Pyromaniac

You write

As if poetry were a religion

And you

Its Grand Inquisitor.

While the Barbarians Were Grossly Expectorating (With Apologies to Cavafy)

The herald

Ran ahead with the news

Our tongues would soon be

Hanging out in the forum

Exquisitely exsiccating.

Some Say the Heart is a Garden

And yours is large

And needs not

Question

Why each new flower,

Once in bloom,

Will not wilt

Before you answer

Dear heart,

There is no room.

Basket Case

Blue with all malice, like a madman’s flash

“Arms and the Boy,” Wilfred Owen

When I dwell on what

This wretched body

Politic has yet to offer,

I see myself bearing

Baskets of arms wrenched

From boys that have been

Appropriated solely

To appease it.

Dead in Its Tracks

Suddenly we saw

The world had stopped

And we started,
Our eyes startled

By the absolute
Beauty of all

That naked stillness.

Gearing up for the Next Poem

When you know the humble

Snail’s left a trail

Of silver

For you to follow,

Remember before

You put it in low,

It has no high gear

And can’t

Reverse.

Fireworks For The Downtrodden Masses

That dazzling

Independence Day light show was over

In a flash—

In its place, a mass

Of black

                  

Boot heels treading holes left 

Right between the whites 

 

Of once fiery eyes.