Wednesday, December 30, 2015

Bottom Line


I will meet you halfway 
If that is what you want, 

But please don’t ask me 
To decide for you. 


Sunday, December 27, 2015

The Buffalos and Billy the Kid: Raymond, Washington, circa 1951


Sharp shooting pin- 
Ball wizards shoot 

Wads of nickels 
Into bellies 

Of blinking beasts, 
Then mosey on up- 

Stairs to vanishing 
Breed of past 

Prime whores still 
Alive but barely 

Kicking on dying First Street— 
Saloon’s mascot urchin 

Gets down on all fours 
Under Ballys— 

Has more than a hunch 
A few stray buffalo heads
 
Have yet to bite the dust. 


Wednesday, December 23, 2015

Bleeding Heart Haiku


Go on—bloody cry; 
Your heart hasn’t run out yet— 

Give it one more try. 





Sunday, December 20, 2015

Reverse Arrested Development


Why is it 

My three-year-old 
Granddaughter can 
Entertain herself 

For hours on end 
With nothing save her 
Imagination when 

I try musing with that idea 
I end up with nothing 
But a dead end. 





Wednesday, December 16, 2015

Flesh Wound


look again— 


nothing too 

superficial— 


how even this small 

sliver working it- 


self out 

has to 


heal. 




Saturday, December 12, 2015

Troubling Inner Sanctum


Call me 
Quasimodo if you will, 
But whenever I feel 
I have to venture deep 
Inside the troubled 
Heart, I make doubly sure 
All doors are barred 
And the window 
Shutters shut tight— 
I brook no grotesque salivating 
Straightjacketed curiosity 
Seekers disturbing 
My mind’s deformed bent. 

Tuesday, December 8, 2015

Kudos for Joe Blow


Congratulations, sport! 
In belated recognition 
Of your exemplary service 
Above and beyond the call 
Of the daily drudgery roster, 
You’ve been selected 

To receive everything 
Your heart desired but 
Never had time for before 
Now, but you must act now— 
Please sign on the dotted line; 
You can read your eulogy later. 


Friday, December 4, 2015

"Write a Poem for Me, Papa?"


If I’m reading her 
Three-year-old mind 
Right, this could mean 
Either she wants me 
To write another 
Poem about her 
Or for her or who- 
Knows-what but how 
Tell the difference, 
And find words 
To describe how 
Her mind works 
When she’s disarming 
Me so ingenuously right 
Now with that telling 
Look that’s looking right 
Through me as if to say 
It’s all right, Papa 
Whatever you write, 
You’ll still be 
The only grandpa 
I have who’s a poet— 
Whatever that is. 


Wednesday, December 2, 2015

Snuffed, Or the Demise of Existentialism


When your livid 
Being’s being torn asunder
By frivolous absurdities

And you find yourself burning
All your candles before 
They come to an end. 







Sunday, November 29, 2015

Hopeless Romantic Aspirant


It appears 
I have no worldly ambitions 
In the least, at least that’s what 
My discerning, highly 
Esteemed colleagues mostly 
Accuse me of, and I suspect 
They are right—after all, 
All I’ve ever wanted is 
To make myself comfortable 
Before a blank piece of paper 
And make believe 
It’s my whole world. 




Thursday, November 26, 2015

Bald Eagle on Cloud Nine


Oh say if ever 

Those hawkish glorious
Talons of yours turn the world 
Upside down, watch out— 

You’ll always be a sitting 
Duck there on the top 
Looking down. 






Monday, November 23, 2015

Vindication of the Flash in the Pan


It’s true 
By the time you read this, 
I shall have departed 

Forgotten by all 
In a flash of a second, 
And my body too 

Soon dissolved into dust, 
But the mite-like words 
That swirled round 

The whirlwind I once was 
Tell me ungrateful ones, 
Are they not already 

Bedded down on the tips 
Of your bloated and too soon 
Forgetful tongues? 

Thursday, November 19, 2015

Think Again


the voice 
you think 

you hear 
inside you 

thinks twice 
as hard 

as you 
and you 

never know 
it hears 

you, too. 




