The Nympho Muse's Classic Ruse

So you think the trick’s in 

Playing it straight 

And narrow, eh? 

Well, come again, Mr. 

Prim and proper one shot— 

That wild Parian would 

Shaft me widely from every angle 

And with a twisted, wicked slant.

VAZAMBAM EXCLUSIVE: DUTCH TOURIST DISCOVERS NEW ENTRANCE TO HADES!

In lieu of my usual poetic fare, I want to promote this exclusive once-in-a-lifetime photo taken only yesterday on one of the side streets of Meligalas only a few feet from the town’s main thoroughfare. With one foot on a ladder (which the local authorities presumably used as a warning marker) and with the promise of hitherto unimagined heights of elation awaiting him, we can see the tourist in question proudly showing off his discovery; unfortunately, before he could return with the proper spelunking gear, he found the entrance hermetically sealed by these same authorities who perhaps suddenly became wary of the adverse odoriferous publicity that would run rampant were the area to be overrun by tourists flocking to see a tributary of the effluent Styx flowing mellifluously under their feet. 

By the way, I think it highly poetic and fitting that this intrepid discoverer should hail from one of Europe’s Low Countries.

Ionian

white 

pebbles

in

the

sun

the

sea

run

ning

all

the

blue

in

the

world

and

then

some

Frame of Reference

Lay your burden down, brother— 

I’m sure you’ve heard this one before 

And I don’t want to sound irreverent 

Or flippant but isn’t it a bit incongruous? 

I mean, we’ve been lugging 

Our frames around for ages 

And we still don’t know where 

The big picture is. 

Metaphysical Iris

Sense! 

You keep after me saying it’s merely 

A matter of sense but in what sense 

Shall you stalk me in my absence? 

Final Electrifying Performance before the Polls

The firebrand 

Sturm und Drang poet turned 

Pol knew he had them 

Eating out of his hands when 

Their brows were singed 

By a tumultuous clap 

Of thunder. 

Nuff Said

He wanted to snuff 

Death out 

Of his nostrils. 

Old Timers' Resurrection

Easter is the time 

We are reminded of 

Christ’s incredible feat— 

Believe it or not, it happens 

Every year without fail 

And we rejoice once more 

And wonder if we’ll live 

To remember it 

Next year. 

Field

Of composition: 

The red wind- 

Swept wind 

Flowers encircling 

A lone 

Wild fig tree tossing 

In the center 

Of an undulating 

Green. 

Busker Klee Shayd Tudéth’s “Skid Row Pedestrian Spiel”

(Key of lachrymose acrimony) 

Someday I’m gonna get that
Tin-eared Tin Pan Alley plugger
Who done this to me and make him pay—
One way or another, bet your bottom dollar
He’ll get what’s coming, come what may.

While we’re waiting, mister
You sure do look familiar, so don’t give me
That idiomatic song and dance
‘bout times being hard—You 
Can’t spare a dime? Like hell!
I hear platters are a dime a dozen
On Easy Street. And me?
I ain’t eaten in a week.

On the Style of a Certain "Decadent" Alexandrian

(after E.M. Forster’s famous description of C.P. Cavafy) 

Don’t look away, philistine—he looks 

To be bending 

His frame of reference slightly 

Aslant to the world’s 

Universal decadence. 

Quest

lost 

pilgrim 

finds

himself 

on 

godforsaken 

path

he 

calls 

progress 

Distance

—for Tom Clark 

I must tell you how

Under a clear afternoon sky, 

I sat under an umbrella 

Reading a friend’s book 

Of poems that had traveled 

Halfway round the world 

To end up here— 

In the evening, no umbrella, 

No moon in sight, no need to tell you 

How close the stars were that night. 

Bashô, There’s a Frog in My Throat

Dying to hear one 

Another’s croaking— 

Let’s jump in. 

Malady of the Squint-eyed Kid

Whatever has come over me?

My thinking’s cloudy, I cannot see—

On second thoughts, no use to think,

No use to see

Whatever it is,

It must be me. 

One More Transient Thought for the Day

When the watchdog you keep mindfully

On a leash keeps on barking 

In the dead of night, be on the lookout 

For strays out looking 

 

For somewhere to bed down,

And not just for the night. 

Startled by the Unimaginable

To understand how sunstruck 

Swallows resemble angels 

Of the morning, 

One only has to imagine two 

Of them flying through two 

Different windows, hovering 

Together over a double 

Bed before darting out, each 

Through a different window— 

See how easy that was? 

Conrad DiDiodato's Bridget Bird and Other Poems

 

Recently arrived:  All the way from Canada—with lots of wonderful poems tucked under her wings—a sprightly little creature named Bridget! If prospective readers want some idea of the cargo she’s carrying, all they have to do is read what Katherine L. Gordon says about it on the book’s back cover and then wing themselves to the nearest bookstore and--I'll give them six seconds to sing--buy it! 

Aporia

When I’m beside myself, 

The last thing I want 

 

To think about is why 

That person beside me looks lonely. 

 

 

Wind Chimes

recounting 

Cid’s windbell 

tattle— 

telling 

nothing 

nothing 

but still telling