Lights Out: Tale Of Lizzy, The Flashy Lizard

 

darting sans tail 

across killer sun- 

drenched rock 

after rock, stops 

 

to sun it- 

self and remaining 

frozen just in case 

any joe 

blow bug up and

decides to stop 

 

by and bask 

in the sun- 

 

light too before 

the lurking 

neighborhood resident 

housecat flips 

the switch and offs 

 

the interlopers 

once and for all,

just like that.

 

Now That You Ask Me: Huuklyeand Cinquor On The Writing Of Difficult Poetry

I must say 

I think 

 

Your poems are splendid; 

They would be even better 

 

If we understood them. 

 

 

MODERATOR’S COMMENT: I also must say in turn that our boy Huuk has made a resounding comeback appearance after spending months on the sidelines of the enormously fecund contemporary poetry scene, and I for one am mightily impressed by this, his latest (tongue in cheek?) offering, wherein we see him grappling to come to terms with that age-old bugaboo monster still tormenting many of today’s poets: How crucial it is to write beautiful, accessible poetry without being sent by elderly po-biz savants to the nearest establishment inner sanctum cell padded with nothing but tome after tome of only their excruciatingly maddening poetic criticism—that and nothing more, nothinglikeness period. (At least for the time being, however long that may be.)

 

 

 

Winner Take All: Confession Of A Literary Sleight-Of-Hand Man

Consider if you will, 

When all is said 

And done, 

 

And all those proverbial 

Bromides I once dispensed 

With such considerable aplomb 

 

No longer 

Roll effortlessly off 

My once oh so smooth 

 

And often too fiery 

Biting acid tongue, 

You’ll know it’s time 

 

I let bygones be 

Bygones, shut up 

And deal myself 

 

One last ace from up 

My sleeve just so 

Everyone can 

 

See how sleazy 

In the end it was 

I won. 

 

 

 

After Archilochos, A Sense Of Seferis

 

Vain ones— 

Write this 

Down so that you 

Never forget it: 

 

This, this 

We cannot do 

Without 

 

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

 

These two spotted 

Pale doves inscribing 

 

Our fate, rising 

And falling in 

 

Turn in the ever 

Ambivalent yet still 

 

Diaphanous air.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Muse On The Edge

 

If you can sit still 

Enough to hear that which can’t 

 

Wait, it’s a good sign.