Noncommittal Not So Plumb Haywire

It’s been quite a while since 

Any wide-eyed wannabee 

Poet’s asked me what 

It’s like being a poet and I must say 

It’s no great surprise, seeing 

I’ve been out of the public eye so 

To speak here in my sanctum sanctorum, 

The boondocks of the southern Peloponnese, 

These past 50 years but if 

Anybody should go to all the trouble now 

To show up on my doorstep and ask me 

I’d surely tell them to think 

Twice before committing themselves. 

 

 

 

 

Measure Of Poverty In The Boondocks Of The Southern Peloponnese, Circa 1965

In a land overflowing 

With a blessèd abundance 

Of olive trees, not having one 

To call your own and where 

Those who had finished 

Gathering theirs had packed up 

The bulging sacks, 

Hand-woven heavy

Ground-covering cloths

And gone home, to go there afterwards,

Get down on your hands and knees 

And salvage the precious few 

Shiny fruits that had over- 

Flowed and escaped 

The nets of the plenty.

 

Where There's A Will. . . .

Begin a poem 

With “To be or not 

 

To be” and more 

Than likely 

 

You’ll end up not 

Knowing who not to be. 

 

 

 

 

 

One More Heavy Winter Solstice Conundrum

In the dark, waiting 

For the dark to begin 

 

At first sight 

Of dawn 

 

Becoming lighter again. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ill At Ease Amongst Many

A singular voice is what 

Most of us strive for; 

 

Most of the time we hear 

More than enough 

 

Silence that keeps 

Us moving. 

 

 

 

Archilochos Apparently Penitent

If I had to do it all over 

Again, perhaps that verily now

Quite ancient shield I hastily ditched 

Behind a bush and abandoned 

When the killing fields got too hot 

For my britches would still be mine, 

 

But then again, where 

Oh where

 

Would my poem be?

 

Artisan Of Self-Absorption

Funny thing-- 

You think you're here 

To make the best 

Of things 

 

Yet you fail 

To ask yourself why 

The baubles you exhibit 

Only make them worse. 

 

 

 

Bloody Murder

Shoddy serial poets love executing 

Poem after poem but never confess how 

 

Much it must kill them every time 

They see what they’ve done.

 

Domain Of Arresting Gravitational Attraction

Look at it this way: 

Neophyte warblers’ 

Nest in myrtle, 

Startled throats open 

As designated 

Ripe, blue-black berries drop 

Properly into place! 

 

If this were anywhere close 

To the realms of possibility, 

Skeptic—could you bring yourself 

To pull away? 

 

 

 

Astronomical: On A Line Of Heraclitus

The sun is one foot wide 

And each day 

 

You rise to see it, 

You’re light

 

Years over the moon again. 

 

 

 

 

Rx For The Duration

Take all 

The time you need 

 

Even if you don’t 

Need to 

 

Take it all.

 

 

 

 

Foregone: Heraclitus From Α To Ω

He who said 

The Logos is eternal, 

 

Which is to say 

It has been here 

From the beginning

And shall continue to be,

 

 

And strange as it might 

Sound, some have heard it 

And some have not, while 

Others have heard it 

And not understood; 

 

Those most curious 

Have sought it out so 

As to find out why, only 

To find that it speaks 

Mostly in mute riddles leading 

To a puzzling, though 

Far and away most logical 

Conclusion.

 

Riming Zen Beat Master

Know this much: Nothing’s worth 

 

More than having all the tea 

In China and never once having 

 

Sipped a single sip.

 

 

 

 

 

 

As God Is My Witness

Looking back, we see

 

There are many things 

One can say 

About keeping silent 

 

In the face 

Of unspeakable crime— 

 

Taking it forward 

To your grave is not 

One of them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Speechless Before Starlings

They’ve just dropped 

In from out 

 

Of the heavens 

For the duration 

 

Of winter and are strung 

Out murmuring along 

 

The three telephone wires 

Opposite the house 

 

Like notes of a musical 

Score—no, something more like 

 

A long discrete succession 

Of commas taking 

 

Up every available space, 

Leaving no room—period— 

 

For words capable 

Of fulfilling 

 

That imminent,

Bewildering air. 

