Eternally Besieged Babbling Pearlies

Constant that sound 

Ringing unsound within 

 

The walls; outside still 

No sign of the next 

 

Round of jaw-crushing 

Swine rushing 

 

Tottering rusty gates again.

 

Yonder Captives Clearly Out Of Their Element

“I want to paint 

The way a bird sings.” 

—C. Monet 

 

Easier said than done, 

Claude, but at least it seems 

You had an inkling of how 

 

Helpless poets can feel 

Whenever their words keep 

Hightailing it into that too 

 

Familiar wild blue wonder 

More often than not— 

And would you know it?—

 

Seldom looking back. 

 

 

 

 

Ditty Of An Existential Misfit

Oh, my! 

My precious little world 

Never stops weighing 

Heavily on my mind— 

 

Methinks it might be 

Time to lighten 

The load a bit 

And stop being 

 

Such a heavy- 

Weight light- 

Headed dimwit 

All the time— 

 

On second thought 

Though, perhaps it’s best 

I procrastinate as usual, 

And wait for the cocks’ 

 

Crow first thing on the morrow— 

Yes, yes I’ll surely do it then, 

With no inkling of regret 

Or shameful sorrow!

 

Frugal Poetic Fragility

Apart from his writing, 

Which always seemed to stop

Short of going somewhere, 

He spent most of his time 

Wandering from used bookstore 

To bookstore looking 

For cheap editions, till one day 

He happened upon a slender volume 

Of his he had forgotten 

He’d once inscribed and gifted 

To an elder, much better- 

Known poet whose work he admired 

Almost as much as his own, 

And which now lay half-buried 

Under a stack of thicker, more 

Impressive-looking tomes of poetry, 

All penned by that very same distinguished 

Gentleman poet who--would you have it?-- 

Just happened to be quite dead:

Had he too, wasted his life?

 

Just Perpetual Lies That Blind, Poet

Now set to fall on your face after all

These years of chasing that

 

Elusive golden mean, don’t you go without

Telling yourself you knew

 

Exactly what you were up to again.