Impatient Fledgling

While you wait 

For the next poem 

To show itself, that restless 

Small bird nesting 

In your heart has grown strong 

Wings and will 

Soon flutter away.

 

How The World Turns

It couldn’t 

Care less about your so- 

Called life’s work—the words 

You’ve chosen 

With so much TLC, 

Now hate how 

You tendered them simply 

To show off more 

Than they could ever 

Hope to endure.

Subterfuge

Clearly a shroud, 

He was at his best 

Whenever he took 

Pains to write only 

As much as was 

Needed for him 

To remain hermetically 

Under wraps.

 

 

Classic Myops

Look at it 

This way--

You could've been born 

A spectacle with only one 

Gigantic bulging eye- 

Ball planted right 

Smack dab 

In the middle 

Of your bucolic, 

Dead-to-the-world 

Forehead and everyone 

Who's anybody, including 

Some shifty dude who called himself 

NoMan knows how that turned out,

Stake my word on it.

 

 

Caveat

Trouper, muse on 

This a bit: 

You're a poet only 

When caught in the act 

Of writing; the rest 

Of the time you're just

 

AWOL, derelict 

In your duties--

Get back in line 

Or pack it in, 

Double time.