Full Material Disclosure Of An Artful Dodger

This cannot be stated strongly 
Enough or too often: 

I have a real dislike 
For things of no
Consequence and how
They are woven

Into the fabric 
Of our day-to-day 
Existence so artlessly 
We hardly notice 

We are nothing 
Save empty shirts 
With no pockets. 

Eulogy For A Poet Who Didn't Have Much To Say But

Who kept at it wholly 
Day and night 

Digging up all those bright,
Light little gems here 

And now when 
Others half- 

Heartedly shoveled 
Wheelbarrows 

Of heavy black 
Holes whole 

Light years away. 

That Delectable, Albeit Spurious, Choice Morsel On The Tip Of Whatever

It is supposed to mean 

As inviting retort and why it is 
Uttered at times with such 

Venomous self- 
Serving unction that even 

The indifferent tongue recoils 
In utter revulsion is anybody’s 

Guess, whatever answer 
Lies in wait, forked 

And unpalatable as ever.

Right Here And Now, Fiscal Happiness Is

When your seven- 
And-a-half-year-old 

Granddaughter, having 
Overheard you were 

Badly in need 
Of another 

Five euros to buy 
Something and not 

Having found it right 
On the spot or in 

Any of your threadbare 
Pockets, disappears 

Upstairs and straightaway 
Materializes before you 

Dangling 

A brand-spanking 
20-euro bill and proceeds 

To offer it to you, 
No strings attached. 

Ruse Oppenesque

In this great
Lack of right

Clear air, the small
Broken spirit

Living and breathing in
This in which we seek

To find it still nuzzling
Our outstretched palms,

No amount of comforting
Artifice suffices to lure it

Out into the open any more.

Huuklyeand Cinquor On The Transmogrifying Disappearance Of Poetic Ambiguity

Hell, it’s when 
Whatever the well- 
Intentioned well- 
Versed poet writes 
Ends up going one way  
Only to end up never 
Coming out anywhere 
One way or the other. 


 Moderator’s comments: So nice to see you again after such a long hiatus, Huuk—when are you going back?

A Poem Should Be (20)

By all means metaphysical 
And metaphorical yes, 

We know but how 

Can it be when 
The poet is elsewhere? 

All Said In Just One Janus-faced Parting Shot

Know thyself, a part 
Of the old man said, right- 
Away upon which the other 
Part shot back with I know

Nothing apart from that 
I know one thing only 
And that is that 
I know nothing—

How’s that? 

Just Moving On After The Last Straw, Boss

You know
When harsh winds die

Down in Shantytown
For the umpteenth time,

It’s way past time
We gather up all

The orphaned good
Folks left behind.

Digesting Grotesque Humble Pie

Such avian crust! 
Who would’ve thought 

Those four-and-twenty 
Blackguarding black- 

Birds of a feather popping 
Their prominent peckers out 

Of that ravishing, 
Inimitable dish 

Set down before you would 
Soon be laughing 

Their heads off watching 
You eat legendary 

Crow after crow 
After crow 

Without—heavens to Betsy— 
Even once burping!