Tuesday, September 27, 2022

Timeless Cycladic Artistry

Before you can finish 
Sipping your morning demitasse 
Of bitter black coffee, 
 
Frail-framed, black- 
Robed middle-aged 
Woman wielding blue 
 
Long-handled brush 
Finishes off weathered, 
Grey churchyard wall 
 
With blinding whitewash 
In what looks like 
No time at all. 
 
 
 
 

 

Saturday, September 24, 2022

First Futile Attempt At Solving The Mystery Of Lost Youth

Of course you admit right off 
There’s not much left 
 
To go on, even though you insist 
On following each telltale lead, 
 
As one after the other springs up before you 
There on a pogo stick, only to disappear 
 
Furtively into the oscillating distance, a lot— 
No, too much like your favorite slinky.
 
 

 

Sunday, September 18, 2022

Thingamajig, If You Please

Oh, dear 
Whatever 
 
Just has to be 
The perfect mot 
 
Valise one needs 
To get a grip on life 
 
These days, so long 
As you keep it 
 
Close at hand to throw 
Out whenever 
 
You think you know exactly 
What the long haul requires, 
 
Duckies. 
 
 

 

Wednesday, September 14, 2022

Eternally Besieged Babbling Pearlies

Constant that sound 
Ringing unsound within 
 
The walls; outside still 
No sign of the next 
 
Round of jaw-crushing 
Swine rushing 
 
Tottering rusty gates again.

 

Monday, September 12, 2022

Yonder Captives Clearly Out Of Their Element

“I want to paint 
The way a bird sings.” 
—C. Monet 
 
Easier said than done, 
Claude, but at least it seems 
You had an inkling of how 
 
Helpless poets can feel 
Whenever their words keep 
Hightailing it into that too 
 
Familiar wild blue wonder 
More often than not— 
And would you know it?—
 
Seldom looking back. 
 
 
 

 

Thursday, September 8, 2022

Ditty Of An Existential Misfit

Oh, my! 
My precious little world 
Never stops weighing 
Heavily on my mind— 
 
Methinks it might be 
Time to lighten 
The load a bit 
And stop being 
 
Such a heavy- 
Weight light- 
Headed dimwit 
All the time— 
 
On second thought 
Though, perhaps it’s best 
I procrastinate as usual, 
And wait for the cocks’ 
 
Crow first thing on the morrow— 
Yes, yes I’ll surely do it then, 
With no inkling of regret 
Or shameful sorrow!

 

Tuesday, September 6, 2022

Frugal Poetic Fragility

Apart from his writing, 
Which always seemed to stop
Short of going somewhere, 
He spent most of his time 
Wandering from used bookstore 
To bookstore looking 
For cheap editions, till one day 
He happened upon a slender volume 
Of his he had forgotten 
He’d once inscribed and gifted 
To an elder, much better- 
Known poet whose work he admired 
Almost as much as his own, 
And which now lay half-buried 
Under a stack of thicker, more 
Impressive-looking tomes of poetry, 
All penned by that very same distinguished 
Gentleman poet who--would you have it?-- 
Just happened to be quite dead:
Had he too, wasted his life?

 

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