Time Machine In The Boondocks Of The Southern Peloponnese, 1959/2022

 

The hens that once clucked 

And cackled near the mucky 

Pigpen in the next door 

 

Neighbors’ backyard and laid 

The fresh eggs my mother fried 

For our breakfast to the tune 

 

Of the rooster that craned 

Its neck to crow before 

Laying each chicken in turn, 

 

And the once ubiquitous 

Always sad-faced 

Ass that brayed 

 

In the vacant lot just 

West of our house 

In the torrid afternoon heat, 

 

Its Priapian appendage hanging 

Limp as a wet knee-high 

From the long since departed 

 

Neighbors’ sagging clothesline, how 

Is it they all flew the coop 

And I’m still here?

 

 

 

 

 

Peaky Piecemeal Blunders

 

Loutish stumbling

 

Bum, can you remember 

The last time you thought

 

This will be the last 

 

Time you promise yourself 

To think twice before 

You forget 

 

Your lot? 

 

 

 

 

 

Displaced, Naturally

 

Years spent seamlessly waiting

On a permanent settlement,

 

In the end it seems 

We were forever 

 

Meant to live 

Out of our element. 

 

 

 

 

 

Almost There Ad Infinitum, Etcetera

The man 

 

Who says he’s never believed 

In anything so far is close 

 

To understanding what nothing is, 

Though no one there is listening. 

 

 

 

 

Gravity For Dummies

Strange man 

That he was, 

 

Newton saw 

An apple drop 

 

From a tree, 

And being much 

 

Possessed 

 

By second nature, 

Thought it was indeed 

 

Something out of the ordinary. 

Up till then, no one had ever 

 

Given it second thought— 

We know better now; 

 

The rest is old-hat, or is it 

All as simple as that?

 

 

 

Haiku: Air Of Deference

 

When the wind entered, 

A rush of canebrake rustled— 

 

The words stopped hiding. 

 

 

 

 

Soothsayer, March 15th, 44 B.C.

I know beyond 

 

The shadow of a doubt, 

You won’t believe 

A word of what 

I’m going to say— 

 

Even after I say 

Some brutally honest hand 

Writing on a wall beckoned 

I should tell you so.

 

 

 

 

Infinitus Poetus Interruptus, Period

What’s left to do 

We never do, 

 

And that’s all 

We ever do, over 

And over 

 

Again, never quite 

Getting over it 

To no good 

 

End. 

 

 

 

 

Lost Cause

Where

 

Our fractured memory finds us 

Gathered on a barren shore 

 

At twilight, trying vainly 

To put the pieces together 

 

Once more, our heads teeming 

With once fanciful images 

 

That have no bearing anymore. 

 

 

 

Pavlovian Poetics

Time to spit it out— 

While you were 

 

Whiling time away trying 

To find those perfect 

 

Aperçus to define a life 

Charmed to the fullest, 

 

The ingredient par excellence that was

Always found to be missing somehow, 

 

Was lollygagging on the tip 

Of a most salivating frazzled tongue.

 

Ode Against Benumbing Ennui

sing  

 

if 

you 

must 

 

sing 

your 

heart 

out, 

 

sing

 

even

though 

you 

don’t 

feel 

 

like 

it. 

 

 

 

 

Stoic Curmudgeon's Dire Prognostication

Nonchalant neophytes, always keep 

Foremost in mind hindsight 

 

Works best when all hope 

For better foresight sucks, 

 

Stuck in the muck 

Of its gutters, 

 

Forever at rest.

 

 

 

 

 

Serial Killer Offstage At The Theater Of The Absurd

Now that the next scene's set 

For perfect execution, logically 

 

You should all just sit back 

In your seats and wait— 

 

For my entrance surely 

Promises to set your hair 

 

On fire once more. 

 

 

 

Lullaby Of A Procrastinating Insomniac

What in hell are you waiting for? 

Go on and fall 

 

Asleep, you most sheepish 

Example of God’s work 

On Earth, 

 

You have only so many 

Sweet dreams left before you 

Stop counting 

 

Once and for all 

And make that crybaby 

Shepherd of yours keep

 

His promise of forever,

Lasting sleep.

 

Pastime

Nothing lasts, 

Not even those oxymoronic 

 

Images which persist for what 

Seems forever instant. 

 

 

 

A Poem Should Be (25)

Fantastically never-never humdrum 

Boys and girls, and always 

 

Nurturing and delicious, say 

A lot like Mom and apple pie, 

 

With plenty a whiff 

Of Tinkerbell’s stuff, 

 

And just like that, 

The hard-to-swallow 

 

Thought we’ll be only 

Dust one day flies by! 

 

 

 

End Of The Affair

Aye,

You said 

You’d always be 

 

My friend and I 

Believed you, I 

 

Who found it 

Hard to trust 

 

Anybody, even those 

Foolhardy few 

 

Who loved me to no end.

 

Aspiring Medium

The words 

 

Will not come to you 

If you are not ready, 

 

They may not come 

To you even if you are; 

 

You see, the words are complete 

In themselves and do not need 

 

Your presence or lack of it 

To show themselves as they truly are— 

 

Figments of an imagination merely 

Wishing upon a falling star.

 

 

 

 

 

Synaesthesia: Out Of The Frying Pan Into The Fires Of Hell

For crying out loud 

Mensch, looks like you 

 

Can’t make out the rank 

Smell of that 

 

Black plume of smoke curling in 

To your one ear as it whispers

 

Christ Almighty, You never hear 

A word I’m saying, nonchalantly

 

To the other being 

Deftly snuffed out. 

 

 

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/synesthesia  https://www.pbs.org/newshour/show/vatican-documents-show-secret-back-channel-between-pope-pius-xii-and-adolph-hitler  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pope_Pius_XII_and_the_Holocaust

 

Whopper, As In Trump

You say you’re selling what? Dude, 

Us cats here don’t need no fresh bait 

 

To get hooked, we can smell 

Something fishy a mile away.

 

And you know what?  

You got all it takes. 

 

 

 

https://www.commondreams.org/news/2022/10/13/about-damn-time-jan-6-panel-unanimously-votes-subpoena-ex-president-donald-trump?utm_source=daily_newsletter&utm_medium=Email&utm_campaign=daily_newsletter

 

 

 

 

Great Wavering Expectations

Poor, ambivalent souls, 

When the first torrential 

 

Waves of doubt start raining 

Down round you, will you be 

 

Running for cover before 

They hit parched earth, 

 

Or will you simply stand 

Your ground under them, 

 

Wide-eyed and open-mouthed,

Crying as if you were

 

A newborn baby.

 

 

 

Twilight: No Time To Waste

“It is thanks to my evening reading alone

 that I am still more or less sane.” 

 --W.G. Sebald, Vertigo 

 

If this is still indeed 

The case, as it certainly looks 

To be, we must all make haste 

And have our heads examined— 

Preferably more—instead of less.