After Heraclitus, Continued

 

As a bow is alive only 

When it kills, so is the poet 

 

When he writes. 

 

 

 

Absurd Dystopian Life Sentence

 

Where oddly enough even 

The odd numbers never add up. 

 

 

 

Notorious Sleight Of Hand

Devious one, 

Mind you and see 

You don’t 

 

Leave it at that, 

The wind’s 

An old hand 

 

At changing 

Its mind, 

Just like that. 

 

 

 

Haiku: Fledgelings

Not a word misplaced 

On that once blank silent page

 

Murmuring sound sets.

 

 

 

Metaphorical Landings

urchin’s 

small 

 

sky-

blue 

 

ball 

bouncing 

down

one more flight 

of dark

 

derelict

tenement

 

stairs in

to one vacant

sunlit lot too

 

much like the others. 

 

 

 

 

 

Making The Best Of A Bad Situation

 

Come on, get with it

John, don’t just stand 

 

There, join the crowd, 

You know you can 

 

Write better than most any 

Tom, Dick or Harry 

 

Out there, all you have to do is 

Forget who you are.

 

 

 

 

 

Tragicomic Poetic Victims

All our calling 

Wanted from us was 

To write as if 

 

Our lives depended 

On it and to never go 

Back on our word— 

 

“Get a life,” it said, 

And we believed it, willing 

Dead-pan supplicants 

 

Writing sad, 

True-life confessions 

To no end. 

 

 

 

Haiku: Tunnel Vision On Horizon

 

Relax, the worst is 

Behind us and fading fast— 

Eye doctor next stop. 

 

 

 

 

Heads I Win, Tails You Lose

 

It looks like 

One of us thinks 

 

He knows his better 

Half better than he knows 

 

Himself: Wanna flip a coin? 

 

 

 

Seizing The Day, So To Speak

 

Dry, 

Brown, 

Lifeless 

 

Little leaf on my patio 

Table, I get more 

Out of watching you

 

Come alive and twitch 

This way and that 

In this fickle 

 

Wind than waiting 

For my next 

Poem to move me 

 

Who knows where. 

 

 

 

 

 

Family Tree

One wonders when

 

Our old wooden table will at last 

Recapture its lost infancy, take root, 

Sprout, and shoot out its tenacious,

 

Searching branches anew.