Where There's A Will

Begin a poem 

To be or not to be and more 

 

Than likely you’ll end up never 

Knowing who not to be. 

 

 

 

Tending The Poet's Fireplace

For God’s sake, whatever 

You do, do not think 

 

You can feed it too much 

Oxygen or too little, 

 

For either one causes it 

To choke to death. 

 

 

 

 

 

No Bleeding Hearts

Suffering lies low, festering 

In Everyman’s hearth, 

 

And everyone wants it 

Ripped out without hurting 

 

Each other’s heart. 

 

 

 

 

Manifest Destiny, Plain As Day

What looks 

Fair and square does 

Not always turn out 

To be what it should be— 

 

Which is why 

I reckon that 

Cowpuncher’s driving 

Just cattle and not 

 

Buffalo, right Bill?

 

 

Prayer Of An Incurable Nostalgic Greek Optimist

“It often seems to me that it is better to be asleep than to find yourself without companions 

And insist so. And what can you do in this state of suspense, what say? I do not know. 

And what is the use of poets in a mean spirited time?” 

 

--Friedrich Hoelderlin, (quoted by George Seferis at the beginning of Log Book 1, Roderick Beaton translation.) 

 

After yet another oppressive 

Day, what with Covid-19 

 

And a society and government— 

Dare I say world?— 

 

In apparent disarray, to wake up 

In the dead of night, say 

 

Four-thirty, and remain transfixed 

There in the darkness unable 

 

To go back to sleep, anxious 

To witness one more glorious 

 

Morning unfolding slowly 

Its dawning 

 

Sheets of blinding light, 

Wide-eyed awake forever 

 

And ever before you 

To your dying day.

 

Haiku: Body Heat

Hut window frosty 

Warmth of your breathless breathing 

 

Steaming opaque glass. 

 

 

 

Plea Bargaining: A Confession Of Sorts

Ok, you win— 

I did it, I killed 

The one thing I loved most 

In the world—my self, 

 

Though it was not so 

Hard as you might think— 

I just had to snuff out 

The distaste deep down 

 

I felt for those who kept on 

Reminding me how 

Pleasant it would be 

To live without 

 

Someone like me.

 

 

 

Goldbrickers' Haiku

We don’t need no more 

Ejucation, just more and 

More holes in the wall. 

 

 

 

Crepuscular Stretch Of The Wildest Imagination

If you ask me, those bunches 

Of wild early evening mint 

Over there sure look like 

A herd of shaggy fauna 

Grazing in a green meadow— 

 

So much in fact, the next thing you know is 

They’ll be hoofing it straightaway 

To the palms of our hands, bent on munching 

The living daylights out of them 

As they make their luminous way here. 

 

 

 

Late Life Meditation: Winner Take All

Shut 

Your eyes tight 

Enough 

To keep in all 

The light 

You thought 

You lost.

 

 

 

Noncommittal Not So Plumb Haywire

It’s been quite a while since 

Any wide-eyed wannabee 

Poet’s asked me what 

It’s like being a poet and I must say 

It’s no great surprise, seeing 

I’ve been out of the public eye so 

To speak here in my sanctum sanctorum, 

The boondocks of the southern Peloponnese, 

These past 50 years but if 

Anybody should go to all the trouble now 

To show up on my doorstep and ask me 

I’d surely tell them to think 

Twice before committing themselves. 

 

 

 

 

Measure Of Poverty In The Boondocks Of The Southern Peloponnese, Circa 1965

In a land overflowing 

With a blessèd abundance 

Of olive trees, not having one 

To call your own and where 

Those who had finished 

Gathering theirs had packed up 

The bulging sacks, 

Hand-woven heavy

Ground-covering cloths

And gone home, to go there afterwards,

Get down on your hands and knees 

And salvage the precious few 

Shiny fruits that had over- 

Flowed and escaped 

The nets of the plenty.

 

Where There's A Will. . . .

Begin a poem 

With “To be or not 

 

To be” and more 

Than likely 

 

You’ll end up not 

Knowing who not to be. 

 

 

 

 

 

One More Heavy Winter Solstice Conundrum

In the dark, waiting 

For the dark to begin 

 

At first sight 

Of dawn 

 

Becoming lighter again. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ill At Ease Amongst Many

A singular voice is what 

Most of us strive for; 

 

Most of the time we hear 

More than enough 

 

Silence that keeps 

Us moving. 

 

 

 

Archilochos Apparently Penitent

If I had to do it all over 

Again, perhaps that verily now

Quite ancient shield I hastily ditched 

Behind a bush and abandoned 

When the killing fields got too hot 

For my britches would still be mine, 

 

But then again, where 

Oh where

 

Would my poem be?

 

Artisan Of Self-Absorption

Funny thing-- 

You think you're here 

To make the best 

Of things 

 

Yet you fail 

To ask yourself why 

The baubles you exhibit 

Only make them worse. 

 

 

 

Bloody Murder

Shoddy serial poets love executing 

Poem after poem but never confess how 

 

Much it must kill them every time 

They see what they’ve done.

 

Domain Of Arresting Gravitational Attraction

Look at it this way: 

Neophyte warblers’ 

Nest in myrtle, 

Startled throats open 

As designated 

Ripe, blue-black berries drop 

Properly into place! 

 

If this were anywhere close 

To the realms of possibility, 

Skeptic—could you bring yourself 

To pull away? 

 

 

 

Astronomical: On A Line Of Heraclitus

The sun is one foot wide 

And each day 

 

You rise to see it, 

You’re light

 

Years over the moon again. 

 

 

 

 

Rx For The Duration

Take all 

The time you need 

 

Even if you don’t 

Need to 

 

Take it all.

 

 

 

 

Foregone: Heraclitus From Α To Ω

He who said 

The Logos is eternal, 

 

Which is to say 

It has been here 

From the beginning

And shall continue to be,

 

 

And strange as it might 

Sound, some have heard it 

And some have not, while 

Others have heard it 

And not understood; 

 

Those most curious 

Have sought it out so 

As to find out why, only 

To find that it speaks 

Mostly in mute riddles leading 

To a puzzling, though 

Far and away most logical 

Conclusion.