Shooting the Zephyr

Village folk round here have a saying 

As old as Hephaestus:  

When the tongues 

Of fire in the hearth 

Hiss as if blown 

By some invisible bellows, 

Someone’s talking about you— 

If you ask me, that’s reason enough 

We should all watch 

Our tongues too. 

Why I Didn't Write a Poem This Morning

Caught 

In a sudden light drizzle, I spent most 

Of my energy musing 

Under the eaves 

Watching our pup, mouth 

Wide open, trying 

To catch 

Some shining 

Drops coming out 

Of the downspout—surely 

Here was an other 
Kind of thirst.

Last Meditation in an Emergency

I’ve had it with your mantras— 

I bet if Frank were here, 

He’d say something like 

A sure-fire way to stop clutter 

Cluttering your head is to stop 

Wondering why 

Sirens sing in your ear.

On a Line of My Wife's and Some Others Borrowed from George Oppen

“Why, you’re just a boy with white hair!” 

Which made me think of that other 

White-haired “boy” writing

A poem about a friend visiting 

The rooms of Keats and Shelley, 

Who saw “they were just 

Boys’ rooms” and was moved 

By that.  

 .

And indeed for the poet, 

A poet’s room is a boy’s room 

And he supposes women know it— 

Perhaps the unbeautiful banker 

Is exciting to a woman, a man 

Not a boy gasping 

For breath over a girl’s body.

. 

Perhaps 

That is what remains breathless, beautiful 

In this in which 

Some people never know. 

Prescription Approaching Expiry Date

A poem a day keeps— 

For God’s sake, don’t 

Think about it before 

Throwing it away. 

We Gotta Get out of This Place

Lovable manners, lady? 

Maybe an endearing trait 

In domesticated animals, 

But when poets want to play 

Lapdog, it’s time 

To call the pound. 

Fasten Your Seatbelts, Please

Earthlings, 

Those of you sick to death of being stuck in one place all your lives and who now wish to become followers of the Church of the Holey Galactic Bucket Seat Brigade, please take one step forward. Our craft will be departing shortly.