Riming Zen Beat Master

Know this much: Nothing’s worth 

 

More than having all the tea 

In China and never once having 

 

Sipped a single sip.

 

 

 

 

 

 

As God Is My Witness

Looking back, we see

 

There are many things 

One can say 

About keeping silent 

 

In the face 

Of unspeakable crime— 

 

Taking it forward 

To your grave is not 

One of them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Speechless Before Starlings

They’ve just dropped 

In from out 

 

Of the heavens 

For the duration 

 

Of winter and are strung 

Out murmuring along 

 

The three telephone wires 

Opposite the house 

 

Like notes of a musical 

Score—no, something more like 

 

A long discrete succession 

Of commas taking 

 

Up every available space, 

Leaving no room—period— 

 

For words capable 

Of fulfilling 

 

That imminent,

Bewildering air. 

 

 

 

 

Haiku: Wanderlust

 

Itch to find yourself 

Elsewhere the moment you set 

Your footloose feet there. 

 

 

 

Deity

Poetry is that 

Power which keeps 

 

Withdrawing while staying 

Ineffably within 

 

Reach. 

 

 

 

Supplicants Before The Slopes Of Mt. Ithome

 

Though almost drained of the will

To persevere, take notice— 

 

This steep rugged holy mountain an ancient 

Blind bard once described as “ladder-like” climbs 

In rungs to where the air is still 

 

Alive with daemons 

And spirits 

 

Who have not yet exhausted 

Their last breath to help you 

 

Ascend there. 

 

 

 

 

 

How To Begin Your Day, Vassal

Preoccupied only 

With observing how 

That nameless red- 

Breasted twittering 

 

Little bird has perched 

On a limb of the strawberry 

Tree in our good lord’s garden 

 

And is nibbling away 

At just those berries ripe and fit 

Enough to be set before a king. 

 

 

 

 

Alzheimer Twilight Vignette

This in which he 

Ends up smashing all 

 

The light bulbs left lit 

In that inner sanctum 

 

Of his he thought he had 

Remembered 

 

To switch off before 

Falling asleep.

 

Portentous Local Murders

These crows usually 

Like nothing better 

Than to fly 

From house 

Top to house 

Top but most times they 

Prefer to stay cackling 

Out of the way high up 

In the old bullet-riddled village 

Clock tower that miraculously 

Still keeps striking the right 

Time of day—whenever 

That happens, all common- 

Place hell breaks loose, 

And the birds scatter 

Helter-skelter.  That's when

I like to think the few remaining 

Villagers old enough to remember 

Flash back to those murderous 

Three days of civil strife that sent 

So many souls shrieking 

To the depths of the underworld. 

 

Just like their predecessors did 

More than half a bloody century ago, 

The birds soon return to the bell-tower, 

Where they continue to crow. 

 

 

 

The Artist Seemingly Fully In Command Of His Fate

“Life is the art of drawing 

Without an eraser.” 

--John W. Gardner 

 

 

John W. Gardner was 

Not an artist but I still wish 

To thank him for his apophthegm 

Of living artlessly with no dodges 

And no room 

 

For any erasures whatsoever, even when 

The artist in each of us finds himself— 

As did John one fateful day— clearly 

Out of his medium and face-to-face 

With the one-and-only artfully awful 

 

Great Eraser.

 

Industrial Zone Obscenity

porno 

 

graphic 

char 

 

coal 

colored 

 

smoking 

stacks 

 

penetrating 

soot 

saturated

seriously

 

virgin 

once 

 

now 

serially 

violated 

 

sky

 

Apathy's All The Money, Honey

And yet, it's that constant 

Remainder keeps reminding us 

 

Everything adds up and nothing 

Remains unchanged 

 

As long as indifference 

Makes the difference, 

 

It’s all the same. 

 

 

 

 

Clearing The Air (Life Studies)

The poem’s not 

Meant to perplex you, 

Dear reader—it’s there simply 

To make you question what 

You’re doing here. 

 

 

Child's Play Ain't No Pushover, Is It?

Now, seeing you’ve found 

Your way here 

With precious little 

Effort my good man, 

Gets me thinking that 

Doubling back to where 

You started should be 

Twice as easy, even 

Though it sure looks like 

You’ve already gone 

One giant step too far 

Beyond it. 

 

 

 

 

Ephemeral Myopic Poet

The most obvious thing one can say 

About his life was that 

 

He spent it mostly doing what 

He was best at—observing closely 

 

How little one actually sees 

Clearly in the course of a day. 

 

 

 

Payback

At last the worst is over 

And done with and everything 

 

In order; in return, 

All we have to do is stop 

 

Expecting nothing 

But the best in turn. 

 

 

 

 

Crowing In Absentia

What if I told you the late 

Afternoon skies were full of fright, 

Full scudding black cawing 

Clouds, the people below slowly 

Turning ashen—what shade 

Of grey would you be 

Decked out in tonight? 

 

 

 

Daily Litany

So that that old 

Orb the sun may sink to his knees 

In the end and share 

 

In our humility, poems are 

Offered in turn—who is it now

That hasn’t a prayer?

 

Unwavering Line Of Defense

What I have made 

Of myself, let others offer 

 

Judgement commensurate 

With the facts— 

 

All I can do in return is what 

I do best—demur. 

 

 

 

 

Revelations Of A Third Kind

Certain entities always 

Reveal themselves 

And make us feel right— 

 

Others prefer keeping to 

Dark, out-of-the-way places, 

And under certain circumstances, 

 

This too is all right— 

What’s wrong is never knowing 

When all that’s wrong appears 

 

To be dead right.

 

Writing Prompt Found Wanting

Start writing right off 

About a vivid childhood

 

Memory, don’t break 

Your lines or punctuate 

 

For at least five lines and see 

What happens; repeat 

 

One phrase at least 

Three times; continue writing 

 

To wherever the memory might 

Lead you, keeping in mind 

 

You may have to 

Do this several times before 

 

You end up writing 

Everything off, going on 

 

To bigger and better things 

Every time. 

 

 

 

The Pedestrian Spirit That Moves Us

When the last light 

Of the fire left 

In your eyes goes 

Out the window 

Of your domicile 

Like the proverbial 

Bird in flight, do not dawdle 

 

There in that earthbound 

Hearth of darkness, telling yourself 

You did all you could 

To avoid the worst when 

Deep down you know you were 

At best just one more docile, 

Accommodating guest— 

 

For Christ’s sake, 

You made your own bed, 

Didn’t you? Now, 

Go sleep in it.