornered me in the dark
vestibule of the church and whispered,
“Be Godly.” Okay, then. I hurried
right out into nature for the usual

surrogates. Leaves, a vineyard half
in rot. A creek, trying to wax poetic,
kept getting snagged in backwater
ponds only flies would find appetizing.

So there I was, made in God’s own
image, which apparently wasn’t enough.
Walk Godly, dream Godly? Obviously,
marriage and raising children didn’t

much emulate a Supreme Being sufficient
unto Itself. So I tried geography:
Zen gardens, maybe even Zen nations,
big spate of cathedrals across Europe.

Northern Lights for the transcendental.
I thumbed history, but it was too
much like me and everyone else.
I grabbed the preacher by the lapels,

shook him from side to side, shouted:
“What do you mean, be Godly?”
But he had died long ago, which accounted
for the bony smile, the echo, and the ants.

–from Rattle #31, Summer 2009

James Doyle

THE FLIPPANT ZEITGEIST

wants Pancho Villa, Dead or Alive,
Shirley Temple mooning, Lincoln still

watching the play in his stove-pipe
hat. The audience behind him can’t see

anything on the stage but an occasional
flash of thigh. Then he keels over

and the big picture is clear again.
O, Twenty-First Century, sit back down,

let’s talk about your childhood, parents,
your fear of wars, Darwin on the couch,

the invention of steam shovels, Freud’s dirty
mind, and the Golden Railroad Age. We know

how hard it is to grow up when you’ve been
that abused. No wonder you feel the Weltschmerz

has let you down, no wonder you can’t unhook
your knickers. You wander around, looking

for something computers can’t do. O, bring
back Gene Kelly, tap-dancing and the simple

life! So what if you can’t carry a tune
or a wheelbarrow? You’ve got to stop

watching yourself on TV. Brush the ants
off your pants and step lively now.

The Twenty-Second Century is roaring round
the bend. And you’re stuck on the tracks.

–from Rattle #26, Winter 2006

James Doyle

SCHOOLGIRLS

Schoolgirls in black skirts
and white blouses water flowers
that bloom only in the night.

One of the girls wears a laurel
crown, another has a thin scar
down her leg and around her ankle.

The teacher, at the far corner
of the field, sands the ancient
clapper which will call them in.

The fence around the field
and school house is electrified,
but that doesn’t keep boyfriends

from trying to climb it.
Their bodies, strewn all over
the mesh, waste away much

too slowly. The janitor works
overtime to scrape them off,
but he can’t keep up. The girls are

studying biology, will get to stay
up late to watch the flowering.
When the clapper goes off, they line

double-file in order of height, march
out of recess to classical strains.
The fence fills up again.

–from Rattle #28, Winter 2007