Artifice

Much spoken of lately by poets 
Hearing cliché-ridden voices, the muse waits 

For no man’s inspiration 
To come into view. 

As all this must come but to naught, 
Ennui seems equally ineluctable— 

The muse is a deaf-mute, savoring 
Nothing save what appears to strike her 

Like a bolt from the blue.

Chew on This, Poet

Soon you will be begging for scraps 
Of paper to stave off your hunger— 

Better you had been born a dog. 

Blooming Motley Crew

See how magenta swabs wide 
Swaths across windswept mustard 
Cliff face bursting with pied 
Splashes of anemones spilling over 
Whitecaps of agitated blue— 

Steady as the craft goes, lads, 
Make your master proud of you. 

Meltdown

While the priest drones on and on, 
The beadle plucks still-lit candles 
From the crowded candelabrum, 
Snuffs them out one-by-one 
And drops them dutifully 
Into the recycling bin. 

It has been duly ordained 
None shall be free 
To melt completely when 
Money’s to be made 
From eternal resurrection, 
And the devil still aflame within. 

Sadly, Life is a Carnival, Sad Sack

To be the life of the party, revelers 
Try to make the best of it, masking 

Their ugliness in everything 
They do—it’s true 

Of course, any mask can do the trick, 
But if I were you—and just for laughs— 

I’d try the one that looks like you.