Unwavering Rustic Song Of Heraclitus

Concurrently caught  

 

In the babbling 

Brook, the rippling yet 

Still clear reflection 

 

Of that brooding 

Face swaying this 

Way and that, 

 

And the clinging,

Beckoning music 

Of reeds firmly 

 

Stuck in muck. 

 

 

 

Fat Chance, Moneybags

Supine in a frozen greenback trance, 

You’re nailed to the earth still banking 

 

On the hoarfrost round your body 

To stand up and dance. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Naysayers' Ars Poetica

The real reason 

People don’t get poetry— 

 

It’s much easier not to 

Ask yourself why. 

 

 

 

 

Not All Greek, Yet--

—for my niece Tanja, 

whose heart most certainly is. 

 

 

To not know 

A word the old 

 

Woman’s saying but 

To feel her hand 

 

On your forehead talking 

A language 

 

Both of you understand.

 

 

 

 

"Well, If I Were You, I Wouldn't Start From Here"

But seriously now, 

How else are you 

 

To get to where 

You have to go when 

 

On your way there, 

That long-awaited lame 

 

Punch line comes limping out 

Of nowhere with just enough 

 

Clout to send your senses reeling 

Back to you-know-where?