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. 

 

 

 

 

Domicile Of The Empathic Heart

 

In the dead of winter 

Huddled over, kindling 

 

A lone dying hearth. 

 

 

 

Sappho's

[ ] [ ] [ ] 

 

ex 

plosive 

               frag 

[ ] [ ] [ ] 

 

meant 

to 

be

 

[ ] [ ] [ ] 

 

loving[ly] ex 

 

[pli-] 

[ca-] 

[ted] 

 

[ ] [ ] [ ] 

 

[from?] 

 

[dia] [pha] [nous]

 

pleats

in 

her 

enamored

 

[memory?] [now]

 

[ ] [ ] [ ] 

[ ] [ ] [ ] 

 

by ravenous moths torn 

 

[ ] [ ] [ ] 

[ ] [ ] [ ] 

[ ] [ ] [ ] 

[ ] [ ] [ ] 

[ ] [ ] [ ] 

[ ] [ ] [ ]

 

to shreds.

 

A Rose Is A Rose Is A Rose Tattoo

 

Get that thorn off 

Your chest—what 

 

The indifferent eye fails 

To take in, the still willing 

 

Anxious heart torn in two will, 

And all those now too timid 

 

To reveal it shall soon be 

Wearing it on 

 

Their bloody sleeves, too. 

 

 

 

Another Holy Mountain, Believe It Or Not

This time 

It’s Zeus’s so-called ladder- 

Like Mt Ithome that climbs 

 

To where the air is still 

Alive they say with spirits 

Of the undying 

 

Ancients that have 

Yet to exhaust that one 

Last precious breath needed

 

To ascend there. 

 

 

 

 

 

Humor Me This Mellow Melancholy Idyll

 

What if 

I told you those blooming 

 

Little yellow croci 

By the side 

 

Of the narrow path leading 

To the cramped white 

 

Chapel on the top 

Of the hill overlooking 

 

My dying birth village took me back 

To a song of my lost youth, 

 

Would you go along with me? 

 

 

 

 

 

Critical Poetic License

Happily ever after, 

Do not write as if 

 

Your life’s a third-rate novel 

Where you end up 

 

Reading a biography 

You could’ve lived without. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Memo Writ To A Fare-Thee-Well

Don’t forget— 

No matter what you do, how 

You do it will always come back 

To let you know how you did. 

 

 

 

A Poem Should Be (22)

Lightheaded but not 

At all incongruous— 

Like a grotesque

 

Metallic bird lunging head- 

Long into the sound 

Barrier banging against 

 

Your tin ear till 

You can hear yourself 

Heading for another universe 

 

Eons 

Of light 

Years away. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Playing For Keeps

We know 

How diverse verses come and go— 

 

The easy ones quick and eager 

To show their facile faces; the hard ones 

 

Hard at work while hiding, keeping 

Those hard-won profiles low. 

 

 

 

 

 

Discriminating Behavior

 

Like eggs gone bad, unsavory 

Politicians on their way 

To becoming rotten to the core 

Maneuver straight to the surface 

When immersed in a pot of water; 

Taken for granted and yoked 

To one another by dumb gravity, 

Their out of it constituents stay hale

And hearty stuck to the bottom. 

 

 

 

Better Luck Next Time, Yahoo

 

You asked for a poem

That would be enlightening. 

 

 

 

Down But Still Not Out

 

It’s when you feel

Troubled and out

 

Of place and the only 

Place left you can go to

 

Is the home you left 

In the first place.

 

 

 

 

Still Mellow Yellow At 76

What if 

 

I told you quite 

Rightly I fancy these small 

Yellow croci blooming 

 

By the side 

Of this narrow 

Path leading 

 

To the small white 

Chapel on the top 

Of the hill 

 

Overlooking my sun- 

Lit home village remind 

Me of a song 

 

Of my youth, would you 

Indulge me this not 

So farfetched fantasy? 

 

 

 

Catch Me If You Can, Chumps

The whereabouts of where 

Your promising poetics were 

Headed at any given time 

Were clearly present 

And defined by 

An artful aversion 

 

To working hard 

At nothing save how 

Fast and easy you could get 

In and out without 

Ever delivering 

The promised goods. 

 

 

 

 

 

Spring Haiku: Cupid's Tart

 

smitten lovebirds dart 

in and out of the bitter- 

sweet lemon tree’s heart 

 

 

Mistaken Presumption

The poem does not ask to be 

Taken for granted simply because 

You think you’ve put it down so 

Rightly in black and white— 

It wants to know if you will 

Ever learn to tell the difference 

Between that which is before you 

And that lying between the lines 

Left in pieces behind you.

 

 

 

 

 

A Poem Should Be (21)

 

Fiercely and mercifully just—

As balm is to a wounded heart,

And bane to an incurably sick one.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Over The Moon Darkly

On nights

Without a moon, I fear

 

The sight of the heavens fills me 

To surfeit.