 

 

 

 

Haiku: Wanderlust

 

Itch to find yourself 

Elsewhere the moment you set 

Your footloose feet there. 

 

 

 

Deity

Poetry is that 

Power which keeps 

 

Withdrawing while staying 

Ineffably within 

 

Reach. 

 

 

 

Supplicants Before The Slopes Of Mt. Ithome

 

Though almost drained of the will

To persevere, take notice— 

 

This steep rugged holy mountain an ancient 

Blind bard once described as “ladder-like” climbs 

In rungs to where the air is still 

 

Alive with daemons 

And spirits 

 

Who have not yet exhausted 

Their last breath to help you 

 

Ascend there. 

 

 

 

 

 

How To Begin Your Day, Vassal

Preoccupied only 

With observing how 

That nameless red- 

Breasted twittering 

 

Little bird has perched 

On a limb of the strawberry 

Tree in our good lord’s garden 

 

And is nibbling away 

At just those berries ripe and fit 

Enough to be set before a king. 

 

 

 

 

Alzheimer Twilight Vignette

This in which he 

Ends up smashing all 

 

The light bulbs left lit 

In that inner sanctum 

 

Of his he thought he had 

Remembered 

 

To switch off before 

Falling asleep.

 

Portentous Local Murders

These crows usually 

Like nothing better 

Than to fly 

From house 

Top to house 

Top but most times they 

Prefer to stay cackling 

Out of the way high up 

In the old bullet-riddled village 

Clock tower that miraculously 

Still keeps striking the right 

Time of day—whenever 

That happens, all common- 

Place hell breaks loose, 

And the birds scatter 

Helter-skelter.  That's when

I like to think the few remaining 

Villagers old enough to remember 

Flash back to those murderous 

Three days of civil strife that sent 

So many souls shrieking 

To the depths of the underworld. 

 

Just like their predecessors did 

More than half a bloody century ago, 

The birds soon return to the bell-tower, 

Where they continue to crow. 

 

 

 

The Artist Seemingly Fully In Command Of His Fate

“Life is the art of drawing 

Without an eraser.” 

--John W. Gardner 

 

 

John W. Gardner was 

Not an artist but I still wish 

To thank him for his apophthegm 

Of living artlessly with no dodges 

And no room 

 

For any erasures whatsoever, even when 

The artist in each of us finds himself— 

As did John one fateful day— clearly 

Out of his medium and face-to-face 

With the one-and-only artfully awful 

 

Great Eraser.

 

Industrial Zone Obscenity

porno 

 

graphic 

char 

 

coal 

colored 

 

smoking 

stacks 

 

penetrating 

soot 

saturated

seriously

 

virgin 

once 

 

now 

serially 

violated 

 

sky

 

Apathy's All The Money, Honey

And yet, it's that constant 

Remainder keeps reminding us 

 

Everything adds up and nothing 

Remains unchanged 

 

As long as indifference 

Makes the difference, 

 

It’s all the same. 

 

 

 

 

Clearing The Air (Life Studies)

The poem’s not 

Meant to perplex you, 

Dear reader—it’s there simply 

To make you question what 

You’re doing here. 

 

 

Child's Play Ain't No Pushover, Is It?

Now, seeing you’ve found 

Your way here 

With precious little 

Effort my good man, 

Gets me thinking that 

Doubling back to where 

You started should be 

Twice as easy, even 

Though it sure looks like 

You’ve already gone 

One giant step too far 

Beyond it. 

 

 

 

 

Ephemeral Myopic Poet

The most obvious thing one can say 

About his life was that 

 

He spent it mostly doing what 

He was best at—observing closely 

 

How little one actually sees 

Clearly in the course of a day. 

 

 

 

Payback

At last the worst is over 

And done with and everything 

 

In order; in return, 

All we have to do is stop 

 

Expecting nothing 

But the best in turn. 

 

 

 

 

Crowing In Absentia

What if I told you the late 

Afternoon skies were full of fright, 

Full scudding black cawing 

Clouds, the people below slowly 

Turning ashen—what shade 

Of grey would you be 

Decked out in tonight? 

 

 

 

Daily Litany

So that that old 

Orb the sun may sink to his knees 

In the end and share 

 

In our humility, poems are 

Offered in turn—who is it now

That hasn’t a prayer?

