Eye-opening Spring Morning Inkling

Hoping to take in more 
Than enough to get you 
Through yet another day, 
You’re out in the garden next

To the flower beds when 
You stop dead in your tracks
(As they say) dumb-founded 
By the insistent scratching

Of sparrows sparring over
Last year’s seeds overlooked 
In the few scrubby weeds 
Remaining a few steps away. 

Clacker's Last Stand

Thinking you were nothing
Short of infallible, the last thing
You needed was to find everything
And everyone lacking and you
Lying through your teeth still
At the head of the class.

Invocational Anaepestic Distich: Spring Garlands Hither And Tither

From eager-to-flower gardens 
Beneath diaphanous air 

Come scents of sweet jasmine 
Heaven sent there.

Badass Yahoos Just Like The Plague, I Kid You Not

As I live and breathe, 
This world may be ours
To do with as we please, 
Dear hearts, but it so happens
It is naught but fraught 
With deadly foibles 
To be avoided by all, 
Including you who choose 
To live as if in a void, 
Is it not?

When You Haven't Got A Leg To Stand On, This One Wins Hands Down

Because

The way I see it, penning 
Poems about writing 
Poetry is as grotesque 
As waking up to find 
A glaring rosy-

Fingered dawn luridly
Fondling your very own 
Brand spanking new heart-
Throbbing precious lower 
Third limb, stud.


 

You Heard It Here First, Oldtimer

Hey,

Whatever happened 
To good old you-know-who

That kept on saying Here 
Today, you-know-what 

Gone to ever so 
Lasting morrow? 

To Each His Own--Time Warped Homonyms, Too

One of these days 
You’ll discover that 
Living with yourself 

Has become so 
Exhilarating as going through 
The rest of your life digging 

Out of the black hole 
Of the daze you’ve dug 
Yourself wholly into. 

To Whom It May Concern

new from facqueuesol paperless books

the intricate evasions of as

selected poems,1980-2010

(part one)

by

vassilis zambaras

read it for free at

https://facqueuesol-books.jimdofree.com/the-intricate-evasions-of-as/

Wild-eyed And Wooly Rebel Have-not

Unfettered 
From the commonplace 
In the wilderness 

Of his thoughts, he keeps 
An eye out for any 
Encroaching 

Domesticated strays hell- 
Bent on shaping
His made-to-order universe

Into a world full 
Of nothing but empty 
Have-lots of naught. 

Elusive Poet's Clearly Indefinite Longing

I want 
To describe 

A certain indescribable 
Hue of yellow 

By looking closely 
At how 

I cannot.

Discrete Series Ruse Number One

Muse, no matter 
Where or when 
I find myself wanting, 
Without fail I try 
Sounding out 
Those most discreet— 
Yea, coy even, vocables— 
By counting back- 
Wards from a hundred, 
Always coming up against 
That most singular constant 
Loneliest one, my old friend.

Mooning Narcissistic Voyeur With Diplopia

Peep, 

It’s at least quadruple your usual 
Dose of swooning when 
You see how rosy- 
Cheeked everything looks 
In the looking glass when 
You spy two of you spooning.

Sleeping On It Another Day

Make no mistake, my friend— 
Before you venture 
Out into the blinding 
Light of a new day, 
Pray you do not 
Hesitate to leave

A helpful farewell 
Note to the troubled 
Self you’re leaving 
To fend for it- 
Self in the dark
Behind you—

Before you 
Know it, your turn will  
Come round again, fail-
Safe and eager too, 
Make it your day.

You Can Never Be Right All Of The Time

“No man ever steps in the same river twice, 
for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man.” 
—Heraclitus 

When 

At last you begin 
To see where 

You started losing the final 
Vestige of your self-

Deception, it will 
Look to you

As if you were 
Forever looking

In the right place 
At the wrong time. 

Straightaway Skirting The Stillborn

You were asking me what 
It was like 
Trying to keep writing 
Poems every day without 
Running out 
Of things that matter—

I didn’t answer 
Right away and asked 
You to ask me again 
Another day—still, why is it

So hard for all of us 
To address each crying 
Issue rearing 
Its head before us, no 
Questions asked, 
Day after day? 

Ars Poetica Cliff Notes

In brief, when
In distress

And in doubt of where
To go next

With your verse, try this
Artful, time tested maneuver—

Give it as much
Leeway as possible

Till you sense that
You’ve both reached

The end of the line, free
Falling, heady and feeling

Buoyant at the same time.

Coming Down To Earth

—for Phaedra, all of 7 ½ 

I wonder if 

I should stop 
Imagining what 

My granddaughter will be like 
In twenty years’ time and start 

Asking myself how 
To tell her 

The chances of my being 
There to see her fully 

Blossomed into full- 
Blown womanhood 

Are as likely as her 
Catching the exact 

Moment a seed pod bursts 
So that it can 

Send its offspring out
To disperse, unfettered 

In the hesitating air.

Dionysian

Their red faces aflame 
And nodding 
Over a lush 

Green carpet riddled 
With splotches 
Of dizzying yellow 

And violet-blue, these young 
Upstart anemones must 
Surely be entreating 

The gods 
Of outrageous 
Drunken abandon 

To keep their noggins 
Stupefied, always 
According to 

The laws of whichever 
Way the maniacal winds happen 
To be blowing.

Poetry Is A Destructive Force, Dude

But bloody murder? Surely
Wallace, you knew more

Than most of us, that more
Or less, we all have something

To say, and by coming
Back to the scene

Of that unspeakable
Crime day after day,

And by saying only
What has to be

Said and nothing
More, it’s the poet,

That unsung serial killer
Of silence that more

Or less paradoxically
Always gets away

With-it to his dying day.

Rejoinder/Replication: If The Poem

Refuses

In so many 
Words to shut 

Up, perhaps 
It is because it is 

Trying hard 
To tell you not 

To test the limits 
Of its hitherto 

Seemingly never- 
Ending adamantine 

Patience, pushover— 
You got it down pat? 

Perish The Winners' Win-Win Thoughts

Not at all surprisingly, 
Today I found myself almost 
Losing it again, that nagging 
Sense I knew who 
I was—you see 
I once thought 
I was a winner 
And everyone else 
More or less a loser, 
My friends, what 
A relief to at last discover 
We all win and lose something 
While ending up leaving 
Not surprisingly always 
Nothing in the end.

Closing In On The Poet's Elusive Objective Correlative

Moving deep 
Cross the depths 
Of your medium 

Like a crustacean, never 
Go straight to where- 
Ever it is 

You are heading—be 
It forwards or 
Back—being oblique in 

Your every movement, 
Take in as much as you can 
While doing so—this 

Will get you there sooner 
Or later, your pincers at last in 
Position to strike side- 

Long straight at the heart 
Of the scuttling always
Suspect subject matter, 

Leaving you free 
To break through 
To the untroubled

Surface for air.