Sunday, November 15, 2015

Back to Square One, Misfits


From where I sit, 
The long and short of it 

Is that where 
We’re going everyone 

Knows but no- 
One’s falling over 

Backwards to be 
The first to fit 

A square peg 
In a round hole. 




Thursday, November 12, 2015

Spiritual Matters Do Count, Poet


Soul-wracked, sick 
To death of hearing 
About their exploits

In the outside world, 
You will not be there 
Upon their return; still

You wish to leave a message 
That will convince them 
You were there all those times 

When they were elsewhere; 
You have made sure of that 
By leaving your body as evidence. 


Monday, November 9, 2015

Paying Obeisance to the American Dream


Most poor souls who ended up 
Leaving their bodies here 
Came over because friends 
Or relatives wrote 
And told them it was not at all 
Like the old country; 

In this new world 
There was more than you 
Could imagine, plenty 
To do and more 
Money than you 
Ever dreamed of— 

All you had to do 
Was keep your head 
Down, stoop over 
And—without 
Missing a beat— 
Pick it up. 

Friday, November 6, 2015

Wednesday, November 4, 2015

Recycling for Obstinate Dummies


Let me try 

Breaking it down for you 
Once and for all— 

Environmental waste is what remains 
When we take everything 

We want from the earth 
And leave nothing 

But our stinking remains. 


Monday, November 2, 2015

Ionian Threnody


These children being washed 
Up lifeless on our sun-drenched shores, 
From what illustrious race are they descended 
And what woe has brought them to us 
In God’s name? 

Surely some great catastrophe 
Has befallen them 
And they seek nothing 
But a far, far better world than that 
From which they came. 

If we could but tell them 
At last the journey’s over 
And their lives not lived in vain, 
Who would cleanse our bodies 
Of our frightful, faceless shame? 



Saturday, October 31, 2015

Peace for Our Time, Brothers


Sometimes—and it just might be 
This time around—one has to 
Come to terms with the term 
“Unconditional surrender”— 

But like any survivor, be he 
Vanquished or victorious 
Breaking down each 
And every article of war, 

I wouldn’t guarantee it. 




Monday, October 26, 2015

Poet Found Sleeping on the Job


I bet you’ve heard this one time and time again— 
Your next word could be your last. So why 

Weren’t you paying attention? 





Saturday, October 24, 2015

I Reckon That Wannabe Done Reckoned Wrong


There was this whole slew 
Of opportunities awaiting 
His every beck and call, 
But each was blind and deaf 
And couldn’t walk at all. 


Thursday, October 22, 2015

Finally, Out of the Summer Doldrums


The calico dying 
Leaves swirl wildly 

In a grim, grey wind 
Rain pelts down 

In sheets, the poem 
Your writing’s still 

Like that fat cat 
Curled up, purring 

In its fur- 
Lined basket 

Near the fire- 
Place in the corner 

Of the plush living 
Room again. 



Tuesday, October 20, 2015

The Letter I Like to Imagine My Father Wrote to President Truman in 1947


The White House, 
America 

Dear Mr. President Harry, 

My English not so good but 
I want to write you about problem I got. 
I know you a good man and you listen. 
I go to America in 1912. There 
I work hard in lumber camps. 
In 1917 I join Army 
And become proud natural citizen. 
Army send me to Europe to fight Germans. 
War over I come back to America. 
Work hard again. Save little 
Money and go back 
To Greece 1936 for find 
Good woman and make family. 
Have two boys now, 9 and 3. 
War and Germans keep me here. 
In Greece then life very hard die many people. 
War over now but things not good still. 
People poor hungry no jobs. 
No money for return 
With family to America. 
You and America last hope. 
Send tickets please. I honest 
Swear I work hard pay you back 
Every cent because I want you know 
All my life I never vote Republican. 

God bless you, 

Anastasios G. Zambaras, 
Loomi, Messenias, Greece

Friday, October 16, 2015

Dawn by the House of Stone That Jack Built


Bent over, carrying 
The slate-grey 

Sky with me 
As I descend 

The winding steps slowly 
Into the garden, 

I cannot pretend 
It’s been easy 

From beginning to end, 
Nor can I not 

But hesitate at the last 
Step and look back on 

To where the house, 
Smothered 

In a sea of jasmine, 
Floats ambivalent, 

As if hewn out 
Of clear blocks 

Of diaphanous air. 


