The Golden Mystery Train

It’s no trade secret, Mr. 
Mordecue Ruepart Giltrip—

It’s not going to stop in time

To let you off unless you promise

Never to get back on again.

The Inn of Worldly Delights

Each of its rooms was large enough

To hold millions of travelers,

But too small to keep

Each one happy.

My Parents, Larger Than Life

Framed in sterling nuptial silver

To this very day, they are still

Backing into the picture before

Something else develops and the reason

They were here fades away.

Early Morning Talk Show

Though it’s a far cry

From winter,

As soon as I see snow,

I know that early bird

Of a mourning dove has stopped by

Our wobbly TV aerial again,

And is going on and on, talking

On his pedestal to anybody

Who is somebody about anything—

Even something as pedestrian

As the time of day.

The God Poems

You remember Richard Dawkins’ The God Delusion, right? Well, here is Vazambam’s The Poet Delusion—five poems in which the poet deludes himself and misleads his hapless followers by pretending to have rescued the lost art of divine poetic bathos from the primordial depths of sludge it had so easily fallen into.

Huuklyeand Cinquor on Talking to One's Self

The writer is a dying man who is trying to speak.

—Michel Foucault

Phooh!

And all this time I thought

I was coeval, talking

To my immortal soul.

Moderator's comments: Well, Cinquor, I don’t have to remind you 

the beginning of a circle is also its end.

Sailing the Dream

Air rows,

Sea waves—


Bow quivers.