 

Unwavering Line Of Defense

What I have made 

Of myself, let others offer 

 

Judgement commensurate 

With the facts— 

 

All I can do in return is what 

I do best—demur. 

 

 

 

 

Revelations Of A Third Kind

Certain entities always 

Reveal themselves 

And make us feel right— 

 

Others prefer keeping to 

Dark, out-of-the-way places, 

And under certain circumstances, 

 

This too is all right— 

What’s wrong is never knowing 

When all that’s wrong appears 

 

To be dead right.

 

Writing Prompt Found Wanting

Start writing right off 

About a vivid childhood

 

Memory, don’t break 

Your lines or punctuate 

 

For at least five lines and see 

What happens; repeat 

 

One phrase at least 

Three times; continue writing 

 

To wherever the memory might 

Lead you, keeping in mind 

 

You may have to 

Do this several times before 

 

You end up writing 

Everything off, going on 

 

To bigger and better things 

Every time. 

 

 

 

The Pedestrian Spirit That Moves Us

When the last light 

Of the fire left 

In your eyes goes 

Out the window 

Of your domicile 

Like the proverbial 

Bird in flight, do not dawdle 

 

There in that earthbound 

Hearth of darkness, telling yourself 

You did all you could 

To avoid the worst when 

Deep down you know you were 

At best just one more docile, 

Accommodating guest— 

 

For Christ’s sake, 

You made your own bed, 

Didn’t you? Now, 

Go sleep in it. 

 

 

 

 

Unquenchable One

There are many

Reasons one chooses to write 

 

Poems, though in my book, 

The only one that holds much 

 

Water is the one that’s writ 

On the bottom of a bucket 

 

With a hole in it. 

 

 

 

Midst Mad Midsummer Air

most 

in 

 

dis 

creet 

 

ber 

serk 

 

ci 

ca 

 

das 

jack 

 

hammering 

the 

 

stifling 

heat 

 

in/to 

 

in 

dis 

 

crete 

 

                        p. 

 

                                    i.     

 

      e. 

 

                             c. 

 

                                          e. 

 

                          s. 

 

of 

re 

 

in 

forced 

 

con/\/\/\/\crete.

 

Before We Were So Rudely Interrupted

Turn this 

Page or any other 

Like it to find 

Exactly what 

 

You’ve been 

Missing all these 

Many years; failing 

That, stay just 

 

Where you are— 

Someone just 

As lost as you will 

Turn up any minute— 

 

Now, where 

Were we? 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For Crying Out Loud, Poets, No More Killer Clichés

Holy Moses, pilgrims— 

Can’t you see 

 

No matter how 

Hard we try, 

 

There’s always one more just 

Around the bend, hiding 

 

In the bullrushes, burning 

To cry out 

 

Bloody murder 

In the name 

 

Of all those fellow travelers 

Soon to be 

 

Most foully dispatched. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Haiku: Ditched

Still you keep saying 

You’re in it for the long haul 

Here by the wayside.

 

Incestuous Matter

Maculate 

Monstrous 

 

Issue and what 

To make 

 

Of ancestors who had 

No conception 

 

Of what they were about 

To procreate. 

 

 

 

 

 

Incredulous Braggadocios

Just you wait and see— 

You won’t 

 

Believe your eyes 

And ears what with

 

Such a final blistering 

Salvo, I shall bluster 

 

My way through what’s left 

Of this dull spirit- 

 

Less life—while we’re at it though, 

Think you could 

 

Hold on a minute so I can 

Catch my breath and stay

 

Even with you?

 

 

 

Archilochos In The Vineyards Of Thasos At Harvest Time

[burgundy stains but]

 

when [ ? ] grapes [blush]

and [   ] [   ] [   ] full-

 

[bodied] half-

[

[

[

naked Bacchus-

 

[soaked] maidens know

[

[

[no?] shame, may the

 

[manuscript here barely legible]

 

[

[

[

[goddess] help [me?]

 

[   ] [   ] [   ] [   ] I too

[

[

[

lust [   ] [   ] [   ] just

 

[evidence of violent shredding]

 

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[the] same

[

[

[

[

[

[

 

[series of large gaping holes]

 

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