Poetic Movements

Congested round the edges 
Of a stagnant pond, observe 

The lyre-like fronds 
Of ferns 

Behind which croaking 
Troubadours compose 

Watery, crepuscular songs. 

A Tom Clark Poem

Like a fleeting heart 
Beat that causes me to stop 
To catch my breath 

Wherever it was 
I was going. 

 

Clouds on the Horizon

In this picture snapped 
Against a background of clouds 
In a green meadow, the common

Edible field mushroom has 
The appearance of a giant flying 
Saucer that has just touched 

Down and whose crew is justly nebulous 
About meeting the earthlings 
They've heard so little about 

And who are now more than likely 
Getting ready to welcome them 
With another species 

Of mushrooming giant. 

To a Poet Friend Drowning in Bathos

Had you but one iota left 
Of the deep lightness of a Herrick 

To keep you from going under, 
You’d have no need of a derrick. 

Another One for Rita, Hunchback Dwarf Forager

No beauty sleep for her 
Who recognizes all those uncommon 
Lovely greens one needs to know, 
Sets off before the morning 
Sun can wilt them, sells them after
For a pretty penny to housewives 
Too busy trying not to look ugly 
To get up and go.

To Oz Moses, Horticulturist

Plucked by a cryptic hand, no more 
Flower trysts for you, my friend 

Who cultivated the light openly 
Hoping it would never end. 

New Leaf

Quick, quick, the leaf, the leaf! 
How full of joy that

Whosoever has the eyes 
To weep when e’er a dying

One turns slowly over
And falls asleep. 

Fixation (In the Manner of O'Hara)

I don’t have a cat 
But if I did, I know 

I’d want it to be 
Like Frank’s great 

Orange tawny one, Boris 
(Armed with Madness) Butts, 

The one he describes so lovingly, 
Aptly in “Cantata”— 

And if you want to know 
Why, you’ll just have to 

Part with that wild hair 
Up your ass, too.

Smoke Screen

We all drive by 

The homeland the scene 
It looks terrible 

All these people up in smoke— 
No body screams. 

Misunderstood Muse

Year after year she wasted away 

Consuming notebook after notebook with what 
Husband and son imagined contagious nonsense— 

Having kept their distance, it made sense after 
She departed to chuck the lot in the fireplace. 



NB: Sadly enough, a true story which transpired in a neighboring village many years ago; only the roles of the spouses have been exchanged to make it and the title more “poetic”.

Double Whammy

charmer, the man 
you vooded 

never knew what 
hit him where 

it hurt 
you too. 

Lynch Mobber

I remember the times they 

Spelt nothing but trouble 
And we had no time 

To stand around pretending 
We were just 

Innocent bystanders. 

Virtual Cowboy

Whoa, there! I know 

There must be better ways 
To while away a morning than watching 

A horse grazing in a vacant lot 
Next to your house, 

But right now I feel right 
At home right here, 

Pardner. 

Metamorphosis of a Blythe Spirit

No skylark, summer found him one morning 
In an olive grove, waiting for the cicadas 
To begin their song from limb to limb; 

One evening at the end of autumn, 
Nailed to a twisted trunk, 
They found the shell of him.