Tuesday, October 13, 2015

The Massive Poetic Time Bomb Missive


Dear Tom, Dick and Harry:

Strange you should ask 
What it is that makes us 
Tick—and boy have you 
Ever got me there— 

But I do want you 
To note that 
No sooner do 
We think we’re close 

To taking apart that 
Blankety-blank clock 
Than the alarm goes off— 
No time 

To gather the odd 
Bits and pieces, no 
Time for no 
Bodies like us 

To even blink, 
Let alone think. 


Friday, October 9, 2015

On a Phrase of Aeschylus*


No sea in Syria, no sea 
In Afghanistan, only 
A sea of suffering 
Humanity and if it is 
With difficulty we see 
‘The Aegean flower 
With corpses’, it is not 
Because we have to 
Wade through 
A sea of the world’s 
Indifference to witness 
It but also because 
We do not wish to hear 
The siren-beset ship we are 
Sailing on is well 
On its way to Lethe. 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
 *Agamemnon, l. 659
 
 cf. the following link to see how George Seferis uses this phrase in one of his poems: 

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/in-the-manner-of-g-s/

Wednesday, October 7, 2015

Stopping by a Grove of Ancient Olive Trees Near Twilight, I Think Myself Fortunate


Lost in recollection
Amidst deep ancient wrinkles, 
This is where one should spend 
The dying minutes of each wasted day.




Saturday, October 3, 2015

Autumn of My Mother-in-Law


In straight- 
Backed chair, crumpled 

Wispy hands on lap, 
Mind gone 

To the rocky hills and sheep 
She used to tend to 

On the slopes spring 
To summer behind 

The village up here, now 
All behind her she waits 

For the fog to lift 
For a glimpse 

Of winter approaching 
In the lowland 

Meadows that must be 
Somewhere she says—slowly 

Lifting her right arm 
And pointing 

Straight ahead— 
Down there


Thursday, October 1, 2015

Heraclitus on the Boob Tube


First notice that 
Nothing is as 
It used to be, 
Thus everything is 
No longer on 
Familiar ground—even that 
Couch potato you once 
Thought was impervious 
To change now 
Looks to be sprouting 
Eyes in the back 
Of its cabbage head. 


Sunday, September 27, 2015

Rainy Day Exploit

“. . .the poet— 
brats in the street fling shit at him. . .” 

—George Seferis, “Three Secret Poems” 


The drops keep pelting quite 
Poetic the tarmac stupid sheep 

Keep dropping glazed 
Pellets that end up stuck 

Smartly to your feet. 








Friday, September 25, 2015

View of the Ithome Mountains (with Bats) at Crepuscule

In lieu of a poem--my favorite crepuscular vantage point--a poem in itself. (Please use headphones at high volume.)

Wednesday, September 23, 2015

Why Some Poets Have No Business Calling Themselves Angels


Oblivious to all 
That’s ugly 

On the face of the earth, 
They call forth heavenly 

Strains of pizzicato, expansive 
And graceful picking 

Within a modicum of space, 
There where 

They dance stark 
Naked with demons 

On the head of a pin. 


Sunday, September 20, 2015

On the Refugee Problem Besetting the European Union


Dear brothers 
In a common cause, 
These teeming masses 
Of supplicants besieging 
Our sacred borders 
Seek nothing 
Save a sanctuary where 
They can rest their weary heads; 
Their plight does indeed cut 
Us to the quick—pray 
Let us show compassion, 
Home in on each and every one 
With heaven-sent teargas, plenty
Of angelic cudgels and lay 
Their worries to rest before 
The final, merciful kill. 


Wednesday, September 16, 2015

Orgasm of Greed: All or Nothing


Jack of all trades, master at abating 
All save avarice, no need 

To squirrel all the precious fun— 
Just work those nuts off silly 

Neutered all the way 
To no kingdom cum. 


Monday, September 14, 2015

Approaching Knowing Night Birds from Afar


Strange we should be so taken in 
By warm, childish cries alighting 

On our shoulders on the wings 
Of a sultry summer night, 

Only to have them turn palish 
Cold without our knowing it,

Grey silent owls taking flight.

