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.

Poem For The Duration

--for Eleni, forever 

Love remains 

The last word 

In a world that never lasts 

Long enough.

 

Writer's Stinking Rut Grotesque

You know you're in 

A thorny one when 

Everything once rosy's now 

Coming up wilted, decomposing 

In a reeking kitchen sink.