Oh, I like this new game Of Papa’s—these strange little Light things he picked up To show me—he calls them Leaves—how they race along Where he placed them next To each other turning Over and over and me Running after them Like crazy I hope The one he said was mine wins.
All that’s left is a mound of detritus— Barely enough to remind us it stood Tall and strong as the family that held Sway over it, a domain now infested By burrowing creatures of the night— Let’s say blind earthworms with feelers Breathing through dank skins, sensing Their way through the dark by gauging Changes in the ever-changing light.
Who toil Throwing out lines jammed With flotsam and jetsam
Day-after-day making their craft Trim, secure and lasting, Ending up perfect
Shipwrecks that won’t go away.
Moderator’s comments: I can think of no better example of the time-tested, found to be sound conceit “sink or swim” than this sparkling pearl of wisdom fished out of the murky poetic waters by our trusty trawling seafarer and sounding board, Huuklyeand Cinquor. And to think that his too, too long absence had me seriously considering abandoning all hope of ever hearing from him again.
I know deep down in my bones the moon really isn’t the moon and the earth isn’t the earth either and not only that but everything else in and under the heavens must be more than what it seems— even the air caressing my body smells mysteriously of moldy green cheese.
Cypress trees take souls, at least That’s what my mother-in-law Claims as we sit under our tall, Twinned ones having breakfast Before my wife takes her To the doctor for a belated checkup: Olives give us life, my son; besides, I don’t recall seeing any olive trees In cemeteries, do you?
My dearest Sylvia-- (May I call you that?) Forgive me but I think It's high time you knew
Your pure peerless line Of pears fattening keeps on Thriving as never before, Being ravenously consumed
By bookish little Buddha inchworms Contemplating their navels
All the way down to a rotten core.
Moderator's comments: I see no signs of any delusion in this missive but then again, too much language-oriented omphaloskepsis on my part makes it difficult for me to distinguish my umbilicus from my belly button.
Savants who should know better Keep telling me it’s best To let things go; the next thing You know they’ll be underground Just like me, wishing they’d held on To whatever they cherished A wee bit more.
Moderator’s comments: “Less is more”— Ludwig Mies van der Rohe
Gentlemen, have we all gone mad? In the Muse’s name, let us Proceed with all due haste! Clearly there are other things More crucial to our material And spiritual well-being, With examples so bountiful that Many of our disillusioned Noble riders believe Such romanticisms should be Summarily dismissed as being Inconsequential and irrelevant To the nightmarish issue that keeps Rearing its ugly head before us, to wit:
Do we have a quorum? Or more to the point, Have we ever had one?
Moderator’s comments: I think it’s high time Huuk dismounted his high horse and went to pasture. With the exception of the plague of stable boys and girls who keep grooming Pegasus for the next running of the MFA Perennial Win Place and Show Poetry Sweepstakes, who gives a flying Phaeton fuckaroo about poetry, anyway?
Are you reading this? Well, Nailed to the wall of the derelict latrine Next to the yellowed stool, A rusty spike holds all The news from the rearguard That’s shit to print, you fool.
Moderator’s comments: A close reading of this poem reveals Cinquor’s forte, namely his en garde rapier-like wit deceptively hiding under the surface but always ready to leap forth and revel in exposing the foibles of contemporary verse theory. All well and welcome, of course, but permit me to have my reservations about the intentions behind his pressing yellow attacks on such an august postmodern body of verse learning. A bit more to the point: Scuttlebutt on the blogosphere has it he’s preparing a tome of his apophthegmata and planning to use this blog as a launching pad. If this is indeed the case, I must impress on him the fact that copyright law dictates I be paid in full, if and when his coprolalia eventually hits the fan.
The logging town’s main drag was once Planks supported on stilts above the mud- Flats where amongst the taverns and cat- Houses, drunks could be seen falling Through rotting boards or over the railings, While the upright citizenry kept voting In sheriffs who stood for whores galore And the inalienable rights of winos delirious To bite off the heads of snakes at a nickel A score offered by thrill-seeking urchins Who kept thirsting for more.
Sometimes I dream I never left My poor miserable homeland, That I never went to the new world Where dollars were said to be Plentiful as leaves falling From trees and all you had To do was keep stooped over so You could pick them up with ease, And where now I dream I wake up rich and not deformed Beyond my wildest dreams.
Maiden voyage making my way To the new world, so naïve At four I didn’t know what To make of an ice cream when It was handed to me on deck By the first black man I’d ever seen.
Standing frozen there next to mom, I held on to it and her and watched It melting as I mustered the courage To move to the railing and throw it away— I still don’t know what flavor it was I was casting away.