Archipelago of the Aegean

of that jasmine 

from first light 
of day to night 
winding through 

narrow passage 
ways smelling 
of sea- 

girded white washed 
limestone still 
blinding white. 

Janus-Faced Plumb Cuckoo's Cogito Ergo Sum

Of all the nutty 
Scenarios that keep flashing 

Through his double’s dealing 
Mind’s eye, the one that sticks 

Out from the others like 
A sore thumb is the one where 

His alter ego’s little 
Jack Horner jamming 

A humungous middle 
Finger up the other’s 

Piebald bum, all the while 
Trumpeting “I’m the greatest 

Tweeter of all, I am, I am, 
Oh, what a titillating prize 

Plum of a cornucopian 
Fruitcake I am!” 

Curmudgeon Closing in on the Summation

In the end, 
He who is continually 
At odds with himself is close 
To knowing who his chief adversary is, 
Though never close enough 
To make a difference. 

Phantom Undertaking

Let him who is beyond 
A doubt devoid of substance 
Be the first to show us how 

Soul-cleansing the act 
Of casting shadows on white 
Washed walls can really be. 

Drawing A Blank: Returning To The Motherland, 1959

"They enter the new world naked, 
cold, uncertain of all 
save that they enter.” 
—W.C. Williams, Spring and All 

I imagined 
The village welcoming 
Ceremony would be 
Like the farewell 
Eleven years before 
When I was all of four, 
But who knows what 
That was like when 
I remembered nothing 
Of what had come before, 
Let alone my mother 
And the midwife bringing 
Me into a new world naked 
In the middle of March 
On a hard-packed earthen floor.

Pushing Renewable Energy To Its Uppermost Limits

It was green as all 
Get out up there 
On Resting Place Ridge 
And it was going 
To keep on 
Getting greener, 

A real going concern 
As they say, something 
A live wire could die for, 
Even the daisies out doing 
Pushups could be seen 
Turning green with envy. 

Huuklyeand Cinquor On The Difficulty Inherent In Finding Your True North

Like a compass gone 
Haywire, the why 
Of where you may be 
At any given point 
Has nothing to do 
With where you think 
You are going. 


Moderator’s comments: OK, Cinquor—you just keep throwing your soul-searching lines out—sooner or later, some lost soul will take the bait and follow you straight to wherever it is you think you’re going.

Vagrant

urchin’s 

small sky- 
blue bouncing 

ball bouncing 
from one vacant 

lot to another 

Her Mama Done Told Her

The quickest way to his heart 
Was through his stomach 

But she garbled the message, 
Peeled, and sliced his 

Adam’s apple instead. 

Bankrupt Wordsmith Soon To Be Back In Business

Out of the thick dark- 
Green blackness of vegetable 
Life smothering the derelict 
Study of the late obscure 
Minor underground poet, 
There comes the fevered 
Munching of eager beaver 
Ghost writers rabidly attacking 
A bolted, worm-eaten door. 

The Squint-eyed Kid Strikes (Out) Again

Sun, it’s time you stopped 
Playing with me—how 
On earth am I 

To reflect on all 
That’s under the heavens 
When you’re always on the run? 

Gullible Masochistic Supplicant Beseeches Imagist Muse

My unerring, yea, insouciant 
Lady, should you deem it fit 
To kill me with a panoply 
Of words cutting 

To the heart, please 
Please with your leave
Before I depart, let me see 
How they all hit the mark. 

But For The Grace Of God: Making America Great Again

If it’s true that 
Time waits 

For no man, yet 
Neither does it 

Stand still, caught 
As we are 

In such a debilitating 
Conundrum 

And drained of any 
Feasible exit plan, 

It’s not unreasonable to expect 
The great unwashed will 

Opt for the next up-and-coming 
Maelstrom to suck the whole 

Godforsaken kit and caboodle 
Down, down, down to where 

Everything settles in
To the muck 

Of just being there. 

Making The Best Of Small Talk

under the shade 
of the huge 

coffeehouse maples, 
where the receipts 

of what has been 
spent so far 

flutter round my feet 
like the dying 

leaves soon to be 
scurrying over 

the crushed gravel 
when Fall rolls round 

again, I cannot 
help but overhear 

the mindless droning small 
talk of grownups 

behind me—all 
the while 

my eyes riveted 
on the children hard 

at play in the play- 
ground opposite, 

and though not 
a praying man 

myself, I swear 
I can almost 

hear the desperate 
small white cry 

of the child I once was 
pleading with me, 

telling me don’t 
give it a second 

thought, no matter 
what you might be 

thinking, make the best 
of it, it’s all we’ve got. 

Moira, Kindred Spirit

Second-guessing her is akin 
To knowing bloody well what 

Where and when to turn down 
All blind alleys to Hell. 

Seriously, You Can Ask Me

If I’ll be here 
Tomorrow to answer 
Your life-and-death question; 
To give you, 
Among other things, 
The proper time 
Of day when everybody looks 
Askance at you then turns 
To look the other way; 
You can ask me whatever else 
Pops out of that enquiring
Mind as long as you remember 
Not to blow it when unfinished
Business calls and I’m not 
There to stop that pap before 
It ups and blows your brains away.