Quasi-Cartesian Contemplation

Where I can 
Stand, I choose 

To do so, other- 
Wise, I sit. 

No Trespassing--This Means You!

This abandoned derelict has nothing left to say 
Of what went on inside it, years of pent-up anger 
Keep it shut away. 

A Poem Should Be (17)

Finely spun as a spider’s 
Web poised deceptively 
In the morning sun, 

And you an ephemeral 
Struggling captive soon 
To be undone. 

Rub A Dub Tub

More than likely,
The perfect poem is never 
Going to be there when
You need it, even if
 
You’ve just cut your veins 
And are waiting patiently 
For divine inspiration to save you 
From a fate worse than death. 

Stuck-Up On The Way To The Top Of The World

Spellbound to be so high 
You may rightly be but 
Don’t you dare condescend 

To look down on all 
Those flying dizzily past you 
Going the opposite way. 

Facing Down A False Dawn: Song To Make America Great Again

Against the dark dumbing 
Deadening blues now 

Nesting in us, a future 
Brood of sonorous gold- 

Finches soon breaking full- 
Blown out of their pale 

White shells into the glorious, 
Quivering light. 

Huuklyeand Cinquor On How To Commit Poetic Suicide And Live To Tell About It

The next time you sit down to write 
Something mind-blowing right 

Off the top of your head, 
Take what’s left 

Of your brains with you. 



Moderator’s comments: What a relief! Our resident gadfly had been out of sight and out of mind so long that I was ready to abandon all hope of ever hearing from him again, so you can understand how elated I was when I received another one of his delicious little gems. With this one in particular, without his resorting to overblown poetic hyperbole, we can see how Huuk has hit the proverbial nail on the head once more and demonstrated how futile it is to have your artistic cake and eat it too—unless the poet in question has enough smarts left over to return to his senses before he suffers irreversible damage to his powerful albeit very misguided “inspirational” ego by overshooting it.

Windfall Provision

wind 

swept 


pine 

needles 


bedding 

down 


under 

cloud 


less 

full 


moon 

light 

Muted Village Wishing Well

“the fingers on the rim, as the poet put it.” 
—George Seferis, Mythistorema #2* 

The wild fig tree that has put down roots 
Deep in its depths and taken over 
The well’s mouth tells us no more 
Wishing here—the ropes have broken 
And the grooves on its lip serve 

To remind us those lines of maidens 
Who pulled up pail after pail of water 
Year after year have long since departed, 
And where once there was nubile skittery, 
Domesticated stony silence is all we hear. 



*The “poet” referred to is Dionysios Solomos, and the phrase cited is from his prose work, The Woman of Zakynthos, Chap.I.

Wages Of War: Bringing Home The Bacon

“the Aegean flower with corpses” 
—Aeschylus, Agamemnon, 659. 

Soul monger, I’d have wagered
If you had any heart at all 
For this business, you’d have sold 
Your stake in it piecemeal 

To the highest bidder instead 
Of hoarding it whole-hog 
For your blooming, 
Bloody self--

From this vantage point
However, I must concede
You're doing a bang-up job
As both butcher and packer. 

Point To Bear In Mind

Where 
You find yourself 
At any given 

Place depends 
On what 
You take with you 

There. 

Parsing The All For Naught Dichotomy

Wherein we are
Taught to think 
There is everything 
Under the sun to believe in, 
And nothing to explain how 
Inexplicable everything is.

Homage To The Kingdom Of Gaud

Spineless one, how is it 
You’ve left behind 
Legions of bedraggled 
Pilgrims on your way here, 
And many a torn rucksack, 
Yet never once noticed 
The tatterdemalion one
Adorning your back.

Almost Over The Hill

Coming upon the old 
Sheepdog as he lumbers 

Up a difficult 
Incline 

With his flock already gone 
Over the hill and I 

A steady distance some 
Twenty meters behind, 

I do not reflect on all that 
He’s been through to get this far, 

But on that sudden flash 
Of early morning 

Sunlight that lights 
Up his shabby coat 

Just as he reaches 
The top.

Washed Up Primeval Aural Consciousness

Curled swirling encrusted 
Antediluvian conches nest 
Last heard striding 

Multitudinous deafening waves 
Breaking on black obsidian 
Strand. 

Better Luck Some Other Day

Some days are meant 
For doing nothing— 
The Greeks know this 
Better than anybody else, 
You could say it’s the driving 
Force behind everything they do,

Best expressed in what has to be 
Their favorite saying, “Don’t do 
Anything today that can be better 
Done tomorrow”—of course 
When tomorrow does decide 
To pay a visit, it’s become today

And you’re back to square one 
With nothing to show 
For your patience save 
One more day spent imagining 
A tomorrow that mercifully 
Enough never comes your way. 

The Lyric Poet's Nightmare

In the dark, dreaming 
You’re falling only 

To find yourself naked 
Out riding the nag bare- 

Back in broad daylight, 
White wings thrashing 

The darkest air. 

Quo Vadis

I don’t know all that 
Much about mysteries— 

What little I do know is 
The more I want 
To know, the deeper 
The mystery begs, 

No question at all 
Of letting it go. 

Crafty Mothlike Kafkaesque Procedural Matters

Metamorphosing? 
Ask me and I will help you 

Come to grips with yourself, 
But you have to learn how 

To handle it first, steady 
As she goes turning 

Into broad daylight, 
Nothing 

Fly-by-night.

The Gift That Keeps On Wanting

I give up—

You have asked me 
Too many times 
What it is 

I want—ask me 
Just this once 
What I want

To give.

Poetry Workshop Assignments Nine And Ten

. 

Your next assignment is to write 
Unfailingly until you drop 
To the floor and take a knee, 
All the while imploring 
Your muse for more, 

Or failing that, lose 
Track of the number 
Of times you laid down 
Your pen to think 
Of what to say 

. 

Next. 

Haiku: Yahoo Deliverance

That’s when you knew you 
Couldn’t stand the you who once 
Captivated you.