 










Friday, September 11, 2015

Banner Year


This was another one 
Of those years 

That had something 
For everybody— 

Even the homeless 
Have-nots had the usual 

Copious shares of nothing. 


Wednesday, September 9, 2015

Young She-goat in Well Still Wet behind Ears


Hearing her 
Owner’s frantic 
Yells for help and before we ran 
To raise her and she romped off 
To dry in sun-drenched meadow, 
She was down there a drowning 
Blatting bobbing waterlogged pandemonium, 
Dog-paddling round stony ring of death accompanied 
By chorus of cacophonous frogs stoically croaking 
In deadpan disbelief. 

Monday, August 31, 2015

A Childhood Lost, Just Like That


That classic Greek landscape you left’s done 
A disappearing act. You recall 

A just man like many long dead saying 
It won’t be here when you get back 

With you still homeless, 
Twice an immigrant. 





Saturday, August 29, 2015

On Piscine Poets out of Water

--for Huuklyeand Cinquor, il miglior fabbro 


Don’t piddle precious time 
Sounding your position out— 
Your next line is always 
Easier to swallow 
If you don’t know 
You’re hooked. 




Friday, August 28, 2015

Melanoma


All you bigoted zealots rejoice! Whatever 
Blemish defies washing away keeps 

Sinking further into the skin 
Till it turns purple, drowning 

In its own unfathomable joy juice. 






Tuesday, August 25, 2015

Natura Apocalyptica


Astounding— 

Under the umbrella pines the crowd 
Of revelers moved ecstatically 

By the buzzing of its own 
Voice does not hear the mass 

Of cicadas busily burying it. 


Saturday, August 22, 2015

Manunkind Unrattled


It’s time to dispense with the usual 
Time-consuming formalities 
And tell you right off that 

Just as you live unfazed and breathe 
In your man-made stench, so 
Shall you expire before you know it. 

Think about it. In the meantime, 
Kindly grab all the quality 
Time you need, mensch. 




Monday, August 17, 2015

The Weight


Up in the village 
Watching my wife doting 
On her mother sliding quickly 
Downhill into oblivious senility, 
I cannot but recall how 
Many times she’d made 
The long haul from the village 
To that little summer garden 
Two twisting miles straight 
Down to the gorgeous 
Gorge and back, a straw 
Basket in each hand laden 
With freshly-harvested vegetables 
And hauling more often than not, 
The latest of her six 
Children in a sling 
Across her now 
Bent-over back, 
And looking on all 
That had to be 
Done each day as inevitable 
As the sun rising and setting 
And never once asking why 
It had to be that way. 





Friday, August 14, 2015

Wednesday, August 12, 2015

Straight from the Horse's Mouth: Huuklyeand Cinquor on Why Valéry Is Still Valid


One thing is clear 
In your work, dude— 
This insistence on purity 

Validates absolutely nothing, 
For nothing is pure 
And it’s certainly not 

Unadulterated horseshit. 


Moderator’s comments: "Hi-ho, Cinquor away!"


 

Saturday, August 8, 2015

Wednesday, August 5, 2015

Mendicants Toeing the Capitalist Line


Don’t breathe a word— 
You can’t see it but that 
Rucksack on your back 
Has just enough 
To carry you through 
Another day, 
But no need to worry— 
That other beggar 
With a rucksack 
Just like yours 
Walking before you 
Will never give you away. 


Monday, August 3, 2015

Phenomenologically Speaking


In the dim 
Cramped light of the old 
Folks’ home there was 

Still enough room 
For the shadows 
To come alive. 






Saturday, August 1, 2015

Tsunami Crisis Management, Hellas 2015 A.D.


What do we Hellenes do when a crisis is over?
We go back to a life with more crises,
One life with one crisis after another,
But we despair not!

Millenniums basking
On the sun-drenched shores
Of the Mediterranean have taught us how
To perform wonders as long as we persevere

In sitting back in our beach chairs,
All the while making like a wave.




Wednesday, July 29, 2015

Why Little Children--Like Trees--Are Afraid of Adults with Chain Saws



under the old 

growth is evermore virgin 

growth growing up— 


it’s telling 


the world the last thing 

we must do on this earth is 

hurry up. 





