Hardly Bellwether

Meretricious 

As a keystone 

Ring scraped 

Off the bottom 

 

Of a dry stone 

Wishing well 

No longer sounding

Whistle clean. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Phantasmagorical Doggerel Entrapment

What say we make writing it 

On a whim just for the sake of proving 

It can be done a case of actus reus, 

 

And the malfeasant(s) in question 

Hounded till caught humping 

A bemused muse in flagrante delicto, 

 

Then summarily tried and sentenced 

To be flogged rhythmically to the tune 

Of forty lashes with a wet poodle—what 

 

Prissy purveyors of emasculated poetic 

Truth would dare come forth to accuse us 

Of spreading shaggy dog stories? 

 

 

 

 

Haiku: Putting Your Money Where Your Mouth Is

So many who talk 

About silence; how precious 

They make it all sound. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Haiku: Know Thy Inner Sanctum, Wretch

Thrice anguishing he 

Who laughs out loud at himself 

While crying within.

 

 

 

Of The Poets At Sixth Street And Pine

With all those subtle 

And not so 

 

Subtle nuances 

Of their meanings, 

 

Do they not signal 

Another kind 

 

Of sensibility toward things 

That really matter? Say 

 

Displaying a sixth sense 

Of knowing just where 

 

To turn at every junction, 

And signaling 

 

Their intentions years beforehand 

By bursting headfirst naked 

 

Into an unsuspecting other world

Lost in time.