Saturday, July 26, 2014

Oracular

—for Huuklyeand Cinquor 
  il miglior fabbro. 


Convoluted his verse and so 
Vatic the meaning mind
You have to divine 
Which way it’s going by 
The manner in which 
His feet and mouth perhaps 
Even his entrails are twisted. 


Thursday, July 24, 2014

Tottering Suicidal State of Emergency


This unerring 

Bullet securely homed in 
On the insecure 

Heart of America, 
How much longer do we have 
To wait 

Till it strikes home. 



Tuesday, July 22, 2014

Count Your Lucky Stars


If it were so 
Easy, you would have 

Done it plus a myriad 
Other things like it 

A million times— 
Just try 

Counting the times 
You tried. 



Saturday, July 19, 2014

Bump on a Log


"If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?” 


Don’t bother answering that— 
Whether in forest or not, 

Stand there long enough 
Doing nothing and sure 

Enough you’ll hear that 
Splitting cry of “Timber!” 

Definitely not whispering sweet 
Nothings in your ear. 




Tuesday, July 15, 2014

Spirit of the Stream


I love to hear 
Your voice so much 
I can’t stand still 

Over this body 
Of water and not speak 
A word of it—even 

To the mute reeds 
Bending with the current 
Against their will. 




Sunday, July 13, 2014

In the Throes of Postmodern Delusion, Huuklyeand Cinquor Fancies Himself Addressing One of the Icons of 20th Century Poetry


My dearest Sylvia--
(May I call you that?)
 
Forgive me but I think 
It's high time you knew

Your pure peerless line
Of pears fattening keeps on

Thriving as never before,
Being ravenously consumed

By bookish little Buddha inchworms
Contemplating their navels

All the way down to a rotten core. 



Moderator's comments: I see no signs of any delusion in this missive but then again, too much language-oriented omphaloskepsis on my part makes it difficult for me to distinguish my umbilicus from my belly button.







Wednesday, July 9, 2014

Tree House


out of nowhere 
one mourning 
dove alighting, 

foraging, finding 
twig after twig 
on the carpet 

of bunched up needles, 
picking just what it needs 
for the finishing 

touches to its twiggy home
artfully hidden somewhere
in the no longer lonesome pine.