A Poem Should Be (26)

 

More or less, whatever 

You want it to be or not 

 

To be but never 

Meaning less, more 

 

Like life itself, if you know 

And you should 

 

Know what I mean. 

 

 

 

Cutting Edge Eventide Augury

 

evening’s 

waxing

 

blood 

crescent 

moon— 

 

to 

morrow’s 

over- 

flowing 

 

sickle

 

Ever Nostalgic Muse

 

 

Just think

 

Of it, there would be 

No words for never 

 

Going forward once 

We stopped 

 

Looking back on it. 

 

 

Deep Down Surface Subterfuge

 

To see 

One’s inner 

 

Self, you need to 

 

Convince the other 

One concealing 

It to help 

 

You strike 

At the heart 

Of the matter, 

 

Without once coming up 

For air, no matter 

How hard it is, it is 

 

As they say, 

Uplifting, always 

Uplifting

 

To think 

You both can 

 

Do so.

 

Lights Out: Tale Of Lizzy, The Flashy Lizard

 

darting sans tail 

across killer sun- 

drenched rock 

after rock, stops 

 

to sun it- 

self and remaining 

frozen just in case 

any joe 

blow bug up and

decides to stop 

 

by and bask 

in the sun- 

 

light too before 

the lurking 

neighborhood resident 

housecat flips 

the switch and offs 

 

the interlopers 

once and for all,

just like that.

 

Now That You Ask Me: Huuklyeand Cinquor On The Writing Of Difficult Poetry

I must say 

I think 

 

Your poems are splendid; 

They would be even better 

 

If we understood them. 

 

 

MODERATOR’S COMMENT: I also must say in turn that our boy Huuk has made a resounding comeback appearance after spending months on the sidelines of the enormously fecund contemporary poetry scene, and I for one am mightily impressed by this, his latest (tongue in cheek?) offering, wherein we see him grappling to come to terms with that age-old bugaboo monster still tormenting many of today’s poets: How crucial it is to write beautiful, accessible poetry without being sent by elderly po-biz savants to the nearest establishment inner sanctum cell padded with nothing but tome after tome of only their excruciatingly maddening poetic criticism—that and nothing more, nothinglikeness period. (At least for the time being, however long that may be.)

 

 

 

Winner Take All: Confession Of A Literary Sleight-Of-Hand Man

Consider if you will, 

When all is said 

And done, 

 

And all those proverbial 

Bromides I once dispensed 

With such considerable aplomb 

 

No longer 

Roll effortlessly off 

My once oh so smooth 

 

And often too fiery 

Biting acid tongue, 

You’ll know it’s time 

 

I let bygones be 

Bygones, shut up 

And deal myself 

 

One last ace from up 

My sleeve just so 

Everyone can 

 

See how sleazy 

In the end it was 

I won. 

 

 

 

After Archilochos, A Sense Of Seferis

 

Vain ones— 

Write this 

Down so that you 

Never forget it: 

 

This, this 

We cannot do 

Without 

 

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

 

These two spotted 

Pale doves inscribing 

 

Our fate, rising 

And falling in 

 

Turn in the ever 

Ambivalent yet still 

 

Diaphanous air.