True-Blue Transient Filament

spider 

in his element,
swaying almost

imperceptibly
in 

incredible
air, not quite 

false
dawn
light, 

now
over— 

there. 

 

 

 

Frantic Muse On Penury

 

When you’re desperate enough
To write whatever precious
Vacuities reside in your head,
And nothing appears to warn you

You’re better off dead. 

 

 

 

Song Of The Bashful Balladeer

I kid you not, kiddo—

We’ve been here by the river before but

What the dickens, pretty delightful,

Too cute for words?

 

That’s what you’d like

People to say about your work,

Huh? How sweet it must

Sound even to us with tin ears.

 

And those line endings! However

Do you arrange them so

They can be read more

Than one way? Such adroitness

 

Of syntax and coy rippling

Word play must need be

Recognized rather than

Left incognito by you.

 

But when all’s said

And done, we know

You’ll have it your way;

So no need to wring hands, no

Remorse, sans angst, just

Fire away, because it’ll all come

Out in the wash some sweet day.

 

Out-Of-Kilter Octogenerians' Wake-Up Call

 

As if ordained, 

We know together 

With our rising 

 

Out of deep lethargic 

Sleep, that pesky 

Rooster will be still 

 

Waiting somewhere out 

There to remind us 

We have yet another 

 

Go at making the best 

Of whatever we still have 

Inside us— 

 

Oh, pray 

It will come to pass 

Today, together 

 

With the plucky spring 

Chickens and those wobbly 

Near over-the-hill hens, 

 

To an end we could 

Only dream of 

To no end. 

 

 

 

(C)Artesian Emanations

 

That crippling deep 

Silence that keeps 

 

Flowing this 

Way and that 

 

In the shallow 

Bottom 

 

Of our hearts, when 

Will it burst full- 

 

Blown to find us 

Bubbling over 

 

With the notion 

Of our own hollow,

 

Dumb infallibility 

Disabled, at last. 

 

 

 

Promising A Lot More Than You Can Deliver: Being A Brief Critique On One Poet’s Approach To Minimalism

 

well it looks 

a lot 

 

like your lot 

of little 

 

poems, 

little 

 

man 

needs 

a lot 

 

more 

room 

 

than 

you 

 

allot. 

 

 

 

 

On The Ambivalent Way Things Are

 

To be able 

To tell 

A split second 

Beforehand 

 

The minute 

The wind changes 

Course and murmurs sweet 

Nothing’s in our ears,

 

And with no one hearing 

A discouraging thing. 

 

 

 

 

 

Doppelgänger Complex

It’s true 

We are dying 

To know whether 

 

We all have 

A dead-ringer out 

There somewhere, one 

 

That doesn’t know 

Who or where 

We are either, 

 

Nor whether we shall 

Ever meet, to say 

Our long-overdue hellos, 

 

Then go gently on our way, 

Richer with the knowledge 

That nothing’s impossible, 

 

Even the incredible 

Occurrence of our own 

Birth that one fateful day. 

 

 

 

Accommodation

 

Poems fit everywhere, 

Save the heart 

 

Of the heartless. 

 

 

 

All Or Nothing Hardball Capitalist At Work

 

No sucker, you look 

A lot like you have what 

It takes, so take 

 

All you can get 

And more, as the nil no-name 

Lopsided have-nots still have plenty 

 

Of nothing in store— 

Keep sucking them dry 

Till you up and even 

 

The desired score. 

 

 

 

A Poem Should Be (26)

 

More or less, whatever 

You want it to be or not 

 

To be but never 

Meaning less, more 

 

Like life itself, if you know 

And you should 

 

Know what I mean. 

 

 

 

Cutting Edge Eventide Augury

 

evening’s 

waxing

 

blood 

crescent 

moon— 

 

to 

morrow’s 

over- 

flowing 

 

sickle

 

Ever Nostalgic Muse

 

 

Just think

 

Of it, there would be 

No words for never 

 

Going forward once 

We stopped 

 

Looking back on it. 

 

 

Deep Down Surface Subterfuge

 

To see 

One’s inner 

 

Self, you need to 

 

Convince the other 

One concealing 

It to help 

 

You strike 

At the heart 

Of the matter, 

 

Without once coming up 

For air, no matter 

How hard it is, it is 

 

As they say, 

Uplifting, always 

Uplifting

 

To think 

You both can 

 

Do so.

 

Lights Out: Tale Of Lizzy, The Flashy Lizard

 

darting sans tail 

across killer sun- 

drenched rock 

after rock, stops 

 

to sun it- 

self and remaining 

frozen just in case 

any joe 

blow bug up and

decides to stop 

 

by and bask 

in the sun- 

 

light too before 

the lurking 

neighborhood resident 

housecat flips 

the switch and offs 

 

the interlopers 

once and for all,

just like that.

 

Now That You Ask Me: Huuklyeand Cinquor On The Writing Of Difficult Poetry

I must say 

I think 

 

Your poems are splendid; 

They would be even better 

 

If we understood them. 

 

 

MODERATOR’S COMMENT: I also must say in turn that our boy Huuk has made a resounding comeback appearance after spending months on the sidelines of the enormously fecund contemporary poetry scene, and I for one am mightily impressed by this, his latest (tongue in cheek?) offering, wherein we see him grappling to come to terms with that age-old bugaboo monster still tormenting many of today’s poets: How crucial it is to write beautiful, accessible poetry without being sent by elderly po-biz savants to the nearest establishment inner sanctum cell padded with nothing but tome after tome of only their excruciatingly maddening poetic criticism—that and nothing more, nothinglikeness period. (At least for the time being, however long that may be.)

 

 

 

Winner Take All: Confession Of A Literary Sleight-Of-Hand Man

Consider if you will, 

When all is said 

And done, 

 

And all those proverbial 

Bromides I once dispensed 

With such considerable aplomb 

 

No longer 

Roll effortlessly off 

My once oh so smooth 

 

And often too fiery 

Biting acid tongue, 

You’ll know it’s time 

 

I let bygones be 

Bygones, shut up 

And deal myself 

 

One last ace from up 

My sleeve just so 

Everyone can 

 

See how sleazy 

In the end it was 

I won. 

 

 

 

After Archilochos, A Sense Of Seferis

 

Vain ones— 

Write this 

Down so that you 

Never forget it: 

 

This, this 

We cannot do 

Without 

 

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

 

These two spotted 

Pale doves inscribing 

 

Our fate, rising 

And falling in 

 

Turn in the ever 

Ambivalent yet still 

 

Diaphanous air.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Muse On The Edge

 

If you can sit still 

Enough to hear that which can’t 

 

Wait, it’s a good sign.

 

 

 

 

 

Zorba's Dance, They Say

 

Death is everywhere; 

So is joy, so take your turn 

 

And laugh in its face. 

 

 

 

 

 

Threshold Pitch

 

Odd, how it is 

The poem always knows 

 

You before you 

Know yourself, 

 

Even in the dark. 

 

 

 

 

 

Gets Your Goat Every Time, Don't It, Billy?

 

The frigging harder 

You try not to sound at all 

 

Like your stubborn self.