Autumnal Ritual

Centenarian plane tree 
Waving goodbye 

To golden leaves, black- 
Garbed old woman 

Meticulously sweeping 
House walkway clean. 

If The Truth Were Known

You wake up after dreaming 
You’ll be deprived of everything 
In the by and by— 

A sycophant’s somewhere 
In your subconscious 
Telling you not to worry, 

Everything’s a lie. 

Early Spring Haiku

Bashô stares at fronds 
Shaggy with hoarfrost ringing 
Frozen froggy pond. 

Phaedra And The Depiction Of Artistic Fidelity

In her young artist’s eye, the storm

Clouds are menacing

Frenetic grey and black

Jagged squiggles raining

Down long drawn-out

Swaths of green on

The heads of three purplish-

Red poppies, one of which is

Being caressed by

A long thin penciled right arm

Belonging to a young sun-

Glasses-wearing mop-

Headed red-haired girl holding

In her left hand something

Resembling a leafless tree,

Its ten green limbs radiating

Out from the center, each

Gangly arm dangling one

Black, glob-like fruit--

In other words, a fantastic

Child’s umbrella!—instead of your usual

Plain, black, grownup one, the likes

Of which most of us would more

Than likely mistakenly take it for.

Pierian Spring Redux

What to do, what to do? 

All around us, simple 
Things so profound 
As water rises, water falls— 

What to do, what to do? 
Keep to the high ground, 
Drink deep, too. 

You Talkin' To Me, Janus?

I’ll tell you this much, love—the more 
We hate others unlike us, the less 
Hate we have for ourselves. 

Out To Lunch In The Land Of The Free Besieged

a 

small 

red-

handled 

pale

blue 

picnic 

basket 

has 

been 

left 


on

top 

of 

a 

bullet- 

riddled 

freshly 

painted 

white 

wall, 


help 

your

selves. 

Never Enough Food For Thought

--for all caregivers, everywhere 


Watching Eleni feeding 
My mother-in-law who doesn’t 
Know where she is, who’s feeding her 
Or what it is she’s eating anymore, I can't help
But wonder at her painstaking patience, 

As she tenderly puts back into that mouth 
That once lulled her to sleep, nourishment 
That keeps wanting to trickle down 
Those spent octogenarian cheeks, much 
Like her mother was wont to do when 

One after another, she found herself 
With six hungry young mouths to feed, 
And where no one ever forgot that 
Never having enough food was always 
More than just a thought. 

Let's See You Trump This Catgut Tongue Twisting Conundrum Twit

Who’s the prime time news hog sowing 
So many lies his mouth needs 
Sewing up with swine twine? 

Rote Painting Poetics

1. 
Painting in words isn’t so hard— 
Just remember that 

2. 
Words are merely symbols 
For things and always 

3. 
Be sure to color them 
By number. 

Die-hard Flat-earther

I’d rather fall over 
Backwards, my senseless 
Ass lying blithely supine 

On the ground of a stable 
Earthen floor than land flat 
On my face, kissing 

The abominable 
Shifty-looking threshold 
Of a revolting, revolving door.

Revolutionary Pre-Text

Put down one bloody 
Revolting word 
At a time in the body, 
And the rest busy killing 

Time in the margins 
Of the pedestrian 
Mind will turn round 
Squarely and finish you 

Off in no time. 

Out Of The Dark Spaces Where

intricately

bunched 
together 
crammed 

with- 
in thin 
slits be- 
tween white- 
washed stones, 

cyclamen now 
poke baby pale pink 
faces through, craning 
their fragile necks 
to get a sneak 

preview of whatever 
else is blooming 
out there simply

plain in view. 

Blues In The Night (Dispossessed American Troubadour)

Oh my love was like 
A red, red shaggy coat, 
A shroud that kept me 
Warm and rosy— 
Now I’m alone, down 
And out and blue, blue 
As a body can be, 
A corpse in the cold 
White wraps of winter. 

Vocational Training: What's My Line?

Ok, let’s say we’re 
Three crows all

Cawing on 
A lone telephone line— 

Carrion spotted.
Two leave, one’s left

To continue 
Calling all maws 

Up and down
This lonely calling

Of a line, now doesn't
That sound fine? 

KO'd On Tin Pan Alley

A lyricist is boxing 
Poetic your ears with in- 
Sane strains of music 
Out of this world
As waxing delirious

Sirens wail in the corner
Poised to throw in the towel 
While you rock back and forth 
Rhythmically timing the moment 
You hit the floor.