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. 

Hopeless Fall Guy

So many false and trivial 
Things lie strewn before your feet 

Believe me, it’s hard not 
Falling head over heels 

For them, much better you 
Take them seriously and stay 

Just where you are,
A lifetime honorary 

Upright citizen 
On Easy Street.

Rx On Growing Up Absurd In America

For the time being, 
Just hang in there— 

Soon you shall learn how 
To weep at the slightest thing 
That makes you sad, then laugh 
At how stupid that makes you feel; 

The rest will come once 
You’ve grown a second skin 
That’s always suppurating 
But never heals. 

The Body Poetic Continued: A Poem Should Be (14)

1. 

Persevering 
As all get out— 
And badass through
And through,
Like that sleek black 
Crow on the back of that 
Nonchalant white 
Ewe, plucking away 
At her sullied, 
Ragged fleece. 

2. 

In lieu of maggots, dear 
Reader, a tireless natural 
Born killer of life- 
Threatening blood- 
Sucking fleas and ticks 
Infesting the body 
Poetic, too. 

From Life In These United States: Tomorrow's Hollow

Hopes and prayers 
Promise to be 

So momentous I think 
Another moment 

Of judicious mind- 
Numbing 

Silence is not altogether un-
Called for today.

Ultimate Fallacious Pathetic Death Rattle

What a tragedy! 

Your indentured mouth- 
Piece now lies supine 
On the polished beech- 

Wood floor beside you, 
Clacking inaudible spittle about 
Your many splendid feats, 

Though all you can make out 
Over the discombobulating 
Clicking at this late date is just 

Come clean, I’d like to see you pick yourself up 
This time round and try once more 
To lie through false teeth. 

Bear With Us, Mother Earth

Mortals, 
If not for this dreadful 
Vainglorious arrogance of ours 
Towards every living thing 
That makes us dead to the world, 
How could we suffer to live here? 

Huuklyeand Cinquor On Why Odoriferous Gossip Nurtures Us

They say you should 
Never believe your eyes, 
But if your ears were more 

Plausible as cauliflowers, 
I bet you would 
Eat your stinking hearts out. 


Moderator’s comments: Might perhaps the reason behind Huuk’s long hiatus be because he’s been feeling boxed in by conventional standards of behavior, especially those dealing with politically correct/incorrect olfactory reactions to unsavory issues that have always been so close to his heart? Now that that rather hard to swallow problem looks somewhat resolved by this poem, I hope he's at peace with himself and has finally decided to let John Q. Public go to hell in a handcart driven by a host of crazed grotesques.