Ambivalent Unconditional Surrender

Many the battles over 

Common ground till 

 

One finally approaches 

A poem on its own terms— 

 

Tattered white flag in one hand, 

Fingers crossed in the other. 

 

 

 

Best of Plum Tree Tavern 2016 to 2020

Russell Streur, the innkeeper over at the veritable Plum Tree Tavern was kind enough—and I thank him once again--to include one of my poems in his latest anthology of poems titled "Best of Plum Tree Tavern 2016 to 2020." If so inclined, readers can read it and the other fine offerings included therein. Here is the link https://plumtreetavernbestofone.blogspot.com/ . BTW, my poem is next-to-last but I’d recommend reading all the entries before it--and the final one, of course. Cheers!

 

MIA

Miserable cur that you are, 

You still need not 

Agonize over 

 

A poem's arrival as if it were 

Some long-overdue missive 

From a missing loved one— 

 

It will appear when 

You least expect it and do what 

It’s always executed so well— 

 

Put you out of your misery.

 

 

 

 

Concerning The Matter Of Things

This world does not want 

You to stare dumb- 

Founded in- 

To empty 

Space no matter 

What--it wants 

You to find 

Your rightful place 

In the midst of so many wrongs 

And fill it with nothing 

But song. 

 

 

 

Neon Twilight

You’re destined to see

Your whole life go past you 

In a flash, and you’re still 

 

Green behind the ears 

Inert as ever, waiting 

For the sign saying look 

 

Both ways before crossing 

Against the last red light. 

 

 

 

After Heraclitus, Naturally

Who said

 

It’s natural man knows 

His own mind and knows  

He’s sane—woe to him 

Who doesn’t know

 

He's insane.

 

 

 

 

 

Healer Of Desperate Souls

--for Eleni 

Of that precious 

Small pocket of air 

You carry with you 

Like a talisman against all 

The ills of the world 

That descend upon us 

Everywhere, tell me again 

And again how it is 

Everything it touches 

Dispels untold depression 

And despair! 

 

 

 

So Far, So Good

Imagine 

Beyond this growing 

Poverty of words nothing 

But silence and you trying 

 

To explain how 

You came so close 

To untying your tongue 

Again and again.

 

Hope Dies Last (Seize The Day)

Easy does it, hombre— 

Having never lived 

 

Fully, clearly you could still 

Die just as easily, say 

 

Tomorrow, if not today. 

 

 

 

Minor Ukrainian Rhapsody, March 21, 2022

a pity 

 

you’re not here 

to witness, Doc— 

 

you see not so 

 

much depends 

upon that fire- 

 

baked engine red 

harrow now caked 

 

with coats of maculate 

brown flaking rust beside 

 

a sky-blue pond in which reflected 

puffs of dirty gunmetal grey

 

clouds scud by and no white 

chickens in sight.

 

Perambulatory Archilochos

To each his own, 

Under blossoming 

 

Dogwood and oak, one 

Person at once poet 

 

And mercenary, out 

Walking through ragged 

 

Paper thin fragments 

Of a cutting mind, still 

 

Trying to get it all 

Together, one fragile 

 

Piece at a time. 

 

 

Coeval European Cutting-edge Theater, 2022 AD

Unfolding in front

 

Of heady, blood- 

Shot eyes, the worst 

 

Possible scenario, most 

Horrible war embroidered 

 

With the best 

Intentions of all 

 

Those terrible 

Hacks-in-waiting 

 

Behind rustling, heavy 

Curtains. 

 

 

 

Vicious Cycle Of Procrastination, Or One Frog Good, Two Frogs Better

What is never 

Explained satisfactorily 

And always 

 

Left for much, 

Much later is why 

Time after time 

 

You need 

To ask yourself why. 

 

 

 

Don't Just Stand There, Poet

All those knotholes 

There in the dark 

 

Oak-paneled room, 

How is it 

 

You cannot see 

The one 

 

Bump on a log? 

 

 

 

Grave Monumental Dedication

Reel off another 

One of those patriotic 

Pat pablum paeans of yours 

Praising the glory of war over 

My dead body and imagine 

Once and for all those numberless 

Numbing skulls turning one 

Deaf ear to you after another. 

 

 

 

Illusive Lantern

When you write 

Poetry, they ask me 

 

Do you do it 

In the morning,

 

At noon or night? 

And does it make 

 

Any difference 

As long as you 

 

Do it right? All I can say is 

I’ve spent most 

 

Of my life, right or wrong, 

Looking askance 

 

At that slant glint 

Of piercing light, still 

 

Waiting for the first sign 

I was right. 

 

 

 

Miraculous Feat Transpiring

To happen 

To see 

 

A star falling is not 

So exceptional 

 

A thing, to see it 

In broad day- 

 

Light is far 

And away 

 

Quite another thing. 

 

 

 

 

To An Ancient Behemoth Recently Passed

If only you could 

Step back 

 

Two colossal steps and step 

Forward one, you might more 

 

Fully appreciate how ruthlessly 

Advanced your state- 

 

Of-the-art trajectory was, 

Seen from the dizzying heights 

 

Of seem. Why just yesterday 

You were but knee-high 

 

To a grasshopper and now 

You’re rubbing elbows 

 

With blind Homeric earthworms 

And wide-eyed grubs! 

 

 

 

Brown Hair and Grey Matter, Metaphorically Speaking

That shock of curly locks adorning 

Your forehead aside, it’s abundantly clear 

That esoteric space between your ears 

Still remains empty for lack of ideas to fill it. 

 

But don’t take my word for it— 

 

How long ago was it when 

The poem you so much wanted 

To write (but never did) turned 

Your hair white overnight? 

 

 

 

 

Valentine's Day Sleeping Muse

--for Eleni, everyday

 

The love of your life looks

To be dreaming again, breathing

Softly next to you, be gentle—

Wake her only

To show her how

Truly she is.

 

 

 

 

 

There, There Now, Brothers Jekyll and Hyde

Where there was always

 

Caged somewhere upright 

Out there, and which was where 

Those precious promissory 

Notes (you mistakenly thought you had 

Dispatched to your other self) ended 

Upended within

 

There.

 

Brainwashed

Take heart all you diehard versifiers— 

Putting down a poem in your head’s not hard, 

Flushing it out of your system is.