Hardy Phoenix Rising

In blackened hearths, remnants
Of old growth

Sizzled to a crisp, still
Glowing embers 

Ashing to ashes, dust
To dust in an ever-swirling, 

Resurrecting myth. 

 

 

 

Keep Thanking Your Lucky Stars, Pilgrims

You’ll have noticed by now,
When the stars are right,
Nothing looks to go wrong.

Pay them constant homage then
If you wish to see the light
Right proper thorough,

Even through the now
Darkling before you
Night.

 

 

 

Poetic Limits And The Art Of Perusal

 

There are scores
Of normal

Activities you could have
Been gifted to do

In this life apart
From the peculiar

One of writing poetry—
Being transfixed at the sight

Of fluff accumulating
Between the folds

Of an otiose navel
Will never count

As one of them.

How Not To Lose Your Poetic Train Of Thought

The next time

You sit
Down to write

Whatever comes up, think
Of what Mary Shelley created*

In just one night,
And make sure

Your head is
Firmly in place,

All bolts fitted
Tight and no

More stripped
Threads or loose

Stitches; then and only then
Can you say all aboard the mystery

Train, so step lightly all
My grotesque friends!

 

*Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus

 

 

Edict

 

Let it henceforth be known,
Poems shall no longer be
Pure as the driven snow.

It’s hard
Enough as it is, being
Rundown vehicles stuck

In raging blizzards
Of unspeakable
Clarity.