Heartthrob

Departing like a slasher 
In the night, you went 

The way you came, ever 
Returning on the morrow 

With my heart in your hands 
Like a bloody cliché, 

Willing and able to do 
Love’s bidding again

And again—touché. 

Barking Up The Wrong Tree

Trying to focus on what 
Your poem’s going to be 
About’s a lot like throwing 
A stick as far as you can 
Into a whitecapped lake, 

Then pointing to it so 
The pup at your side can see 
Where it’s bobbing so 
It can go retrieve it when 
All the while what it’s been 

Up to is wagging its tail 
Like all get-out, those 
Bright, beady eyes 
Of his concentrating 
On nothing but 

Your finger gesticulating 
In the ambivalent air. 

Anger Management For Rejected Poets Hung Up On The Muse

Keeping as much as you can
Of your cool, take one last look 
At all the abortions you’ve sired, 
Then quickly dispatch with them 
By counting slowly to ten--

When you've come
To your senses,
Send them back 
To that heartless bitch
In heat again. 







 

Christian Soldiers' War Room

Bit by bit, 
Year after year, 
The hot air leaking 
From the air- 
Tight crypt kept reaching 
Our ears garbled—

True to life 
Year after year, 
Mouth to mouth, 
We had to swallow 
The gibberish quickly
Or slowly die laughing. 

Beehive of Conflicting Emotions

My head buzzing 
Over the latest crazed 
Talk of imminent war, I try 
To forget by spending 
A good part of the morning 
Under the shelter 
Of our Judas tree, 
Taking in the inebriated 
Bees as they bomb cluster 
After cluster of deep pink 
Flowers —I know 
It makes no sense 
Whatsoever but I hope 
The bees don’t start 
Making a beeline 
For the wine cellar. 

Evensong: A Time for Reaping

violet- 

blue- 


black 

mountains 


cradle 

up- 


side 

down 


bloody 

orange 


waxing 

sickle, 


verily my cup 

runneth over— 


tea, anyone? 

"Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is"

How many times 
Have you heard this 

Priceless one and gone 
Out of your way 

To sell your wares cheap, 
Craftsman? 

Hocus-Pocus Habeas Corpus

You owed it to yourself 
But nothing yet of note 
To warrant a poem today— 

Like Bulldog Drummond hot 
On the trail, time to back- 
Track to where you lost 

The right to have writ 
Something whose smell won’t 
Soon go away.