Wish You Were Here

Dear heart 
Beat always 
Uneasily expectant 

With whatever passes 
Before us, what 
Say we pretend 

It’s always been here. 

Wishful Thinking, Misanthrope

Sometimes I think 

The world would have been 
A much, much better place 

Without me, so much better 
That I wish I could 

Flash back to that hard dirt floor 
Just before the midwife 

Helped mom push me through 
The darkness, stop everything and settle 

That long-overdue score I have 
With who-knows-what 

That’s killing me—surely 
I could live with that

And wish no more. 

A Poem Should Be (2)

like a bullet 

                                                                      train crashing 

through 

                                                                      your brain. 

Black Sheep

You bleat some things are better off left in the dark— 
If so, why do they keep on moseying back, 
Dragging their white-washed tales behind them? 

Cryptic

Listen up—is it the leaves falling 
Or the sound of the wind dying down 
That wants to interrupt your sleep? 

First Quarter Lunatic on the Horizon

Good heavens! It looks like 
Another basket case— 

The man in the moon’s going 
To sink 

A hook shot hanging 
Upside down 

From the rim! 

Muse

This lovesick ravenous crone 
Impresses 
Her horny claws firmly 
In the soft mud 
Of our mind, tears 
At our bleeding 
Mushy heart, 
Snatches us away 
Like a harpy all the while 
Droning raucously sweet 
Nothings in our ear. 

The Last Village Threnodist

Oh woe unspeakable 
That has befallen us— 

She who kept alive for years 
That ancient dying art has left us 

With no one to better 
Charon’s bitter, 

Bitter song. 

One Last Look Back

Time running out, 
The last time 

You looked, the world was still 
As moving as you hope 

It will be the last time you look. 

Cul-de-sac

You near the end 
Of your life thinking where 
You first went wrong— 

By the time you finish, 
There’s only one signpost left 
And it’s always the right one. 

Huuklyeand Cinquor on Poets Sounding Out Their Voice

No, no, you’re doing fine 
Mates, plumb no deeper— 

You’ll find that buoyant 
Voice you’re looking for bobbing 

Right here near the surface, not 
Sinking at the end 

Of one last desperate line. 


Moderator’s comments: Cinquor twitching like a catastomid on the end of a gaffe(sic)—this guy doesn’t know Trout Fishing in America from The Compleat Angler. Why he presumes to be such an authority on the murky current state of American poetry is anybody’s guess, but there’s a strong possibility it might have something to do with his piscine-sounding name.