Saturday, January 28, 2017

Waiting For My Wife To Return From Foraging, I Find Myself Musing On Unfailing Kismet

I’m sitting in the car 
And something tells me 

Before I can finish 
The poem I started 

In my mind when she left 
Twenty minutes ago, she’ll 

Appear with a full basket 
Of wild greens—see, 

I told you so. 

Wednesday, January 25, 2017

Lie of the Land

of wind leaves pine 
needles pile tossed up

rotting under 
brambles under 
which lies all matter 

of whatnot composing what- 
ever the blustering 
mind never sings truth 

fully mindful of nothing 
but trumped-up blistering 

Saturday, January 21, 2017

Lend Me Your Ears

Come round all 

You hard-of-hearing 
Stalwart comrades: Praised be 
The cicadas’ crazed 

Ear-thrumming drumming 
Anthem that in fits and starts 
Cranks into high gear 

Its deranged, fair weather song, 
For it shall stutter to a halt
Before we know it— 

That incessant, insistent rallying 
Cry that pierced our humdrum existence
All those long summers past 

Coming, going, gone. 

Monday, January 16, 2017

Huuklyeand Cinquor on Why Poets Should Always Carry Notepads

Yes, yes—I know you think 
You’re a poet but 

Have you never thought 
You’re a poet only 
When writing and not 
Ballyhooing in a cage before 
The likes of John Q. Public 
Like a monkey in a zoo? 

If not, please note such 
Knowledge helps you 
Keep your mind composed, 
Off the subject and not 

Going bananas if you do. 

Moderator’s comments: Hey, Huuk--no use going apeshit when all around you 'monkey see, monkey do'—write a lyric that’ll send ‘em back to the zoo.

Wednesday, January 11, 2017

Huuklyeand Cinquor on Conceptual Poetry*

To get to the bottom 
And fully 

Appreciate it, 
You have to 

Wade through its shallows 
Holding your nose 

And sucking in 
As many 

Fishy metaphors 
As you can 


Moderator’s comment: Call me Ishmael, mate, but if you can’t see that this is a bull’s eye gaff from that grand old man of piercing wit and sure-fire aplomb aimed at those blubbering pompous purveyors of purloined poetry, you don’t know a “gaff” from a “gaffe” and it’s time to put a patch over your “good” eye, too. 

*for more edification on your way to becoming this murky body of poetry’s complete (sic) angler, go to

Saturday, January 7, 2017

Sleeping on It

Above the little house 
Under the giant oak, 

A rasping wintry over- 
Night rattle of leaves 

Letting go, blanketing your body, 
Your wrinkled eyebrows 


Something there is 
In your limbs 

Your bones should know. 


Wednesday, January 4, 2017

Fate of a Nondescript Pornographic Poet

he knew all
too well 

his femmes fatales 
would find him soft 

and graphically 

ken at the end 
of one pulpy pen 


line after another, 
and where nothing

he laid down 

before them in vain 
glorious color 

could stop them 
from coming 

sheathed in plain 

fictions again and again.
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