The Lonely Traveler (or The Tale of Cup and Plate)

The golden sun had set upon the wolds
and the cold autumn winds were blowing in the folds.
O'er many a grey, forgotten road,
a lone traveler carried his load.

His heavy load was a sack
which hung o'er his shoulder and on his back.
In the sack was food—how not?—
but in the bottom was something which of gold was wrought.

A cup it was; it was studded with jewels
which had been found in cold, dark pools
which had of old been dragons' hoards
but had been filled with water by olden lords.

Beside the cup there was a plate
whose gems and gold had been mined with hate
from mountains' sides by dwarfs of old;
but now its olden gold was cold.

Who now knows what dark, terrible fate
fell to this traveler and his cup and plate?

T. G. 2014 (?)

After the Blizzard

Skipping and slipping on the snow-bound street,

Sometimes splashing through shallow pools,

Sometimes sinking in slush-streaked piles

The ploughs pushed out of traffic's tracks.

A car traces curves to pass a truck

And splatters me with half-frozen muck

Made when melting flakes mixed with mud.

When at last I've wended my longish way

Through the moist, cool air to Liberty Lunch,

Hot coffee without heavy cream

(For I prefer to taste what I've been deprived),

Poured mostly into the mug, but a few drops splash

An archipelago on the vinyl table-top;

And meaty patty, juicy, medium-well,

The fries just the right amount too hot.

Why do I smile when the waitress wails,

"José, can you see?" to a bald head in a booth,

Instead of annoyed by this abbreviated aria

Which drags my distracted gaze from the page?

I grin, and think of how craft is served

By lowly laughter above lofty wit.

T. G. 2/25/2026

The Fall of Rome

Thus, [the destruction of] the ancient world, that first brilliant coming of European culture . . . was not due to . . . the Germanic tribes. But "only" to a thought out of Asia, that simple subtle thought, that had been there very long but which took the form the teacher Christ gave to it. ~Hermann Hesse

Romulus paced the paving stones

    Of his basilica

Where once the pagan iudex had

    Upheld the Roman law.

His eyes beneath the laurel wreath

    Beheld the thorny Crown,

And from the Cross the King upon

    The Emperor looked down.

Odovacar was at the gate

    With Gothic puissantry,

For he would change the mild regime

    Of Roman tyranny

For harsh barbaric willfulness

    And freedom of the senses.

He stood in wait to storm the gate

    And batter Rome's defenses.

But Rome had fallen from within,

    No longer civilized.

The city's anarchy was with

    An Emperor disguised.

No victory Odovacar

    Would gain when he marched in,

For if there is no one to lose,

    How can the victor win?

No longer suckled by the wolf,

    This Romulus partook

Of Blood drawn from the Virgin's Son,

    Shed when the temple shook.

The worship of the Jewish King

    Had spread from East to West,

And trappings of a pagan court

    Could not endure the test.

When Constantine in Three-Thirteen

    Proclaimed the Christian free,

No outer change to Roman rule

    Could saintly Helen see.

But underneath the golden scales

    Of Jove's Iustitia

A new and shining city grew

    That shunned draconic law.

When Romulus Augustulus

    Was cast down from his throne,

The scales fell from the Roman eyes,

    And soon it would be known

That Rome had been a chrysalis,

    And what emerged therefrom

Was Rome again, but virtuous—

    The blessèd Christendom.

T. G. 2/20/2026

Rachel

Aged bordeaux crimson lay the stain

Upon the silken wedding train

That rested with a wrinkled fold

Beneath her lifeless left hand's gold.

Her skin was pale and cold, like snow

That never melts. An Eskimo

Could not with certainty have said

If she was made of ice or dead.

But he who from the chapel fled

With bloody knife in hand did know

That he had left her dead and cold

Who once with him in bed had lain.

T.G. 1/21/2023