The Weight

Forgive me love but you were so 

Light and transparent, I didn’t feel you

Flying head over heels with me 

Over the deep end. 

The Living Daylights

My, my, all my pretty ones, 

Aren’t we a picture? Oh, 

Night’s a flying the coop, 

The crescent’s stuck 

On the vane, hallelujahs

On high for the lunatic cock 

That shall egg on the chicks 

That shall startle the yolk 

That shall sire the albumen 

Sunny-side up day after day! 

Bauble

A poem given, a gift

To cherish but not 

To gawk over, 

You stumblebum.

The Way of All Things

If these clouds would just keep still 

Long enough, we could go on 

Trying to capture them. 

Sea of Sorrow

Grief never goes 

So deep as 

When it strikes 

Rock bottom. 

Dirty Old Politician

A fish stinks from the head down. 

—Greek proverb 

That’s what they say about us but 

All I know Christ is it ever cold today 

And duty is duty so I’m sitting here 

In the dining room marking off 

The demands of my constituents and the maid 

She’s shivering, bent over the kitchen sink, 

Wearing a tight-fitting outfit 

That I bet makes even 

The blood of the fish 

She’s gutting steaming hot— 

Makes me feel like warming my hands up a bit— 

So I get up close behind her, blow hot 

On that cool nape, massage her shoulders 

And rub up and down her backside 

All for the good of the Motherland but 

Enough’s enough my friends I kid you not 

It’s time we get this fishy business over with 

So she can get down to giving me all 
The no-nonsense loving I lack. 

Shooting the Zephyr

Village folk round here have a saying 

As old as Hephaestus:  

When the tongues 

Of fire in the hearth 

Hiss as if blown 

By some invisible bellows, 

Someone’s talking about you— 

If you ask me, that’s reason enough 

We should all watch 

Our tongues too. 

Why I Didn't Write a Poem This Morning

Caught 

In a sudden light drizzle, I spent most 

Of my energy musing 

Under the eaves 

Watching our pup, mouth 

Wide open, trying 

To catch 

Some shining 

Drops coming out 

Of the downspout—surely 

Here was an other 
Kind of thirst.

Last Meditation in an Emergency

I’ve had it with your mantras— 

I bet if Frank were here, 

He’d say something like 

A sure-fire way to stop clutter 

Cluttering your head is to stop 

Wondering why 

Sirens sing in your ear.

On a Line of My Wife's and Some Others Borrowed from George Oppen

“Why, you’re just a boy with white hair!” 

Which made me think of that other 

White-haired “boy” writing

A poem about a friend visiting 

The rooms of Keats and Shelley, 

Who saw “they were just 

Boys’ rooms” and was moved 

By that.  

 .

And indeed for the poet, 

A poet’s room is a boy’s room 

And he supposes women know it— 

Perhaps the unbeautiful banker 

Is exciting to a woman, a man 

Not a boy gasping 

For breath over a girl’s body.

. 

Perhaps 

That is what remains breathless, beautiful 

In this in which 

Some people never know. 

Prescription Approaching Expiry Date

A poem a day keeps— 

For God’s sake, don’t 

Think about it before 

Throwing it away. 

We Gotta Get out of This Place

Lovable manners, lady? 

Maybe an endearing trait 

In domesticated animals, 

But when poets want to play 

Lapdog, it’s time 

To call the pound. 

Fasten Your Seatbelts, Please

Earthlings, 

Those of you sick to death of being stuck in one place all your lives and who now wish to become followers of the Church of the Holey Galactic Bucket Seat Brigade, please take one step forward. Our craft will be departing shortly.

Aporia of a Somewhat Irreverent Lost Soul

It’s still Greek to me—though 

I know the good book says that 

Somewhere someone above all 

This is both the Alpha and the Omega, why 

Is there no table of contents? 

A Critique on Blake's Songs of Innocence and of Experience Written by One Old Enough to Know Better

All in all, an encouraging effort in retrospect but still 

One should use the imagination sparingly, William— 

Too much of a good thing spoils 

An unruly child.

Definitely Not Lemmings #43

As the poem below illustrates, it’s currently freezing over here at The Milk and Honey House, so it’s time to give a warm welcome to Miroslav Dušanić, a Bosnian poet-in-exile living and working in Hildesheim, Germany. Miroslav writes in Serbian and German and you can visit his blog here. Thank you, Miroslav!

Polar Bare Treacle at The Milk and Honey House (Meligalas)

Stark naked 

At three below 

With the two 

Galvanized pails full 

Of water out waiting 

All night for the morning 

Over-the-head ablutions 

Now wearing ice caps—so 

Mush before the sun melts us all, 

You foot-dragging old dog! 

 

Midnight Rambler

Inspiration? 

No need to use it 

As a foil— 

In the end 

You’ll still be caught 

In the middle, the night just 

Beginning with your burning 

The midnight oil. 

Ventriloquist

Mudslinger, 

Keep throwing it long enough 

And soon you’ll hear 

Your voice carrying above 

All the other dummies— 

Do you really want to hear? 

Abandoned

I know my simile’s weak but still

I insist these old houses are like old people 

In one aspect at least—finding themselves alone 

They fall silent, 

And wait and wait and wait 

Till they find themselves falling, 

Falling into a deep, uninterrupted sleep. 

Bushwhacker

The moon’s a round 

Pale-faced lunatic lurking 

Behind those silver-lined clouds— 

Watch out, you star-struck fool!

One Writer's New Year's Resolution

I want to get something out 

that is working away at me. 

—Stevie Smith 

So I’m going 

To keep on walking past 

Midnight through this graveyard 

Even if it kills me— 

You? 

Alms

I beg to differ 

With you, sir

Is it not more 

A matter of your refusing 

Than my asking 

Forgiveness for you too? 

Confessional

I have to get this off my chest— 

The more I put down on paper, 

The less my bitter heart feels 

At rest. 

Do I Look Like Your Fairy Godmother?

Dear Pollyanna— 

From where I’m standing 

Here amongst the asphodels, 

I can tell you if you want 

To begin with 

Once upon a time

You’d better not 

End it happily 

Ever after. 

John Berryman and Friend, Minneapolis, 1972

Enough’s enough 

Heraclitus, don’t you go 

Tell me again 

 

I know 

This river is different. 

NB: John Berryman committed suicide on January 7 (Nativity of St. John the Baptist or Forerunner).

Epiphany

We closed our eyes 

And then the heavens 

Opened and we heard 

That unmistakable sound 

Of rain arriving hard on the wings 

Of an insistent wind, 

Our eyelids softly fluttering. 

Drowning in Memories

Undulating, think of an ocean—still, 

No time this time even 

To wave. 

An Otherwise Tranquil Setting

Going past 

A stench, 

Then seeing 

A shining red 

Beetle parked 

Next to some white 

Sheep baaing over screams 

Escaping from the hog farm 

Makes it all so stunning 

You don’t know 

Which way to go. 

Today's Lesson: Building on Experience

What 

Can one learn 

From this wall of numberless black 

Stones surrounding this cemetery? 

Patience. 

In Credible Evidence

Our politicos? 

They’re unerring. Give them something 

To believe in and they’ll plug it 

Full of holes. 

Announcing the Results of Vazambam's Poetry Giveaway Contest!

                            Some rembetika before the big moment. 

 

                             The hand in the hat……………and
 

Congratulations to Elisabeth Hanscombe and Tom Clark! Your copies of Sentences will shortly be in the mail. I also want to thank everybody who participated in the contest—all of you are winners even if you didn’t win this one. 

(By the way, my first girlfriend's name was Jacqueline aka "Jackie".)