At All Costs, Three's A Maddening Crowd

Don't you see?

 

Poets who wager they’re solid 

Solitary figures commuting 

With their souls should take 

A serious look at themselves 

And board the first tram to Bedlam;

 

I did and it worked wonders— 

Now all I have to do is convince you, 

Myself and I--or should that I be me--?

To invest in a return ticket,

But only should all of us agree. 

 

 

 

Timeless Cycladic Artistry

Before you can finish 

Sipping your morning demitasse 

Of bitter black coffee, 

 

Frail-framed, black- 

Robed middle-aged 

Woman wielding blue 

 

Long-handled brush 

Finishes off weathered, 

Grey churchyard wall 

 

With blinding whitewash 

In what looks like 

No time at all. 

 

 

 

 

 

First Futile Attempt At Solving The Mystery Of Lost Youth

Of course you admit right off 

There’s not much left 

 

To go on, even though you insist 

On following each telltale lead, 

 

As one after the other springs up before you 

There on a pogo stick, only to disappear 

 

Furtively into the oscillating distance, a lot— 

No, too much like your favorite slinky.

 

 

 

Thingamajig, If You Please

Oh, dear 

Whatever 

 

Just has to be 

The perfect mot 

 

Valise one needs 

To get a grip on life 

 

These days, so long 

As you keep it 

 

Close at hand to throw 

Out whenever 

 

You think you know exactly 

What the long haul requires, 

 

Duckies. 

 

 

 

Eternally Besieged Babbling Pearlies

Constant that sound 

Ringing unsound within 

 

The walls; outside still 

No sign of the next 

 

Round of jaw-crushing 

Swine rushing 

 

Tottering rusty gates again.