That’s a Tough One: The Muse Strikes Again

Where do poems come from? 

I’m not sure, 

But now that I think of it, 

Your question reminds me 

Of the time when I first asked 

Mom where babies come from 

And she said they just popped out 

Of women’s kneecaps. 

Myrtle Vinca Minor under Cross-examination

Sure, you keep repeating 

You’re not trans-gender, 

But what’s that coy chick doing hiding 

In your shrubbery 

Feeding on your seeds? 

Surreal Sleepwalker

Out of deep sleep

And rising ever so

 

Slowly and completely

Mesmerized, I see what must be 

A green cheese moon adrift and waxing

 

The blue ocean floor at my feet. 

 

 

 

 

Logorrhea

You run off at the mouth
Whenever you say whatever
You say is what you have
To say and nothing’s going stop you.

Okay, logo-masochist, have it your way but
What’re you going to say when you’re sinking
In deep shit and nobody’s going to stop you?

Ornithologists' Organic Breakfast

—for Ans and Peter 

gingerly nibbling, small feathered 

friend preening on 

a 

thin 

seedy 

stalk 

of 

sweet 

smelling 

wild 

fennel— 

early birds, 

feast your eyes

for what we have 

here is a natural, 

a real honest-to-goodness 

con 

nois 

sir. 

Last of the Adobe Kings

 

On my way, I pass by

The remnants of another day—

His weathered visage

On the knoll—I see 

He sees me not,

Nor does he look away.

Opportunity Is A Window Onto the World

The sea, the sea, who will be able to drain it dry? 
—George Seferis, from “Mythistorema” 

In this small house 
On the bluff that is being 
Inexorably eaten away,

 
In front of the large bay window
Letting in the light, 
Pray your eyes take in

 
As much as they can 
Before running out 

And down to the strand, 

 

Your hands cupped 
Round your ears so you can hear clearly 
The world’s beckoning, inexhaustible

Song.