The Poet As a Man Mocked by Dreams

So! His mind had been snapped
up by turtles,
an unheard-of soup, last night
the night before, he had spilled the beans
to the paper staring at him blankly,
a real mess, no matter, i am a poet,
i like to fish, fresh air
feel out the sun, deep cool wells, go on

through tall reeds, banking
on the river

she had said, be careful
the moonbeams,
the road narrowing
along the river and the long grass
gather me
about your knees,
the good, black earth.

later
in the white house,
cobwebs and a lizard's
tail. please eat this
apple.

on the wall, a black
form, weeding.

deep eyes, a neck
braided with wrinkles:
my mother, she said
do drink this water.

no, just sunlight, please.
then the night, a clumsy
spy, a mock turtle losing
its cover.

and a strange cold inside.

(from Sentences, 1976)

Heavenly Ablutions of the Third Kind

Heavenly Ablutions of the Third Kind aka The Khyrgyzstan Water Bucket Brigade.

caveat.com

Wry wit twists:

Do not deign
To surfeit.

Child's Window on a Rainy World

Trying

To grasp the rain-
Drops from inside

The pane.

Beached Aphrodite

here

whispering in
the sand-

man's ear.

Fruits of Labor

Those who have the grudge roiling
In the pit of their stomachs,

That the plum should be theirs
Merely for the taking,

Shall have that fruit soiled
By the drudge slow worm

Blindly toiling.

Definitely Not Lemmings #18

My thanks to Irina for signing on as another DNL; she has four blogs, all of which are worth looking into. So what are you waiting for?

Why Paul Celan Cannot Be Called a Nihilist

He knew that calling
Things by their proper

Name names nothing
If the caller is a void.

Insomniac

The poem that will not let you sleep
Until it is written, that is the dream

You must keep awake.

Affirmation

Looking in

And seeing the two gray-
Headed brothers in

Animated conversation
From outside the coffeehouse,

One can only imagine
What they are saying,

But their smiles tell us
They are alive within,

The one thing we want
To hear.

Railroaded

On the way to Hallelujah Junction,
He found his carriage shunted

To a long line of rotting boxcars
On a short stretch

Of godforsaken track.

The Long and Short of It et al

This is how

yours truly whiles time

a way in-
between more

pressing
chores

which
matter
more?

Age of Aquarius

Sometimes at night I’ll awaken to rainfall on the roof tiles and I think of poets all over the world, their fingers tapping out words on the keys.
--James Finnegan


wherein the cleansing
rain drops will

slowly fill to the brim
the rusted tin

pan under the eaves only
if the sullen skies do not

open to let the sun
shine in.

Bringing It All Back Home on the Messinian Range

With apologies to one of the Last Great Riders of the Purple Sage, Robert Zimmerman, also still hard at work Bringing It All Back Home!

As I Live and Breathe

I may be plumb tuckered,
Tired and worn out,

But

To my dying day, I swear
I’ll never utter another

Lifeless cliché.

Measure of Grief

Sigh as long as you

Don’t keep it in.

Prodigal

The Lost Son?

Some lost souls say he was never lost
To begin with, though it’s hard
For the poor mind wanting

To grasp how
He was the profligate
Who found himself

By wasting it all away.

Hagoromo, David Miller

Recently received from the author: A small selection of Miller's previously uncollected poetry, which draws on work from the 1970s to the present. The ink-on-paper cover--"Untitled (Blue & Black)"--is also by David. Always a pleasure to receive something from such a gifted poet.

Regarding Wards of the State

When impermanence states
The spoken

Word’s ir-
Revocable, the

Written ir-
Reversible,

Then irresistible

Silence becomes
Our sole constant re-

Minder.

Doppelgänger

imagine a double

crossing the mirror
with your face

en face.

Tumified

Buoyed by the thought
Of casting off

All seven deadly sins,
He thought he heard

One calling him
To walk on water

In total immersion
Till he could no longer

Take it in.

Struck Dumb by Laziness

Hard to believe?

Even dumb things astonish
By ringing true to the ear

To the sound tinkering thinker
Who does nothing

But listens simply to hear.

Of Poetry and Its Poetic

“Perfection Has It's Price”—
The Motto that Guides My Poetry Practice
--for Joseph Hutchison

Dear Joe,

It’s apo-
Strophic

Poesy re-
Turning,

Paying its price-
Less perfection,

Yours again,
With affection.

The Little House That Jack Built

There was a house here once,
Which used to house a jackass
Peering from an opening

That used to be a door
When a passerby appeared,
But he peers no more.

No more Jack, no more house,
No more door, no more glaring
Jackass, broken stones galore.

Extra! Extra! Read All About It!

Weekly Hubris Hits the Streets!
Wherein 12 intrepid writers join forces against the alarming proliferation and dissemination of mass media skullduggery amongst the malleable masses. Get your copy now!

Life Studies Light

Of its myriad meanings
One remains essential,

Which leads one to ask
If light is of the essence,

What is the essence of light?