Sunday, July 26, 2015

Twilight in Meligalas


There’s a promise 

Of rain in the stiff northwesterly 
Breeze blowing in from the gulf 
Of Kyparissia, thirty kilometers away, 

And the parched trees are nodding 
In unison yes, yes, yes, 
It’s been a good day; 

I’ve spent more than half 
Of my life planted here— 
What more can I say? 






Thursday, July 23, 2015

Faux Deus Ex Machina


On the brink— 
Whatever to do? 
So tantalizing 

A thought came to him 
As he was about to jump 
To a forgone conclusion 

Out of the blue. 


Sunday, July 19, 2015

None the Smarter at 71


Time was I thought 
I could think 
My way through life 
Using clever arguments, 
That it would be 
Easy to imagine 
A world where being 
Smart made you 
Nobody’s fool— 
Hard to believe now, 
I ended up forgetting 
Nobody makes life’s rules. 


Thursday, July 16, 2015

The Privatization of the Self


"Let every soul submit himself 
Unto the authority of the higher powers. 
There is no power but of God. 
The powers that be are ordained of God". 
 --Romans 13.1 

Nowadays 

To make it worthwhile 
For the powers 

To be you have to 
Put in long hours down

A dark mine shaft deep 
In the heart 

Of the heart 
Of what is no longer 

God’s country 
And be forever 

Damned. 




Monday, July 13, 2015

Air of Acquiescence


Their slender stalks fastened 
With twine to thin reeds stuck 
In a brown, earthenware pot, 

The blood-red carnations nod 
In accord with each blustering gust, 
All the while suffusing the air 

They breathe 
With redolent dyes 
Of thick, heady musk. 





Thursday, July 9, 2015

Hope Dies Last


You get up 
Every day hoping 
It won’t be your last 
And you go to bed wishing 
It had been. 





Tuesday, July 7, 2015

The Methuselah Code

To read the signs 
Of the times correctly 
And to write at least 

One word a day remains 
No small feat providing you 
Reach a thousand. 






Saturday, July 4, 2015

Thursday, July 2, 2015

Virtuoso


Think before you leap— 
With each vaunting 
Step you take, this

Star-studded universe 
You were born into wants 
Nothing better than to cradle you

Back down 
To earth to dream to sleep. 




Sunday, June 28, 2015

Web


The spider sees bliss 
Approaching in the eye 

Of an immobile fly. 


 

Thursday, June 25, 2015

Write-off


No matter how quickly 
They might have been

Executed, poems should 
Always be read out loud

Slowly—one never knows how 
Much breath has been

Wasted already. 





Sunday, June 21, 2015

That Exquisite Clearing House, The Mind of 'Murica


Where you come out 
Of a forest full 

Of burning mind- 
Blowing questions only 

To find out 
You can’t see any 

Reason to ask for more. 


Wednesday, June 17, 2015

Jumping to Conclusions


Virtuoso, do not be taken in— 
This seemingly boundless 
Universe we were born into 
Was made to carry us only 
Piecemeal as far as the last step we take. 
So do yourself a favor, will you? 
Think hard for all of us 
Before you chance to leap. 





Saturday, June 13, 2015

Why the Squint-eyed Kid Thinks WCW Wore Corrective Lenses


Wasn’t he the one who said that 
Fuzzy No ideas but in things? 
I guess that’s what makes me 
Think there’s something 
Clearly going on round 
The left lens of my specs. 

So what do I see when 
I take them off for a closer look? 
Two stuck red bugs making 
A fucking spectacle of themselves. 
Man, what a relief! 
All this time I thought 

I was merely seeing things. 


Wednesday, June 10, 2015

Love It or Leave It


The capital 
Argument recognizing de facto 
Climate change still holds 
No water in the “proper” channels— 

Thus any H2O wanting to pass 
Off as bottled effluent on its way 
Towards overflowing affluence 
Has to make like a zillion trees 

And piss off. 


Saturday, June 6, 2015

Pilloried


. . .the poet— 
brats in the street fling shit at him. . .

