Shakespearean Wordplay

Analogy resembles 

 

A world bespoken, 

Made-to-order, incomparable 

To compare, say incarnadine, 

 

Lest we should flesh out 

Those bloody incongruous 

Seas of filth abiding us there. 

 

 

 

 

 

Haiku: American Gothic Success Story

Worked hard—making it 

Hard to hear the sound of scythes 

Hissing near his ear.

 

 

 

Unfinished Business

Left to my own 

Faulty devices, I find 

 

What I no longer have 

Any need of keeps 

 

Lagging behind, reminding 

Me of what it is 

 

I am missing— 

A friend in need. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Archilochos And The Nymph Neobulé

Some Parian nonentity was strutting 

In the agora today with my ravishing 

Neobulé—I had to leave her unquenched, 

Still on fire down by a bush 

Near a brook and ran off 

Babbling when the struggle 

Got hot and way out of hand— 

Somehow, saving my shaft seemed 

More precious, I mean where 

Could I find another 

One equally cool, 

Whiplike and long? 

 

 

 

Haiku: Condolences Shallow/Grief Deep

To a better place 

Gone—though deep down grievers know 

How hollow that sounds.

 

 

First Things First

—for Eleni, always 

 

The last thing you wish 

To see before falling 

 

Asleep is the fluttering 

Of her eyelids first 

 

Thing in the morning. 

 

 

 

 

 

Hardly Bellwether

Meretricious 

As a keystone 

Ring scraped 

Off the bottom 

 

Of a dry stone 

Wishing well 

No longer sounding

Whistle clean. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Phantasmagorical Doggerel Entrapment

What say we make writing it 

On a whim just for the sake of proving 

It can be done a case of actus reus, 

 

And the malfeasant(s) in question 

Hounded till caught humping 

A bemused muse in flagrante delicto, 

 

Then summarily tried and sentenced 

To be flogged rhythmically to the tune 

Of forty lashes with a wet poodle—what 

 

Prissy purveyors of emasculated poetic 

Truth would dare come forth to accuse us 

Of spreading shaggy dog stories? 

 

 

 

 

Haiku: Putting Your Money Where Your Mouth Is

So many who talk 

About silence; how precious 

They make it all sound. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Haiku: Know Thy Inner Sanctum, Wretch

Thrice anguishing he 

Who laughs out loud at himself 

While crying within.

 

 

 

Of The Poets At Sixth Street And Pine

With all those subtle 

And not so 

 

Subtle nuances 

Of their meanings, 

 

Do they not signal 

Another kind 

 

Of sensibility toward things 

That really matter? Say 

 

Displaying a sixth sense 

Of knowing just where 

 

To turn at every junction, 

And signaling 

 

Their intentions years beforehand 

By bursting headfirst naked 

 

Into an unsuspecting other world

Lost in time.