Heraclitus on the Boob Tube

First notice that 
Nothing is as 
It used to be, 
Thus everything is 
No longer on 
Familiar ground—even that 
Couch potato you once 
Thought was impervious 
To change now 
Looks to be sprouting 
Eyes in the back 
Of its cabbage head. 

Rainy Day Exploit

“. . .the poet— 
brats in the street fling shit at him. . .” 

—George Seferis, “Three Secret Poems” 


The drops keep pelting quite 
Poetic the tarmac stupid sheep 

Keep dropping glazed 
Pellets that end up stuck 

Smartly to your feet. 

View of the Ithome Mountains (with Bats) at Crepuscule

In lieu of a poem--my favorite crepuscular vantage point--a poem in itself. (Please use headphones at high volume.)

Why Some Poets Have No Business Calling Themselves Angels

Oblivious to all 
That’s ugly 

On the face of the earth, 
They call forth heavenly 

Strains of pizzicato, expansive 
And graceful picking 

Within a modicum of space, 
There where 

They dance stark 
Naked with demons 

On the head of a pin. 

On the Refugee Problem Besetting the European Union

Dear brothers 
In a common cause, 
These teeming masses 
Of supplicants besieging 
Our sacred borders 
Seek nothing 
Save a sanctuary where 
They can rest their weary heads; 
Their plight does indeed cut 
Us to the quick—pray 
Let us show compassion, 
Home in on each and every one 
With heaven-sent teargas, plenty
Of angelic cudgels and lay 
Their worries to rest before 
The final, merciful kill.