You Can Lead a Horse to Water. . . .

In my wildest dreams, Pegasus has me

Riding high in the saddle—

(Never a care)

*

When I wake from my nightmare,

I find myself bronco busted—

(Flailing the air)

Huuklyeand Cinquor Telling Us in Fifteen Words or Less Why Poetry is Still Alive

Poetry hasn’t died yet because

Everyone who's anyone's still wondering why

It’s alive.

Moderator’s comments: If this is poetry, no wonder everyone’s wondering.

Crepuscle

Inviolate

In the underbrush, a bed

Of crimson mushrooms;

In the clearing, a quilt

Of blue anemones;

Tucked away in the study,

A burnished copper

Penny for your thoughts.

Chthonian

No more walls,

No more fight,

No more shadow

Boxing against light,

How deft we were all

At darting left and right.

Frozen Stiff—I Kid You Not!

This has to be far and away my favorite photograph of the “kids” back when they were really kids—somewhere round the summer of ’89 or ’90—checking out the temperature of the water in the Lousios River in Arcadia just a few steps away from the ruins of Ancient Gortys and a stone’s throw away from the monastery of St. John the Forerunner (Prodromou). Judging from the looks on their faces, I think they were expecting much warmer water than the ice pack that greeted them! They should have consulted that seasoned traveler par excellence, Pausanias, who said its waters were “the coldest in the world.” 

All of which reminds me of a poem I once wrote about some other kind of kids here.