Tending The Poet's Fireplace

For God’s sake, whatever 

You do, do not think 

 

You can feed it too much 

Oxygen or too little, 

 

For either one causes it 

To choke to death. 

 

 

 

 

 

No Bleeding Hearts

Suffering lies low, festering 

In Everyman’s hearth, 

 

And everyone wants it 

Ripped out without hurting 

 

Each other’s heart. 

 

 

 

 

Manifest Destiny, Plain As Day

What looks 

Fair and square does 

Not always turn out 

To be what it should be— 

 

Which is why 

I reckon that 

Cowpuncher’s driving 

Just cattle and not 

 

Buffalo, right Bill?

 

 

Prayer Of An Incurable Nostalgic Greek Optimist

“It often seems to me that it is better to be asleep than to find yourself without companions 

And insist so. And what can you do in this state of suspense, what say? I do not know. 

And what is the use of poets in a mean spirited time?” 

 

--Friedrich Hoelderlin, (quoted by George Seferis at the beginning of Log Book 1, Roderick Beaton translation.) 

 

After yet another oppressive 

Day, what with Covid-19 

 

And a society and government— 

Dare I say world?— 

 

In apparent disarray, to wake up 

In the dead of night, say 

 

Four-thirty, and remain transfixed 

There in the darkness unable 

 

To go back to sleep, anxious 

To witness one more glorious 

 

Morning unfolding slowly 

Its dawning 

 

Sheets of blinding light, 

Wide-eyed awake forever 

 

And ever before you 

To your dying day.

 

Haiku: Body Heat

Hut window frosty 

Warmth of your breathless breathing 

 

Steaming opaque glass.