Cusp

 

yel- 

low 

 

little

sun- 

 

lit 

leaf 

 

hanging, twirling on 

a spider’s lone 

 

silver thread, how many 

twists and turns before you 

 

flutter 

in 

 

to 

the

 

twi- 

light 

just

 

ahead. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stoic Doggerel Much, Much After Diogenes

 

Dogs love barking 

At strangers, mutts 

 

Like you, too. 

 

 

Bloody Getaway

 

A very good poet didn’t think so, 

But there’s nothing really 

 

Dangerous about poetry— 

It’s just too bad 

 

Too many poets think 

They can get away 

 

With murder—see, 

There’s another one right 

 

Over there already revving up 

His "menacing" poetic 

 

Vehicle of destruction, 

Heading your way and looking 

 

Too much like me.

 

What'd I Say: Poetics Of Conditional Reticence

 

If you asked me what I do all day 

As a poet, I’d more than likely come back 

With a “nothing much,” and go on my way, 

Smug with the knowledge I had 

At least something to say; 

On the other hand, if you don’t 

Ask me, I’ll never know what 

I’d say—so please do, it’ll go 

A long way towards making my day.

 

 

 

After Heraclitus, Continued

 

As a bow is alive only 

When it kills, so is the poet 

 

When he writes.