Nipped in the Bud

Hang it all, I say— 
One sure-fire way to cure 
That monstrous poetic 

Longing for posterity is to choke 
The issue in its infancy, leaving 
One more stubborn stillborn poet 

Decomposing in the air! 

 

Whatever You Do, Don't Let the Muse Pull the Wool over Your Eyes

Some things are better left unsaid—you know 
The dark ones that keep on coming back, 
Dragging her white-washed tales behind them. 

Composition

If the full moon were 

A poem, could anyone wait 
Another month for it 

To become marble again? 

Snow Job

Let go an avalanche 
Of words and people 
Who should know better think 
You’re a whirl-wind descending Parnassus— 

As soon as you 
Watch your white spaces, 
Right off they rightly sense 
A lull in the storm but 

Draw a blank as to why 
They’re still buried under sheets. 

Of Being Struck Dead

Corazon, lovesick old dog 
On your last legs, 
If only you could talk, 
You would tell us 
Whether the heart 
Shot through in youth 
By that piercing, fatal
Arrow still quivers
At the thought.