Apple Of Our Poetic Eye

first off,
leave nothing 

to chance
and listen: 

no baubles, please—
whatever we hold

dear must be surely
precious to the ear,

and to that eyeless,
munching under-

study of a worm, under-
taking everything, all in

good stride.

 

 

 

Harmonious Love Song Of A Singularly Irrational Muse

Do not try
To understand me— 

Just love me
As I am, 

And let us be two
Dissimilar voices entwined 

In perfect knavish harmony! 

 

 

Eyesore In The Stately Kingdom Of Pines

Where what’s left 

Of memory remains 

This derelict sinking 

Slowly under an eye- 

Opening accruing piercing 

Cover of needles, above all 

Let us keep in mind how

We took pains to leave 

The master key 

Somewhere in the blah 

Back country stretches 

Of forgettable plains.

 

 

Supinely Moving Octogenarian Haiku

Whirring ceiling fan 

Over my bed assures me 

Motor’s still not dead.

 

 

Why Stoics Always Have The Last Word

waxing 

poetic, 

they 

know 

how 

insufferable not 

keeping 

your mouth 

shut is.