Poem Written To Condemn Random Acts Of Poetry Day, October 6th

There should be nothing 

Random (or senseless either), 

About writing poetry— 

 

One should come to it forcefully 

Purposefully, with all their senses 

Intact and if possible,

 

With a hell-bent-for-leather 

Take it or leave it 

Chip-on-the-shoulder attitude,

 

Double daring any wimp who differs 

To just try and knock it off--

Have I made myself clear, dearies?

 

 

 

 

 

At All Costs, Three's A Maddening Crowd

Don't you see?

 

Poets who wager they’re solid 

Solitary figures commuting 

With their souls should take 

A serious look at themselves 

And board the first tram to Bedlam;

 

I did and it worked wonders— 

Now all I have to do is convince you, 

Myself and I--or should that I be me--?

To invest in a return ticket,

But only should all of us agree. 

 

 

 

Timeless Cycladic Artistry

Before you can finish 

Sipping your morning demitasse 

Of bitter black coffee, 

 

Frail-framed, black- 

Robed middle-aged 

Woman wielding blue 

 

Long-handled brush 

Finishes off weathered, 

Grey churchyard wall 

 

With blinding whitewash 

In what looks like 

No time at all. 

 

 

 

 

 

First Futile Attempt At Solving The Mystery Of Lost Youth

Of course you admit right off 

There’s not much left 

 

To go on, even though you insist 

On following each telltale lead, 

 

As one after the other springs up before you 

There on a pogo stick, only to disappear 

 

Furtively into the oscillating distance, a lot— 

No, too much like your favorite slinky.

 

 

 

Thingamajig, If You Please

Oh, dear 

Whatever 

 

Just has to be 

The perfect mot 

 

Valise one needs 

To get a grip on life 

 

These days, so long 

As you keep it 

 

Close at hand to throw 

Out whenever 

 

You think you know exactly 

What the long haul requires, 

 

Duckies. 

 

 

 

Eternally Besieged Babbling Pearlies

Constant that sound 

Ringing unsound within 

 

The walls; outside still 

No sign of the next 

 

Round of jaw-crushing 

Swine rushing 

 

Tottering rusty gates again.

 

Yonder Captives Clearly Out Of Their Element

“I want to paint 

The way a bird sings.” 

—C. Monet 

 

Easier said than done, 

Claude, but at least it seems 

You had an inkling of how 

 

Helpless poets can feel 

Whenever their words keep 

Hightailing it into that too 

 

Familiar wild blue wonder 

More often than not— 

And would you know it?—

 

Seldom looking back. 

 

 

 

 

Ditty Of An Existential Misfit

Oh, my! 

My precious little world 

Never stops weighing 

Heavily on my mind— 

 

Methinks it might be 

Time to lighten 

The load a bit 

And stop being 

 

Such a heavy- 

Weight light- 

Headed dimwit 

All the time— 

 

On second thought 

Though, perhaps it’s best 

I procrastinate as usual, 

And wait for the cocks’ 

 

Crow first thing on the morrow— 

Yes, yes I’ll surely do it then, 

With no inkling of regret 

Or shameful sorrow!

 

Frugal Poetic Fragility

Apart from his writing, 

Which always seemed to stop

Short of going somewhere, 

He spent most of his time 

Wandering from used bookstore 

To bookstore looking 

For cheap editions, till one day 

He happened upon a slender volume 

Of his he had forgotten 

He’d once inscribed and gifted 

To an elder, much better- 

Known poet whose work he admired 

Almost as much as his own, 

And which now lay half-buried 

Under a stack of thicker, more 

Impressive-looking tomes of poetry, 

All penned by that very same distinguished 

Gentleman poet who--would you have it?-- 

Just happened to be quite dead:

Had he too, wasted his life?

 

Just Perpetual Lies That Blind, Poet

Now set to fall on your face after all

These years of chasing that

 

Elusive golden mean, don’t you go without

Telling yourself you knew

 

Exactly what you were up to again. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stillborn Comprehension

You too have listened to many 

Who spoke in riddles without 

 

Understanding a word, not 

Even the pregnant 

 

Silences left behind 

In their absence.

 

 

 

It's A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World, Is It Not?

If it is indeed 

Natural as Heraclitus says 

 

It is, for man to know 

His own mind and be 

 

Sane, why is it so mind- 

Boggling maddening 

 

Hard to tell who is 

And who is not? 

 

 

 

Haiku: Flatiron Greek Heatwave, Summer 2022 AD

This sun spreads panic— 

The scant shade we seek cowers 

Under steaming rocks.

 

 

What'd I Say? (A Poem Should Be #24)

Hey, hey there,

 

Hold your horses--

Like that early 

Bird morning mourning

 

Dove’s alighting on one 

Of our garden’s 

Judas trees and ooh

 

Ah oohing 

For its tardy 

Out of it mate 

 

To get with it and make 

One more daily 

Routine lovingly singular—

 

See that bough shaking? 

I told you it was 

Worth the wait. 

 

 

 

Remembering George "Goober Gun" Geydon, 4th Grade Schoolyard Terror

Terrible pupil but 

 

Could shoot a viscous, 

Vicious glob of snot aimed 

 

Straight for your amazed face 

Two yards away before you could 

 

Blow your uppity nose once.

 

 

 

Dystopian Eden

Frayed 

 

Skins of serpents rotting 

Apple peels scattered 

 

Over once virgin grounds— 

Fishy smelling whatnot 

 

Holier-than-thou spiels 

Making the usual 

 

Suspect rounds. 

 

 

 

Aborted Bang-up Writing Prompt

Jump start 

 

Writing about 

Some vivid childhood 

 

Memory 

 

Involving anything 

That first pops up, 

 

Don’t break too many 

Lines and do not 

 

Punctuate for at least five and see 

What happens; if nothing 

 

Memorable appears, repeat 

One phrase at least 

 

Three times; keep writing 

To wherever 

 

Your often failing memory takes you. 

You may have to repeat 

 

This time-tested procedure 

Countless times before going on 

 

To bigger and better things, say 

Learning how not to 

 

Fade away with a whimper 

But with a bang-bang you're dead only

 

When things can't get any worse.

 

 

 

 

Well-Meaning Congeries Of Poets Bringing Further Order To The Universal Order Of Things

--on some lines by Rebecca Solnit* 

 

Billions upon billions 

Of stars given 

 

In the universe but how 

Is it we make our own 

 

Constellations? 

 

 

*"The stars we are given. 

The constellations we make."

 

Resolute Irresolution Of The Wishy-Washy

True as can be 

To ourselves, what it is 

 

That must be unequivocally 

Stated ad infinitum 

 

Is that we are always 

Lying in wait, ever ready 

 

To lie to ourselves 

Again and again, 

 

Till it all comes out white- 

Washed to no end. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Emily's Drone Anywhere And Everywhere

When I first saw that small 

Swallow on 

The telephone wires jabbing 

With its beak into what I first took 

For thin air, I just had 

To zero in for a closer look, 

 

And sure enough there it was, 

That maddening almost imperceptible 

Fly trying to find a chink 

In the bird’s armor and then— 

 

Can you believe it? 

Both flew to where 

I could not see to see. 

 

 

 

 

 

Enigma Sealed And Never Delivered

If, as you yourself so readily admit, 

You’re such an open book, why 

 

Is the one you’ve been working on 

All these years always shut, aye 

 

So far and away 

More than verily,

 

Very kaput. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ball-buster (After Archilochos)

Lo and behold, you 

Of the high- 

 

Blown ways, do you not 

See how low 

 

Your testes have fallen, 

Again?