Zen Bucolic

At a loss with how to 
Jog your mind? 

Look at it this way— 
There’s a stream 

Of fresh asphalt sheep 
Droppings steaming 

In the sun, wide-eyed
Drop everything, watch 

Out where you run. 

Serial Killer

Oh dear, it looks like 
Your next poem’s well 
On its way to turning in
To your latest nightmare— 
What to do? For crying 
Out loud, choke it— 
You wouldn’t want it 
To end up stalking 
You too, would you? 

Skeleton Keys

Hard by 

There’s a door behind 
Which everything hides 

And where 

Everyone’s trying hard 
To get out 

Of going in. 

Lazarus Redux

April’s no fool— 
To come up smelling 
Like a rose 

In this waste land, 
You’ll have to dig deeper 
To revive 

Whatever remains 
Alive in you. 

Facing the Prompter

Friend, awake you pretend 
You’re sharp, alive and kicking, acting 
Up, one step ahead of the world again— 
Asleep, five will get you ten you see 
Someone tripping over his lines, 
A ham actor falling perfectly on end, 
Flat on his face again and again. 

After Attending the Funeral of a Centenarian, Phaedra (Approaching Four) Muses on the Subject of Mortality

Papa, 

I know Granny Sophy died 
Yesterday because I saw her dead, 

But I’m going to read as much poetry 
As I can and then try 

To write it so I don’t. 

Empathy of a Third Kind

Each village with a madman—might it be 
The work of the wind blowing in 

One ear and out 
The other 

Inconsolable as can be? 

Greek Occupation

Before the war, my father worked 
His small, patchy wheat fields
Wearing rough sandals 
Made of used tire treads, 
But he still put bread on our table. 

When the German boot came, 
He walked barefoot with no
Bread to be found anywhere— 
Another story altogether, 
But the kernel remains the same. 

Alarums

cocky insouciant plump 
roosters ring in 
false dawn like clockwork 
. 

lean crepuscular jackals 
in thicket clear throats 
cry out in unison
. 

same bloody refrain 
drones through vale 
of death daily
. 

again and again 

Idiot Boxed in Real Time

Once upon a time, 
At a loss with what 
To do with his id 

Most of the time 
The couch potato 
Just sat on it 

And waited 
For it to sit back 
All of the time. 

Not Just Anybody's Distress Call

From out of nowhere, 
When I needed someone 
To tell me who I was 
And where I was going, 
No one showed up 
To call my name. 

Notation on Negative Capability

Shit I can’t read 
A goddamn note of music 

But sure looks like 
The starlings 

Strung out like so 
Much sheet music jamming 

The utility lines can’t either. 

Hard Awash in a Fog

Thick cotton swabs 
The mind white 
Gone soft too 

To many harsh black 
Landscapes too thin 
To hold water 

Just right for you. 

A Poem, More or Less (after Porchia)*

One can never say enough— 
It has to be less or more, 
Till what’s left is just 
What you’re looking for. 


 *The catalyst for the above: 

     “Whatever I take, I take too much or too little; I do 
not take the exact amount. The exact amount is no use 
to me.” 

--from “Voices,” translated by W.S. Merwin, Big Table Publishing Company: Chicago, 1969.

Ultimate Refugee Solution

Round burning bedsides, 
Vigilant undying lines 

Of snuffed out candles seeking 
To be lit again once 

Their last day on Earth turns 
Off the lights and sputters 

To all a goodnight. 

Despair

What is it that takes 
So long to appear before you 
When you’re down, down, down? 
You spend forever waiting 
For some sign of it 
Before you're goners
When the herald’s already 
Winging it to the next town. 

Verdict

cut-and-dried 

white- 

washed 

walls 


no 

shadow 

of 

doubt 

crossing 


blank 

page 

leaving 

no 


room 

for 

deliberation 

As Good As It Gets

So sick of hearing 
Of the death 
Of this unacknowledged 
Legislator of the world 
And of that, I cannot 

But think in these mean times 
How many have come before 
And how many are yet to come 
And how many after that— 
A distressing, unceasing line 

Of well-meaning poets 
Dead or alive or yet to be 
Strung out and scrawling across 
An indifferent, chaotic universe— 
It doesn’t get much better than that. 

In Praise of Ephemera

There are only so many things 
Indolent ones can do in a day— 
If they take their sweet time 
And knock them off one at a time, 
They may last a lifetime. 

Injunction

When you have at last acquired 
All your heart desires, pray 
Do not come to me offering nothing 
Save your heart on your sleeve. 

No Bed of Roses

Each morning I ask myself if I’m awake, 
And each night I lie in bed sleeping on it. 

The Ultimate Notebook Poem

Try to write down everything 
You see—not enough time? 
 . 

Write down all that 
You can remember 
 . 

And then try 
To remember what 
. 

You forgot—no need 
To write it all down 
. 

The first time round 
Or the second 
 . 

Or the third 
And so on 
. 

Ad infinitum— 
It’ll all come back 
. 

To you when you see 
Everything becoming 
. 

A blank in due time
Next time round.

Seeing is Believing

It’s true, Narcissus— 
Even the reeds up- 
Right in the water look 
To be bending over 
For a closer look; 
But look again— 
Is it going 
To be the same 
Stream tomorrow? 

Driven Senseless by Pro Aris Et Focis

This solid citizen heeded the hallowed 
Call of the strait and narrow once 
Too often and ended up crazed 

And racing like a rat down a maze 
Of cheesy halls straight up against 
One hollow chintzy wall after another. 

In Lieu of a New Year's Poem

Oh, dear— 

Hard to find 
Something new 

To write about 
Each coming year 

When it grows old and dear 
And goes before you 

Come to know it, dear.