Coleridge On Why His "Rime Of The Ancient Mariner" Turned Out To Be So Long And Drawn-Out

Oh, I’d have finished it 

Straightway in a high romantic fit 

Alright but for that hellish albatross 

That hung round brooding 

Over my best laid plans,

Not to mention those 

Spent endless days 

Soul searching damnable 

Interminable nights,

And bearings too loose

To set my course aright.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Unwavering Rustic Song Of Heraclitus

Concurrently caught  

 

In the babbling 

Brook, the rippling yet 

Still clear reflection 

 

Of that brooding 

Face swaying this 

Way and that, 

 

And the clinging,

Beckoning music 

Of reeds firmly 

 

Stuck in muck. 

 

 

 

Fat Chance, Moneybags

Supine in a frozen greenback trance, 

You’re nailed to the earth still banking 

 

On the hoarfrost round your body 

To stand up and dance. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Naysayers' Ars Poetica

The real reason 

People don’t get poetry— 

 

It’s much easier not to 

Ask yourself why. 

 

 

 

 

Not All Greek, Yet--

—for my niece Tanja, 

whose heart most certainly is. 

 

 

To not know 

A word the old 

 

Woman’s saying but 

To feel her hand 

 

On your forehead talking 

A language 

 

Both of you understand.

 

 

 

 

"Well, If I Were You, I Wouldn't Start From Here"

But seriously now, 

How else are you 

 

To get to where 

You have to go when 

 

On your way there, 

That long-awaited lame 

 

Punch line comes limping out 

Of nowhere with just enough 

 

Clout to send your senses reeling 

Back to you-know-where? 

 

 

 

 

Revelation

Nothing so far- 

Fetched as a stork 

Bringing a new-

 

Born baby in- 

To a Greek house- 

Hold; here, it’s something

 

More down-to-Earth, I can 

Still remember my mom’s 

Answer when I asked her

 

That tormenting question so 

Many years ago: “Why, 

From the kneecap, you

 

Silly boy, where else?” 

As she slapped 

Her right leg smartly,

 

Letting out a small laugh 

Like a mischievous child 

At the same time. 

 

 

 

 

Haiku: Lifeline (Brief On How To Make Every Second Count)

Aye, short is the span— 

It takes a lot of looking 

Long to see just how.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Geezer Spouting Off Again

For us bloody 

 

Hardy blowhards, breathing 

Profusely comes easy—what sucks 

 

As all get out is holding all that non 

Stop volatile stentorian hot 

 

Air indefinitely in. 

 

 

 

 

 

Clearly Blue

I want 

To describe 

 

A certain indescribable 

Hue of melancholy 

 

By looking closely 

At how I cannot 

 

But think of you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Haiku: Arena

Here most of us mill 

Around without character, 

Others haul millstones. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Haiku: Hermetically Sealed

Such deep soulful eyes— 

Clearly the silent windows 

To a shuttered world. 

 

 

 

Poet Against The Grain In The Boondocks Of The Southern Peloponnese

Over your head perhaps but 

Then again never entirely 

Out of your element, 

 

This singular cleansing 

Clear blue sky and that 

Uncompromising view 

 

Unobstructed by the ubiquitous 

Chatter of pedestrian clutter you 

Like to think now safely behind you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Coming Clean At Last

When you feel up to it, 

Feel free to write in 

The persona of one unwilling

To exist outside himself— 

If you do, be a sport 

And rub out every ineffable 

Trace of his presence—painful 

As it is, it’ll spare the both of us 

A world of disconsolate grief. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Double Crossed Subject/Object Matter

the

in- 

no- 

cent 

gilt- 

 

edged 

mir- 

ror 

frames 

no- 

 

thing 

specious 

in 

it- 

self 

 

save 

the 

precious 

image 

you 

 

project 

to 

cover 

your 

abject 

 

about- 

face.

 

 

 

 

 

 

From A Poet's Handbook: A Poem Should Be (23)

To all those unwilling 

To face it, revolutionary 

 

And easy to digest— 

Even those hard ones 

 

Whose subject matter’s 

Revolting—say how 

 

Sickening the image 

Of a starving child is.