--George Seferis, “Three Secret Poems” 


As a matter 
Of course he viewed 
His art as nothing 
To be jeered at, 

Yet whoever had 
Put together that 
Display of words 
And set it down 

Without even once 
Having thought 
Twice about how 
It would be received— 

Should not that hapless 
Spectacle of self be rewarded 
With poesy of like kind left 
To fend for itself like that? 



Friday, May 29, 2015

Rising to the Occasion (2)


No matter how quickly 
They were set down, 
Poems ought always to be

Read slowly— 
Too many 
People have wasted 

Too much 
Of their breath 
Already. 





Tuesday, May 26, 2015

Lemons Are a Dime a Dozen


Lacking a flashy brand- 
New first line to start 
Their vehicles, most 
Poets traffic in selling you 

On the merits of waiting 
For a killer last, killing 
Time in the meanwhile 
By knocking off lots, 

Lots of lackluster gimcrack,
Secondhand cars. 


Friday, May 22, 2015

Alienating the Self


Admit it— 
hard not to 

believe, harder still 
to acknowledge 

a complete stranger. 


Tuesday, May 19, 2015

Waking the Dead


You don’t have to 
Sleep on it—not 

As hard as it sounds— 
Silence is the only sound 

They understand. 





Saturday, May 16, 2015

Inner City Clearance Sales


trigger happy neighborhoods
where cops pick up/off kids at will— 

smashed store fronts strip 
mauled bodies busted

corporate person- 
hoods clean up again. 


Monday, May 11, 2015

Two Pro Found Statements


1. 

Give credit where 
Credit is due. 

2. 

The world owes you 
Nothing 

You can bank on 
That, too. 


Friday, May 8, 2015

Trying to Make Sense out of Nothing


What is it that makes people write poems? 
It’s nothing you can see or smell, nothing 
You can taste or touch or hear— 

Hidden in the formless recesses of nowhere, 
Whatever it is, it takes all our senses aback 
If and when we coax it out of there. 





Tuesday, May 5, 2015

Springboard


of stream watching

the green wet 
willows dipping in 
to shallow water deep 
enough you think you are 
seeing things down there where 
the branches you look at look 

to be springing roots! 


Saturday, May 2, 2015

Wounded in the Process


no- 

thing too 
in 

significant— 

.

how 



even this small 

sliver 


working it- 
self out, 

heals. 


Thursday, April 30, 2015

Unrequited


Had you asked me 
Against all odds 

I’d have been the first 
To answer yes and the last 

To wager I was wrong 
Even from the start. 




Sunday, April 26, 2015

Life's Understudy


Moreover 
.
You act as if 
You’re standing 
On a mountain 
.
On top of which 
The lowly mole does not 
Understand your role. 


Friday, April 24, 2015

Pure Ars Poetica

(with apologies to Kilmer and MacLeish) 


Genealogically speaking, 
A poem ought to be whatever 

A poet conceives 
A poem should be— 

But never a mongrel barking 
Its ass off up the wrong tree.





Tuesday, April 21, 2015

Up from the Minors


These big time poetry leagues are a bitch, 
But you’ve learned to slide and pitch well; 

Now let's see you slip in your best 
Curve and keep watching 

As the better part of you flies
Sailing out of the park straight 

Back to hell. 




Sunday, April 19, 2015

Sanctum


solitary 

blue 


and 

white 


chapel 

in 

pied 

meadow 


genuflecting 

black 


bird 

making

a

bee


run

to 

ward 

it.


Thursday, April 16, 2015

Dusk


The opposite of dawn, of course; 
Another less common 
Name is crepuscule but I bet 
Few English speakers know that 
Or that it also means gloam
.

Silent before yet another 
Sunset, I suppose it dawns 
Upon many a man 
That one’s vocabulary,
No matter how dazzling,
Can never be a match 
For the unspeakable splendor 
Of one more dying day. 




Monday, April 13, 2015

Huuklyeand Cinquor on The Poetry Conundrum Factor


What do you expect to gain 
When you ask yourself what 
It is with this game when 
You’re at a loss for words 
Save the riddle that remains. 


Moderator’s comments: ?

