What'd I Say: Poetics Of Conditional Reticence

 

If you asked me what I do all day 

As a poet, I’d more than likely come back 

With a “nothing much,” and go on my way, 

Smug with the knowledge I had 

At least something to say; 

On the other hand, if you don’t 

Ask me, I’ll never know what 

I’d say—so please do, it’ll go 

A long way towards making my day.

 

 

 

After Heraclitus, Continued

 

As a bow is alive only 

When it kills, so is the poet 

 

When he writes. 

 

 

 

Absurd Dystopian Life Sentence

 

Where oddly enough even 

The odd numbers never add up. 

 

 

 

Notorious Sleight Of Hand

Devious one, 

Mind you and see 

You don’t 

 

Leave it at that, 

The wind’s 

An old hand 

 

At changing 

Its mind, 

Just like that. 

 

 

 

Haiku: Fledgelings

Not a word misplaced 

On that once blank silent page

 

Murmuring sound sets.

 

 

 

Metaphorical Landings

urchin’s 

small 

 

sky-

blue 

 

ball 

bouncing 

down

one more flight 

of dark

 

derelict

tenement

 

stairs in

to one vacant

sunlit lot too

 

much like the others. 

 

 

 

 

 

Making The Best Of A Bad Situation

 

Come on, get with it

John, don’t just stand 

 

There, join the crowd, 

You know you can 

 

Write better than most any 

Tom, Dick or Harry 

 

Out there, all you have to do is 

Forget who you are.

 

 

 

 

 

Tragicomic Poetic Victims

All our calling 

Wanted from us was 

To write as if 

 

Our lives depended 

On it and to never go 

Back on our word— 

 

“Get a life,” it said, 

And we believed it, willing 

Dead-pan supplicants 

 

Writing sad, 

True-life confessions 

To no end. 

 

 

 

Haiku: Tunnel Vision On Horizon

 

Relax, the worst is 

Behind us and fading fast— 

Eye doctor next stop. 

 

 

 

 

Heads I Win, Tails You Lose

 

It looks like 

One of us thinks 

 

He knows his better 

Half better than he knows 

 

Himself: Wanna flip a coin? 

 

 

 

Seizing The Day, So To Speak

 

Dry, 

Brown, 

Lifeless 

 

Little leaf on my patio 

Table, I get more 

Out of watching you

 

Come alive and twitch 

This way and that 

In this fickle 

 

Wind than waiting 

For my next 

Poem to move me 

 

Who knows where. 

 

 

 

 

 

Family Tree

One wonders when

 

Our old wooden table will at last 

Recapture its lost infancy, take root, 

Sprout, and shoot out its tenacious,

 

Searching branches anew. 

 

 

 

Confession Of A Disillusioned Nihilist

 

I thought 

I could live

 

My life entirely 

Honest with myself

 

Until I found it 

Surrounded by nothing 

 

That bothered me. 

 

 

 

Putting Your Hoof Where Your Mouth Is

 

I kept telling you 

Poets are poets only 

When writing and at 

No other time should they 

Pretend they are anything

But that, but time and time 

Again that never stopped you 

From running off at the mouth 

Before that inexhaustible 

Stream of meandering, 

Fumbling unconsciousness, 

Right or wrong, your raison d'état-— 

No matter where the others were at.

 

 

 

The Ultimate Artful Con

 

Just for the time 

Being, what say we 

Put behind us that ingenious 

 

Spiel which wants us 

Placed here to make life better 

Than we found it, 

 

And work instead on 

Putting more of that life in 

To the body of our work, 

 

That is to say, 

Less artistry to see 

How much better 

 

We all look. 

 

 

 

To Sleep Amidst Other Things Amiss

 

Dear diddling nocturnal day-

Dream emitting artists— 

 

Lack of a good night’s sleep 

Should never be an excuse 

 

For waking up dead 

To the world and crowing 

 

“See? I can still cock and doodle, too!" 

 

 

 

 

 

Not Bloody Up To It This Time Around

—after Archilochos, poet and mercenary 

 

[MS SHOWING CONSIDERABLE WEAR AND TEAR] 

 

[ ] 

[ ]

by the way [far?] 

[ ] [ ] 

[ ] [ ] flung side

[ ] [ ]

ditched [ ] [ ] rusty 

[ ] 

[ ]  

[ ]

shield going [where to?] pieces still 

 

[MS QUALITY RAPIDLY FADING] 

 

[ ] 

[ ] 

[ ] 

[ ] wait [for?] better war[ri?][or] 

[ ] 

[ ] 

[ ] 

[ ] poet? 

 

[MS WHOLLY IN SHAMBLES] 

 

[ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] 

[ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] 

[ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ]

[ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] 

[ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ]

Oxymoronic

--after Heraclitus, again 

 

Nothing remains 

Unchanged, no matter how 

 

Many times 

You have heard it 

 

Uttered by the well-

Meaning masses,

 

By this babbling

Brook, it bears

 

Repeating just the same. 

 

 

 

 

Not So Forward Looking Thinking Man's Poet

 

Here’s to him 

Who always thought 

He was a giant 

 

Step ahead of those backward 

Looking others who remained 

Glued to his miniscule 

 

Frame frozen in their rear- 

View mirrors yet wondering 

Naught one bit how 

 

Everything fits, even all

Our miserable misfits. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Payoff

 

What is worth 

Noting down 

May or may not be 

 

Worth the price to pay for winning 

Poems, though you’ll never know 

The odds if you don’t 

 

Place your bets. 

 

 

Life Coordinates

 

Where you find yourself 

Now, the only thing

 

That can bother you is already 

Out of reach behind you— 

 

Just don’t turn around,

Or you’ll lose it. 

 

 

 

 

 

Haiku: Acme Nest Building, Inc.

 

Mourning dove dips in 

To garden to pick up twig— 

 

Wings back armed to teeth.