Ray Of Glimmer At The Bottom

With the first black inkling 

Of writhing tentacles, remain

 

At your stations, blotting 

The thought out.

Back to the War

When she left at dawn, no one saw 

The black-clad bereaved old woman 

Carrying a knife, a loaf of bread,

And a small straw mat 

On which they found her babbling 

At dusk on a scarred, bare knoll

Overlooking the pockmarked, 

Snow-covered landscape, the still

Uncut bread by her side.

 

 

Narcissist Not Reflecting Deeply Enough

Writing poems, you should never see yourself 

As a "poet" writing poems— 

The poem is not a pond 

Full of frogs croaking, 

It is an ocean. 

Elderly Immigrant

I don’t remember much

About my youth 

In the old country— 

I was too young to bother 

About memories. 

Now, I tell myself,

I’ll soon know better. 

Moonstruck and Pure As the Driven Snow to Boot

What’s that you say poet waxing poetic 

Your writing’s crystal clear? 

But how clear is that now tell me oh 

Too late I fear I’m drifting off 

Will it help clear things up a bit 

If I stick this shovel in your ear?