Nipped In The Bud: Almost Divine Retribution

 

That bitch of a muse doesn’t give a shit 

If you don’t know where you’re going 

With the poem you’re working on; 

 

She just wants to know where 

That shitty poem came from, so 

She can strike you dumb to the core 

 

Before you make an ass 

Of yourself again. 

 

 

 

 

In Memoriam

 

Patchwork footprints 

 

Belonging to those 

Out of the way 

 

Spirits who breathed 

In small pied patches 

 

Of an everyday world 

In tatters 

 

And left swirling, 

Swaths of uniform black 

 

Holes scattering the slightest 

Distance behind them, 

 

Mere light years away. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stillborn Breakfast At The Milk And Honey House

 

And they will come punctually, 

Those dumb, flimsy fly-by-night 

Nest-building mourning doves, 

 

Yet still smartly refreshing 

As the first spring showers, 

And will start melodically 

 

Cooing into our groggy ears 

From the rafters outside 

Our bedroom balcony, nesting 

 

Their fragile eggs and keeping 

A futile eye out for the first signs 

Of any crowing poachers already 

 

On standby, strung out 

On nearby telephone lines, waiting 

To punch the clock and smash 

 

The tender shells of those 

Never-to-be fledgling pilots before 

They are able to sense whatever 

 

Just hit them. 

 

 

 

Tsundoku For The Quasi Insensitive

Whenever you feel 

Your heart doesn’t 

Look at all 

 

Like an open book, 

Take one up by chance, 

Then take another 

 

Closer look. 

 

 

 

 

 

Narcissistic Alter Ego Syndrome

 

The more 

I thought of it, the more 

I wanted it, so 

 

Much in fact it became 

An obsession without end, how 

To explain it perfectly, naturally

 

To no end. 

 

 

 

Overkill: Minimalism Ad Absurdum

 

Nothing is impossible— 

Always desire 

 

To explain as much 

As possible in terms 

 

Of as little as possible, 

Even when 

 

You overdo it. 

 

 

 

The Goatherd's Taverna at Psili Ammos Beach, Patmos, 1994

His down-home menu advertised such intriguing

Come-ons as Fried Papers and Chicken Village 

And a tantalizing concoction called Mountain Coat Special, 

Which I assure you, we would’ve tried 

On the spot had our jaws not 

Recoiled at the sight

 

Of sautéed satyr droppings lodged 

In one of those profusely-infused-with-scents-

Of-wild-oregano-and-mint gamy chicken 

 

Gizzards indiscriminatingly spread-

Eagled a bit much too 

Tastelessly on our plate.

Household Poem To Stick In One's Ear

 

Hear, hear— 

Not being an apple, 

 

Poets know writing a poem 

A day never keeps crazy 

Doctors at bay but why 

Should that dismay us, 

 

Especially when our good doc just 

Happens to be one who dances 

Naked before his bedroom mirror, 

Sings softly and raids the fridge, 

 

Eating the plums his sleeping wife was 

More than likely saving for her 

Breakfast but being a perfect 

Gentleman with surfeit pangs 

 

Of regret, leaves a note asking her 

Forgiveness, his mouth bulging 

With cool sweet nothings for her 

And all the world’s nutty 

 

Fruitcakes to hear. 

 

 

 

How To Deal (More Or Less) With Remorse

 

Don’t give what you keep 

Inside a second thought— 

 

Just open it, 

Give it all 

 

You have and don’t 

Even for a second 

 

Look back. 

 

 

 

 

Illuminating Retrograde Selfie

 

Though you can’t 

See it, conch-like at times 

 

When you’re too much 

With yourself, your better self 

 

Spirals inwards— 

Becoming 

 

A glazed shell 

Of a luminous 

 

Former self. 

 

 

 

 

 

Mind Your Mindsets

 

Mind you— 

 

When you lose 

The desire to listen 

To the voices 

 

Of the people you’ve chosen 

To surround yourself with, 

Pray there’s still enough 

 

Reason left to listen 

To your own. 

 

 

 

Charles Atlas Says Don't Be Left Holding The Bag

 

“Play ball!” because 

That’s where the action is 

And nothing comes 

From nothing and goes 

Nowhere and everyone wants 

To steal the show and score; 

 

So what say you guys stop 

Playing pocket pool all the time 

And start jostling for pole position 

Before some scrawny nobody 

Out of left field shows 

Up and runs 

 

Off with first base, huh?

 

Imperative Rote Learning At Your Ultimate Leisure

 

Reel off sentence after sentence 

As you will, you shall never

 

Taste that unretrievable 

Last one on the tip 

 

Of your tongue, 

Languishing there 

 

Forever still. 

 

 

 

Haiku: Unconditional Surrender

 

Once you’ve accepted 

The poem’s terms, ask yourself 

 

If you were worth it. 

 

 

 

 

Blighted Silent Majority

The blasted 

 

Limbs of our fifty-year-old 

Judas tree give ample 

Silent testimony that 

Perhaps we have not 

Said enough of what continues 

 

To ail us, though each Spring, 

From a withered flaking 

Trunk, keep shooting 

Violent bursts of regenerating, 

Violet-red blood that speaks 

 

Volumes. 

 

 

 

Key To Her Heart

In your hands, 

Heartless one, where 

 

She placed it last, 

Will be the last place 

 

You look. 

 

 

 

 

Almost Niksen* In The Boondocks Of The Southern Peloponnese

--for Ans and Peter, outstanding Dutch experts

in the field of observing Mother Nature 

 

I’m not counting but I suppose 

There are many other more 

Fruitful things to do 

 

With one’s precious 

Time than to sit 

In a director’s 

 

Chair facing the warm 

Winter sun, slowly peeling 

And then eating 

 

One of the too numerous 

To count oranges freshly 

Picked from the garden 

 

Of the Milk and Honey House, 

Then spitting out 

The seeds one-by-one, 

 

Watching them bounce 

Off the stone 

Patio till they come 

 

To rest in the grass 

Under the green 

Limbs of a benevolent, 

 

Bountiful Mother. 

 

 

 

* https://time.com/5622094/what-is-niksen/

 

Haiku: Singular Sense Of Solitude

You want to impart— 

Dispense with it with the wind

 

Parting lonesome pines.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bully For Us, Old Chap!

 

Little man, as 

It looks like 

 

You have so little 

To say, don’t you dare

 

Take up all my precious 

Time saying it— 

 

I’m next in line, 

By the way. 

 

 

 

End Of The Line, Mister

 

And for your own good, stop 

All that hollering—you’ll know 

 

When the poem can’t take any more 

Of your meddling when it breaks 

 

You down for good. 

 

 

 

Synesthetic Passion

Dearest Valentines, 

 

Imagine it all 

Going up in smoke, 

 

Could you still smell 

The burning 

 

Ecstasy of vocables 

Crying out? 

 

 

 

Aubade: Old Timers' Rustic Love Song

Between sheets soft 

And warm 

 

Woolen blankets 

In the dead of winter, 

 

And below 

Zero temperatures, 

 

To slowly come alive 

Before the light comforting morning 

 

Rustling of sheep bells while 

Waiting for the woman you love 

 

Nuzzled against you

To wake and join you, 

 

Coupled in awe before all 

That has come about 

 

Between the two of you— 

And still is.