Haiku: Writ

 

How shallow the state 

Of minds that cannot fathom 

 

Pale sheets of grey slate.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Barbed And Wired

Bard, 

There are many things 

One can do that 

Go above and beyond what 

Some of us rather naive 

Romantics like to call 

A poet’s sense of duty— 

 

Straddled high 

And mighty 

On a fence 

Armed with barbs and not 

Knowing who 

To aim for is not 

One of them. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Looks Like Kilroy's Still Here

 

You, over there— 

 

In the space allotted 

It, no matter how

 

Large or small, 

If your life fits,

 

Write it. 

 

 

 

Here's How It Usually Goes, Dearies

Achromatic— 

Nothing at all 

 

Dramatic about it 

Like the usual titillating 

 

Red-hot fare, you simply 

Plant yourself 

 

Down before one 

Obscene white page 

 

After another and scribble 

Most of the day making it 

 

Grey. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Time Machine In The Boondocks Of The Southern Peloponnese, 1959/2022

 

The hens that once clucked 

And cackled near the mucky 

Pigpen in the next door 

 

Neighbors’ backyard and laid 

The fresh eggs my mother fried 

For our breakfast to the tune 

 

Of the rooster that craned 

Its neck to crow before 

Laying each chicken in turn, 

 

And the once ubiquitous 

Always sad-faced 

Ass that brayed 

 

In the vacant lot just 

West of our house 

In the torrid afternoon heat, 

 

Its Priapian appendage hanging 

Limp as a wet knee-high 

From the long since departed 

 

Neighbors’ sagging clothesline, how 

Is it they all flew the coop 

And I’m still here?