Poem For The Duration

--for Eleni, forever 

Love remains 

The last word 

In a world that never lasts 

Long enough.

 

Writer's Stinking Rut Grotesque

You know you're in 

A thorny one when 

Everything once rosy's now 

Coming up wilted, decomposing 

In a reeking kitchen sink.

 

 

The Art Of Hearing Amongst The Multitudes

 

Hear, hear--
Odd to be here 

Where each human
Sound sounds 

Like no other--even
The same ones

Can't tell the difference
Between them.

 

 

 

When You Can't Sleep, What Else Can You Do But Write?

Which is what the poet 

Jim Daniels says 

About poets plagued by insomnia 

While on hectic reading tours; well, 

I’ve never been on one but 

I’ve never lost any sleep 

Over it either, so you just might 

Keep in mind that sometimes 

Much of the writing of a poem 

Takes place while you’re sleeping— 

Try sleeping on that for a change.

 

 

Once Upon A Time, Naturally

I wrote only about 

How the wind sculpts

The shape of pines,

And not how 

The bed of needles lining

The floor under them 

Helps form how we look

At things round us--

If only we thought 

To lift the coverlet

To examine the mildew

And the impending

Mushrooming rot.