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.