Friday, April 10, 2015

How Aesop Nourished My Grotesque Childhood Imagination


As I was 

An eager beaver 
Starved for mind- 
Blowing sustenance, 

Amongst a flock 
Of fabulous doings 
He was said to have 

Wolfed down the bitter 
Cold of a polar bear 
Wearing the panoply 

Of a lobster dressed to kill. 

Wednesday, April 8, 2015

Abandoned Cow Stalls on Farm Near Fukushima, Japan


Too contented 
To know how to react 
When things go sour, what’s left 
Of the cows remains 
In various stages 
Of rot in empty stalls— 
And the phantom farmers? 

Steeped as they were in high- 
On-the-hog atomic subsidies, 
One surmises they knew 
Better than to stick around 
Too long and high-tailed it 
Out of the premises 
While the milking was still good— 

But this remains idle speculation 
Till the day they feel the answer truly 
Seeping in deep down in their bones. 


Sunday, April 5, 2015

Food for Aesthetic Homo Sapient Thought


Coming across photo 
Of beautiful decaying 
Beached albatross 

Carcass, stomach eaten 
Away by engrossing 
Blue yellow red green 

Plastic rot gutting still 
Life work of so much 
Undigested mishmash. 





Thursday, April 2, 2015

These Gawkers Never Knew What Hit Them


They forgot 
Rote can be useful as hell— 
For one thing, you can tell 

Spring’s peeling rubber rounding 
The corner headed our way 
By tallying all those rubbed out 

Toads splayed and flattened like 
Pemmican on the asphalt 
Straightaway. 







Sunday, March 29, 2015

Huuklyeand Cinquor on Poetic Ambivalence


Poetry had a soft spot in my heart hard 
To explain once I let it enter my brain. 


Moderator’s comments: Judging from his extended absence from this humble podium, Cinquor seems to have followed the advice put forward in another one of his memorable two-liners from the past, to wit:

Conceptual Prestidigitation

You look to have that precious gift of sleight; a present 
Better prized and appreciated when kept out of sight. 


We shall see.

Tuesday, March 24, 2015

Slaking One's Thirst in Gaza


No matter 

How desolate 
How forlorn 
They look 

When the heavens burst, bright 
Spurts of fiery holy water 
Flood the land as promised. 





Saturday, March 21, 2015

World Poetry Day 2015: A Poem Should Be (14)


A musing quest 
For common ground, say 
This cur’s 

Sniffing round the body 
Poetic where another member 
Of the pack’s been 

Hanging out his calling card so 
All us intimates know just where we are 
To piss on the corpus, too. 





Thursday, March 19, 2015

Ditch


Gathered by the wayside, 
Heads bent over, 
No need to decide— 

Full of bleeding wind-
Flowers on either side. 


Monday, March 16, 2015

Windsong


Your hair barely grazed 
The wild flowering almond 

In your passing and already 
The air sweeping through 

The meadow’s redolent
With bitter fare-thee-wells. 




Saturday, March 14, 2015

Tandem Limbo


Help me get to wherever it is 
I’m going, I’ll help you 

Get back to wherever it is 
You’re going along, too. 








Tuesday, March 10, 2015

Black Hair, White Space, Gray Matter


That space between your ears remains 
Shockingly grotesque, revealing 
A gross lack of fantasy in shucking it— 
Do not wonder then how it was all 
Those sheaves of corny poems you wrote 
And kept turning over in your mind 
That turned your hair white overnight. 




Friday, March 6, 2015

In-between Poetic Tracts


As the words retract, 
The gaps keep stretching 

Out longer, till one day 
Down in the lower 40 

Of your mind, 
There’s just one 

Endless gap left,
Tilling away. 

Monday, March 2, 2015

Transparency, As in Projection


You’ve barely scratched the surface 
Under the volcano 

And already you think 
Your mind’s made of obsidian. 





Wednesday, February 25, 2015

On the Threshold


Unblinking wide-eyed pupils 

Soon to be taught how 
To be blind to whatever 
They saw 

That set them apart. 



Sunday, February 22, 2015

Little House in Olive Grove at Twilight



passage

of almond flowered clustered

stars through the firmament soon in sight


find matches smell the oil lamp light the fire

place yourself right here no

where else in universe so


right.