The Usual Suspect Getting Away With Bloody Murder

 

Keep fobbing
Your so-called killer poems off

An unsuspecting public,
And no one will be the wiser,

Not even you,
You incredible fool.

True-Blue Transient Filament

spider 

in his element,
swaying almost

imperceptibly
in 

incredible
air, not quite 

false
dawn
light, 

now
over— 

there. 

 

 

 

Frantic Muse On Penury

 

When you’re desperate enough
To write whatever precious
Vacuities reside in your head,
And nothing appears to warn you

You’re better off dead. 

 

 

 

Song Of The Bashful Balladeer

I kid you not, kiddo—

We’ve been here by the river before but

What the dickens, pretty delightful,

Too cute for words?

 

That’s what you’d like

People to say about your work,

Huh? How sweet it must

Sound even to us with tin ears.

 

And those line endings! However

Do you arrange them so

They can be read more

Than one way? Such adroitness

 

Of syntax and coy rippling

Word play must need be

Recognized rather than

Left incognito by you.

 

But when all’s said

And done, we know

You’ll have it your way;

So no need to wring hands, no

Remorse, sans angst, just

Fire away, because it’ll all come

Out in the wash some sweet day.

 

Out-Of-Kilter Octogenerians' Wake-Up Call

 

As if ordained, 

We know together 

With our rising 

 

Out of deep lethargic 

Sleep, that pesky 

Rooster will be still 

 

Waiting somewhere out 

There to remind us 

We have yet another 

 

Go at making the best 

Of whatever we still have 

Inside us— 

 

Oh, pray 

It will come to pass 

Today, together 

 

With the plucky spring 

Chickens and those wobbly 

Near over-the-hill hens, 

 

To an end we could 

Only dream of 

To no end.