Shovel Leaning against a Graveyard Wall

After the cleansing downpour, 
I like to think the muddied pool 
Left in the scoop of the shovel 
Reflects on a clear blue sky, 
There in the sweet by-and-by— 

Where a spade is always a spade, 
No matter how 
Many times it’s been buried 
By upright citizens 
Covering up one more lie. 

Wounded in the Process

Nothing too insignificant— 
How even 

This minute sliver 
Working it- 

Self out, means 
To heal. 

Good Reads

The raucous bumblebee 
Makes such a rambunctious entrance, 

Buzzes round the cloistered 
Book-lined study, lights on 
A few select tomes, falls 
Silent before each one before 
Making its exit 

A high-keyed little masterpiece 
Of buzzing eloquence. 

Poetry Reading

Forget all that 
Huffing and puffing, 
Blowhard— 

When mind’s full 
Of nothing, volumes 
Of hot air 

Do not promise 
To bring the house down, 
So pretty please

Beware. 

In the Manner of Cavafy

Approaching the end of the multiplying
Line of somber burnt-out candles lengthening 
Behind him, he recalls their first light before 
Turning ahead to the diminishing 
Row of lively little lit ones waiting, 
All the while quivering himself 
And tries—how hard it must be 
To keep looking firmly ahead—to snuff out 
That still-flickering thought, the one
That will certainly engulf him 
Should he wilt and turn back. 

May Day! May Day! (Going through the Motions)

Though they may tell you otherwise, 
It’s not enough going through 
Each day as if it were your last— 

One of these days, 
You’ll have to live it. 

Artifice

Much spoken of lately by poets 
Hearing cliché-ridden voices, the muse waits 

For no man’s inspiration 
To come into view. 

As all this must come but to naught, 
Ennui seems equally ineluctable— 

The muse is a deaf-mute, savoring 
Nothing save what appears to strike her 

Like a bolt from the blue.