Long-winded Poet Running Out Of Steam?

From where I’m sitting, here

In the boondocks

 

Of the southern Peloponnese 

And nowhere

 

Near the grandstands, you still look to be 

Definitely in it for the long run, so why

Are you always so

 

Short of breath? 

 

 

 

 

Pied Peter Piper's Dark Buffalo Ditty

My boy, keep this 

In mind 

 

No matter where 

You might go or do, 

 

You’re more than likely 

To meet more 

 

Than your share of stark 

Blank stares waiting 

 

In line expressly for you— 

For Pete’s sake, 

 

Whatever you do, if 

And when you happen 

 

To see the dullish whites 

Of their eyes, forget the ears 

 

And aim right for their hearts, 

Keeping in mind what 

 

I taught you—always 

Use plenty 

 

Of live lovely ammo, too.

 

Disambiguating Alarming Thought

Louse, 

At the first hint 

Of one 

 

More stinking, bare- 

Faced lie, here it comes 

And what a sight— 

 

Such stuff of a pure 

Blackguard cur frothing 

At the mouth that keeps 

 

Your false teeth oh so truly 

Flashing pearly white! 

 

 

 

 

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.