Mesmerizing Prestidigitation

Willing 

Victims of the phony, 

Once more we find the bogus 

Poet in his medium with us 

Wondering how 

He put us there.

 

 

Classy Catty C-Class

Seriously now,
On a cold winter’s day

A poem should be a lot
Like these three chummy

Felines cuddled round each
Other on the still warm

Hood of this classic cool gun-
Metal gray Mercedes-Benz coupé.

 

  

 

Fishing For The Poem That Got Away

To have your line 

Baited and dunked in- 

To the legendary 

“Rosy-fingered” Aegean 

Waiting for the slightest 

Tug that tells you something 

Classically fishy is dangling 

At the end should be enough 

 

To tell you you’re all 

Wet and it’s well 

Past time to reel 

Yourself in.

 

 

Guiding Light Coming To Rest

when the light 

headed master at last 

steers clear of that heavy 

black nest the gnarled 

mind had long set 

its heart on, there in 

the eyes’ 

opening, a 

hearth a

 

lighting home, 

that’s where 

you find it, 

finding itself.

 

 

Demiurgic

Wherein a poem 

Comes in- 

To existence once 

It slays 

Its creator, therein 

Leaving 

No room ever 

For that inexcusable 

Error within.

 

 

Rx Against Raging Despair

Once flighty one, 

Here’s your cup of tea: 

First off, look up 

All the synonyms 

For rue and find 

The one that best fits 

Your pesky malady, then 

Never rue the day 

You were borne to 

Seize it.

 

 

Inspirational Poetic Naivety

You just be 

Like that fat 

Tom resting on 

His haunches under 

A hedgerow of seed- 

Ladened myrtles— 

That poetic “opportunity 

Of a lifetime” is set 

To drop in any time now, 

Senselessly chirping 

Its dumb fool head off— 

All you have to do is swallow it.

 

 

Instructions For Survival In These Mean Times

Breathe in, 

Breathe out, 

Don't forget to 

Take a breather 

And do 

Take your sweet 

Time, taking it all in 

Good stride, let's see how 

Well you glide.

 

Flight

Something in the air: 

Yellow leaves turning orange— 

You were never there.

 

 

Vanguard Tuboflo Poets

In short, we go 

With the flow, 

Write only that

 

Which makes sense 

In the present 

Context but always 

Flush with fresh content, 

 

Contented as all 

Get out, you know 

How that goes

 

Down, no?

 

 

Futile Woke Morning

Gray foggy blanket 

Sudden cold front covering 

The homeland, frozen.

John Ciardi's Ways And Means, 1959

His 

How does a poem mean? 

Means asking it, needing 

Answers our ears clearly

Never expected 

To hear, that small bit 

Of time-traveling 

Universal matter making 

Its uncharted way 

Here, now piercing even 

The astounded ears 

Of the die-hard 

Hard-of-hearing.

 

Sleepwalker's Haiku

Full blue moon spilling

Through open window shutters--

You knee-deep in it.

 

Poetic Negative Relativity

To sit absolutely 

Quiet while writing 

Your thoughts down 

Means you are not thinking 

Out loud and clearly 

No one can hear you.

 

 

In Perpetual Remembrance

Everlasting storyteller
True to your fleeting 

Fly-by-night storyline
You said you'd be 

Here as long as your word was,
And sure enough 

You didn't keep it. 

 

 

Ambivalent Accommodation

Poems fit everywhere,
Save the heart

Of the heartless.

 

Aubade Made-To-Order

In bramble thicket, 

Two morning songbirds chirping 

Nothing fitter at hand.

 

Excess Baggage

It just so happens 

There is much 

One can get 

Out of the vehicle 

Of poetry— 

A free ride is not

One of them.

 

 

Apple Of Our Poetic Eye

first off,
leave nothing 

to chance
and listen: 

no baubles, please—
whatever we hold

dear must be surely
precious to the ear,

and to that eyeless,
munching under-

study of a worm, under-
taking everything, all in

good stride.

 

 

 

Harmonious Love Song Of A Singularly Irrational Muse

Do not try
To understand me— 

Just love me
As I am, 

And let us be two
Dissimilar voices entwined 

In perfect knavish harmony! 

 

 

Eyesore In The Stately Kingdom Of Pines

Where what’s left 

Of memory remains 

This derelict sinking 

Slowly under an eye- 

Opening accruing piercing 

Cover of needles, above all 

Let us keep in mind how

We took pains to leave 

The master key 

Somewhere in the blah 

Back country stretches 

Of forgettable plains.

 

 

Supinely Moving Octogenarian Haiku

Whirring ceiling fan 

Over my bed assures me 

Motor’s still not dead.