"Write a Poem for Me, Papa?"

If I’m reading her 
Three-year-old mind 
Right, this could mean 
Either she wants me 
To write another 
Poem about her 
Or for her or who- 
Knows-what but how 
Tell the difference, 
And find words 
To describe how 
Her mind works 
When she’s disarming 
Me so ingenuously right 
Now with that telling 
Look that’s looking right 
Through me as if to say 
It’s all right, Papa 
Whatever you write, 
You’ll still be 
The only grandpa 
I have who’s a poet— 
Whatever that is. 

Snuffed, Or the Demise of Existentialism

When your livid 
Being’s being torn asunder
By frivolous absurdities

And you find yourself burning
All your candles before 
They come to an end. 

Hopeless Romantic Aspirant

It appears 
I have no worldly ambitions 
In the least, at least that’s what 
My discerning, highly 
Esteemed colleagues mostly 
Accuse me of, and I suspect 
They are right—after all, 
All I’ve ever wanted is 
To make myself comfortable 
Before a blank piece of paper 
And make believe 
It’s my whole world. 

Bald Eagle on Cloud Nine

Oh say if ever 

Those hawkish glorious
Talons of yours turn the world 
Upside down, watch out— 

You’ll always be a sitting 
Duck there on the top 
Looking down. 

Vindication of the Flash in the Pan

It’s true 
By the time you read this, 
I shall have departed 

Forgotten by all 
In a flash of a second, 
And my body too 

Soon dissolved into dust, 
But the mite-like words 
That swirled round 

The whirlwind I once was 
Tell me ungrateful ones, 
Are they not already 

Bedded down on the tips 
Of your bloated and too soon 
Forgetful tongues? 

Think Again

the voice 
you think 

you hear 
inside you 

thinks twice 
as hard 

as you 
and you 

never know 
it hears 

you, too. 

Back to Square One, Misfits

From where I sit, 
The long and short of it 

Is that where 
We’re going everyone 

Knows but no- 
One’s falling over 

Backwards to be 
The first to fit 

A square peg 
In a round hole.