The Calendar

by ST, 1980s--
remember I like puns
and it's helpful
 to know Roman history
 & mythology.

I

January, the door, swings open wide;
        A cold gust from behind meets the comfort inside.
        To the hearth stumbles the aged of snow-white beard,
        Kisses th'infant face, where his lost youth is mirrored.
        He blankets and rocks the child, puts himself off to sleep;
        The babe awakens and plays gleefully at his feet.
        The fire dies 'til naught but embers
        While moon-light sets the snow a-glimmer.

II

February was pure as its new-fallen snows--
        'til there came a cherub without any clothes:
        Sent flying swift arrows tipped in aphrodisiac:
        Then lovers wooed, and woed, "Alas!" and "Alack!"
        Such is our lot, to be Love's martyrs all.
        Poor dears!  To leap in ecstasy with the wound            
                                 causing our fall.

III

March, step in time, as a lion roar.
        Blow bugle:  to the battle; begin a war!
        Vow to conquer or die, before the thing's o'er.
        Yet a truce, call a truce, let the turmoil cease--
        Calm the rage, settle gusty dispute, parley peace.
        Gentle him like a lamb, like its baa, soft as fleece.
        Return him to the planting, the plow, and the farm;
        Make tools of cultivation of all his arms.
        Set his mind to the meadows, the pastures, and barns.

IV

April:  what a fool to be caught in the rain!
        Such showers have such powers to drench the brain,
        For the seeds now are planted, and Venus takes up her reign.
        Mother of Desire, whom she sent before . . .
        Mother, too, of a founder, in tales of yore--
        She promises good fortune and victory
                                     to those who win her favor,
        Thus Irony's guardian of chastity makes lovers the braver.

V

May the earth in its course following season after season
        And holder of the world--with seven daughter of light:
        Greatest and brightest is Maia to spring,
        A goddess born of nature but married to fire and craft
        Lest a young man's fancy has not cupid's wing,
        This Day weave the wanderings of his inclination to its cast--
        Come forth now to renew nature's lease on
        All that grows, and creeps, and has flight.

VI

June, O June, wife and sister both the same,
        What difference to offer the change in her name?
        Offer a diamond, for a chest of treasures will she hope,
        Bring guests and make merry, she'll serve but cantaloupe.
        Her well-being surrounds a simple gold band,
        And its prefix, to fit the small finger of her hand.   

VII

July-bright is the sun in height of full glory,
        But the bands in the sky remember the story:
        How through many a storm all this was won,
     And the eagle's early flight was unsteady, unsure its first roam.
        Now, even now, are murmurs from within--
        Beware the false stroke of a supposed friend. 

VIII

August majesty, dignity befitting renown--
        Summer's triumvirate becomes the Imperator's crown.
        He rules the world, around the world's sea.
        He rules every man--slave, bond, and free--
        He stretches his boundaries, expanding to encompass all,
        Yet the Empire ripens, ever ripens, toward its fall.

IX

September remembrances follow the summer,
        Of days and of deeds in months that were warmer.
        Who can, makes the seventh into the ninth--
        Procrastinating the age or hastening the birth,
        For pregnant are the fields, ready to deliver:
        Pause only a moment, now comes the day of labor.

X

October, the tenth (two later than its due)
        Tithes all its increase by ripening much too!
        When full are the days, the workmen, and the keep,
        A dirge of a melody hints of shorter days, a longer sleep.
        Chilling fingers pluck the strings, densely falls the aire,
        A summons for phantoms:  Let all beware
        That icy touch that colors, for its touch kills
        The fruit of the garden and cover of the hills.

XI

November, all in keeping, let us make a great feast,
        Give thanks for the bread, the fruit, and the meat.
        Humble our souls for those who haven't plenty,
        Offer our hands to lift the sorrowing gently.
        Remember our pilgrimage, the troubles we trod,
        Give thanks for the Mercy of All-wise God.

XII

December, when full dozen months are now come,
       We'll celebrate and decorate the hearth, heart, and home.
       Holidays, Holy Days, gifts and good cheer,
       Old-age's old days' acquaintances come to be near.
       Whitened bows the head of the retiring year,
       Yet not sorrowful but joyous carols does he hear:
       The old fellow smiles, for the long awaited peace . . .
                                    whispers in his ear.