Huuklyeand Cinquor As Well-Bred Epicurean Cynic

My sire and my lady exquisite connoisseurs

Of proper cast and breeding,

I was breast-fed first on caviar and wine,

Then led to believe the world was my oyster—

So where’s my pearl, you swine?

Moderator’s comments: Talk about biting the hand that feeds you—not even a titbit of gratitude and respect.

The Doors

Picture taken about 20 years ago, a few kilometers past the town of Zacharo on the Ionian coast on the way north to Patras. Sadly, this construct is no longer standing; whoever put it together using old doors is probably no longer standing either.

Thanks to Bob Arnold and his Earth Builder's post for the reminder.

Blooming Conflagration of the Senses

Mauve the hills on fire with heather—

You can almost hear the smell.

Apotheosis Made to Measure

“And sometimes for great poetry, an infinitely small vocabulary is what you want. Perhaps that would be the ideal, except for the fact that it’s pretty hard to write a poem that way.”—Jack Spicer, from Vancouver Lecture 1

Ideal it would be indeed,

And infinitely hard and great yes,

But imagine

How easier that way would be

If only our words were

As modest as our measure.

The Trial

Believe me, I’ve tried

To be as honest

As I believed

A poet should be—

Forgive me.