Curmudgeon's Epitaph

Never a slacker, his life was marked 
By a stoic refusal to follow any lackluster tack, 
And steer that lonely, steady course he did— 

Till he found himself a haven where
No groveling lackey missed his absence,
And nothing ever lacked.

Out Of This World: 5th Century B.C. Attic White-Ground Lekythos

The Ancient Greeks used to think 
The soul was a moth, a small 
Bird or butterfly that escaped 
From the body once 
A mortal had left his mortal 
Existence behind; as such it was 
A favorite motif of many 
An Attic white-ground painter— 
Take this piece for example, 
Where we see the little winged one 
In question has just made his exit 
And is now perched upon the head 
Of the upright dearly departed 
Prior to taking off, presumably
To somewhere where no doubt it won’t be 
So easy for the artist to capture him again.

 

Suspension of Disbelief

All told, 
When they finally fall

To earth and rot,
It’s not as if all that

Hanging on was 
Definitely not 

For naught. 

Archipelago of the Aegean

of that jasmine 

from first light 
of day to night 
winding through 

narrow passage 
ways smelling 
of sea- 

girded white washed 
limestone still 
blinding white. 

Janus-Faced Plumb Cuckoo's Cogito Ergo Sum

Of all the nutty 
Scenarios that keep flashing 

Through his double’s dealing 
Mind’s eye, the one that sticks 

Out from the others like 
A sore thumb is the one where 

His alter ego’s little 
Jack Horner jamming 

A humungous middle 
Finger up the other’s 

Piebald bum, all the while 
Trumpeting “I’m the greatest 

Tweeter of all, I am, I am, 
Oh, what a titillating prize 

Plum of a cornucopian 
Fruitcake I am!”