Right As Acid Rain

Why is it

Our heavenly father tells us

Unrighteous reign shall fall

When wry Mother Earth reminds us

That’s not right at all.

 

 

Huuklyeand Cinquor on Revisionist Poetics

Comrade versifier,

Profess though you may

To being a revolutionary

Poet, pray leave that propaganda

For Our Party’s inner sanctum;

As for the holy masses you exalt

Every day, they want to know just

How much blood must be spilled

Before your verses blot it away.

Moderator’s comments: Were he still alive, I’m sure the illustrious, ill-fated  Mayakovsky would agree. 

Perseverance As a Vehicle for Poetry

All this waiting for inspiration—

Sheer boredom for headstrong tyros,

I tell you. At breakneck speed they keep

Veering off the main branch

And over the nearest cliff in hot pursuit

Of a breathtaking view.

Left in the lurch, we

Older lemmings have to play it cool,

Idling on the edge

Steady as she goes, simply

Hanging in there,

Taking in the view.

Lament

If I had still one more everlasting

Song to sing, which one would sing

Of loss and for how long after

Would one cease to sing?

Those Were the Days, My Friends

The Editors of Madrona (Seattle, Washington, 1971-1979?): Photograph taken on the terrace of Eleni’s house in Remmatia, summer, 1985. From left to right, John Levy, JK (Ken) Osborne, Vassilis Zambaras—those were the days (including those much earlier than these), my friends. Ah, but do not let the somber black bordering deceive you: All three are alive and well and living their separate lives, though separated by thousands of miles of earth and water: Levy works for the Public Defender’s Office in Tucson, Arizona, Osborne is a retired high-school teacher now taking it easy in Marica, Brasil, and Zambaras is self-anointed Poet-in-Residence in the Peloponnese. 

More on Madrona and its editors coming up soon.

Concordance

It is thus duly decreed:

In accordance with the laws
Of nature, heavenly

Raindrops shall fall,

And remain

Shining strings of beads adorning

This drab, naked clothesline

Till almighty earth overpowers them

And they succumb to the temptation

To exist accordingly.

Wise Old Bird

Sunset’s dying,

Not so

 

Transient owl

Tells me

It won’t

Last forever,

 

But who am I

To give a hoot.