Autumn of My Mother-in-Law

In straight- 
Backed chair, crumpled 

Wispy hands on lap, 
Mind gone 

To the rocky hills and sheep 
She used to tend to 

On the slopes spring 
To summer behind 

The village up here, now 
All behind her she waits 

For the fog to lift 
For a glimpse 

Of winter approaching 
In the lowland 

Meadows that must be 
Somewhere she says—slowly 

Lifting her right arm 
And pointing 

Straight ahead— 
Down there. 

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.