To Dream, Perchance To Sleep

Lest you can’t 

Write anything 

 

That comes to 

Mind first thing 

 

You wake up 

In the morning,

 

No use going back 

To sleep—it’s past 

 

Time to dream 

You did. 

 

 

 

 

 

You Were Saying, Sage?

As for poetry, 

Nothing is ever 

 

Finished, not 

Even the thought 

 

Of it disappearing— 

All for naught.

 

Murky Waters

It looks to be 

Another long, hot, dry summer— 

 

Eyeless in dank wells, even 

The eels seem reluctant 

 

To sweat it out.

 

 

 

Stetson, Il Miglior Fabricator

Easy does it, 

My discerning amigo— 

Don’t you dare think that 

 

Once you get the hang of it, 

You’re free to stick another feather 

In your hat and straightaway

 

Hang it up—methinks you must 

First learn the difference between 

A fedora and a terza rima, 

 

What make you of that?

 

Unsaid And Straight To The Heart Of The Matter

Yes, by all means 

This time do set it down 

Right, reticent one, clearly 

And cleanly as possible, all the way 

To its worm-eaten core—

 

And listen up good—

Leave no loose ends dangling, 

Like those that devilish 

Wriggler left so you could 

Choke on them in its absence;

 

That said, what are you waiting for? 

Eat your heart out, full 

Speed ahead—we’re dying 

Here to watch you do it right 

This time around, 

 

Nuff said?