I gather It’s a chore your Not thinking of anything Else so what You most likely attend to As you contemplate Your sunken cheeks In your chintzy Bathroom mirror is what You should’ve sunk Your teeth in all These years But didn’t.
Moderator's comment: Grrr. . . .if there’s but one iota of a chance my alter ego is spreading false—aka “fake”—news about his better half of a cur, I can assure him this mutt’s teeth are real. https://i.chzbgr.com/original/8257568768/hA0F95665/
Early autumn late afternoon In a light northerly breeze Under the centenarian Plane trees, we pass The time sipping Coffee and keeping An eye out For the next crumpled, Crablike leaf to fall And scuttle past us when Just across the other Side of the rusted derelict Tracks, we catch sight of The black-garbed village priest Slowly making his way, pushing His paraplegic son along.
The Ancient Greeks used to think The soul was a moth, a small Bird, or butterfly that escaped From the body once A mortal had left his mortal Existence behind; as such it was A favorite motif of many An Attic white-ground painter— Take this piece for example, Where we see the little winged one In question has just made his exit And is now perched upon the head Of the upright dearly departed Prior to taking off again, Presumably to somewhere Where no doubt it won’t be So easy for the artist To recapture him.
"They enter the new world naked, cold, uncertain of all save that they enter.” —W.C. Williams, Spring and All
I imagined The village welcoming Ceremony would be Like the farewell Eleven years before When I was all of four, But who knows what That was like when I remembered nothing Of what had come before, Let alone my mother And the midwife bringing Me into a new world naked In the middle of March On a hard-packed earthen floor.
Like a compass gone Haywire, the why Of where you may be At any given point Has nothing to do With where you think You are going.
Moderator’s comments: OK, Cinquor—you just keep throwing your soul-searching lines out—sooner or later, some lost soul will take the bait and follow you straight to wherever it is you think you’re going.
Out of the thick dark- Green blackness of vegetable Life smothering the derelict Study of the late obscure Minor underground poet, There comes the fevered Munching of eager beaver Ghost writers rabidly attacking A bolted, worm-eaten door.
If I’ll be here Tomorrow to answer Your life-and-death question; To give you, Among other things, The proper time Of day when everybody looks Askance at you then turns To look the other way; You can ask me whatever else Pops out of that enquiring Mind as long as you remember Not to blow it when unfinished Business calls and I’m not There to stop that pap before It ups and blows your brains away.
In this dazzling midday heat, It’s comforting to think how Contented the innocent Lambs must be, gathered With no care in the world Under the protective canopy Of the blessèd olive tree, Suckling their mothers’ teats As if their lives depended On it, and indeed how Easy it is to be sucked in By that old rustic wives’ tale— A bit harder to digest how Gamboling they are Soon to be led off By city-bred wolves In always appropriate Cutting-edge abattoir attire.
Amidst the frenzied clamorous Backdrop of cicadas readying To draw the curtain and call it Still another night, the dumb Eye strains before finally Falling upon fold after fold Of newly-wrought furrows
Under the wrinkled arching Brows of row after row Of stately silent grotesques— My arrogant fellow bit players, If you please, please observe how Once more the stage is being set For yet another humbling
This is a work of poetry; as such, it is the product of the author's
imagination, and any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is definitely
not coincidental in any way, shape, or form. On the contrary, it is clearly intended
to enlighten the reader as to the character of the splashy, hubris-filled blowhard
now playing hack actor playing at playing the role of the most powerful man in
the world—a part soon to be assumed and straightaway transmogrified into a bit player’s
nightmare by a most desperately driven, artful director called Nemesis.
Used to be You could tell how
Hot you were from how Much fake precipitation dripped
From your forehead As you manipulated your way
Up Broadway to no end—what A farce, my no longer cool friend!
No more easily anticipated Big splash round the bend,
"The question of the nature of navel fluff seems to concern more people than one would think at first glance.” – Dr. Georg Steinhauser, chemist
Reflecting One way or another On the idea that Idiot in its ancient Greek sense did not Mirror what it means today,
But rather someone so Caught up in his self- Importance that he is Useless to society really Makes one kind of wonder, Does it not?
Moderator’s comments: Huuk, I suppose it does but if so, shouldn’t that questioning spirit supply us with real answers rather than ending in a vapid query that does nothing but prolong the agonizing naval-gazing status quo that characterizes a great deal of contemporary poetry, yours included?
Oh yes Indeed, we aim To please the tired, The teeming destitute Derelict masses washed up Like so much flotsam On our shores, By keeping our eyes Always on target, Even if it means losing What we set out for.