Great Expectations Till Hell Freezes Over

In the searing July heat 
Hot enough to broil 
A souvlaki on asphalt,

This seventy-year-old man 
Has just crossed the street 
To a neighbor’s where he

Picks up a goodly-sized 
Leafy branch from a freshly
Pruned lemon tree, tenderly 

Brings it back and then 
Proceeds to dig a hole 
In his garden, plants 

The amputated 
Limb, waters it profusely 
And waits for it to take root, 

Come hell or high water. 

Heads Up, Or What's That You Say?

I said Poet, 

If you’re finding it hard 
To hear the sounds 

Of silence, you’re 
More than likely 

Talking your ears off. 

Welcome Mat

This dreary derelict mud 
Brick hovel in which squat

A Roma family 
With six kids all

Under twelve also 
Sports a brood 

Of scrawny kittens 
Numbering about 

A dozen taking in 
Today’s brilliant 

Sunshine in front 
Of a hanging 

Pied blanket 
Serving as 

Its front door. 

Immaculate Cycladic Morning

From round, blue-green 
Plastic tub next to her

Frail frame, white-spattered 
Black-robed widow wielding

Long-handled red brush 
Attacks greying house

Walls with wide swaths 
Of blinding fresh whitewash—

Soon everything will smell 
Of clean wedding night sheets. 

Turning Point

You know she’s right 
And you’re dead wrong 

When she sees red and 
You’re already past 

The last green light, 
Long past gone. 

 

Gloam

Slowly pedaling past black ornamental 
Cast ironwork railing round small candle-

Lit cemetery cramped by too many large marble 
Tombstones crested with white crosses where 

No matter what you’re thinking, 
The mind always reaches 

A blank there. 

Are You With Us Or Against Us?

“You” being the “we” we always thought 
We were until someone came along 

And told us otherwise and then 
We became “them” with a whole 

New perspective concerning who 
We were and who they were 

And gave up trying to answer 
Their question right then and there. 

Littoral Expanse

Literally on edge, 
The complacent self-

Same image now 
No longer

Grounded, breaks in- 
To an un- 

Broken recitative 
Of waves leaving 

Nothing to chance. 

Has-been Apprentice Hack

NON-DISCLAIMER: This is a work of poetry; as such, it is the product of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is definitely not coincidental in any way, shape, or form. On the contrary, it is clearly intended to enlighten the reader as to the character of the splashy, hubris-filled blowhard now playing hack actor playing at playing the role of the most powerful man in the world—a part soon to be assumed and straightaway transmogrified into a bit player’s nightmare by a most desperately driven, artful director called Nemesis.  

Used to be 
You could tell how

Hot you were from how 
Much fake precipitation dripped

From your forehead 
As you manipulated your way

Up Broadway to no end—what 
A farce, my no longer cool friend!

No more easily anticipated 
Big splash round the bend, 

Only just too much 
No sweat vaporized

In the sweltering end.

Huuklyeand Cinquor On Postmodern Poetry's Distressing Emphasis On Omphaloskepsis

"The question of the nature of navel fluff seems to concern more people than one would think at first glance.”  – Dr. Georg Steinhauser, chemist 

Reflecting 
One way or another 
On the idea that 
Idiot in its ancient 
Greek sense did not 
Mirror what it means today, 

But rather someone so 
Caught up in his self- 
Importance that he is 
Useless to society really 
Makes one kind of wonder, 
Does it not? 

Moderator’s comments: Huuk, I suppose it does but if so, shouldn’t that questioning spirit supply us with real answers rather than ending in a vapid query that does nothing but prolong the agonizing naval-gazing status quo that characterizes a great deal of contemporary poetry, yours included? 

Know Thyself, Dude

Like the man said 
Before he drank his last 
Bitter draught toasting 
Man’s stupidity, 
One thing only I know, 
And that is that 
I know nothing. 
. 

Say you do not know, 
You know. 
. 

Say you know, 
You do not know. 
. 

You know? 
. 

If not, you must be 
Some kind of stupid.

In a Rut, or Business as Usual in the Land of Timeworn Phrases

Here 

In the civilized 
West, whenever we hear

Of some poor soul beaten 
To death by a crowd

Of angry barbarians 
In some god-

Forsaken corner 
Of the globe,

We change channels. 

Lazarus

Emma, should you 
Miraculously emulate 
Your celebrated namesake 

By appearing before 
Your lady-in-waiting 
Once more, keep in mind 

Her lamp is tarnished 
And the door now 
Shutting, golden no more. 

Dystopian Ways and Means

Oh yes 
Indeed, we aim 
To please the tired, 
The teeming destitute 
Derelict masses washed up 
Like so much flotsam 
On our shores, 
By keeping our eyes 
Always on target, 
Even if it means losing 
What we set out for. 

Working-Class Stool Pigeon

on the bum, 
strutting under 

neath chicks 
on stools out 

side up 
scale coffee 

house gleaning tit
bits of hot 

info from un 
suspecting cool 

cheesecake crumbs. 

Not In The Script

In this dark grave 
Comedy of errors, 
If you wish 
To begin
Once upon a time,
Best not to 

Plan on ending it 
Happily ever after,
Right on cue 
And always oh
So tellingly 
Nondescript. 

Grease Monkey Gigolo Riff

Maestro? 
That’s me— 

Screw driving 
Down right 

Up tight low 
Down staccato funky 

Monkey wrenching Mr. 
Ostinato Lubricanto— 

At yer soivice, ma’am. 

Trumped: Tower Block Asylum Gravity

In the high-rise, 
Everything was in 
Great, scintillating order— 

Including any semblance 
Of order which had gone 
Right through the ceiling 

When every able body 
On the premises 
Found itself going up 

And down 
In circles, unable 
To do anything but 

Pace the abysmal,
Bottomless pit 
Of the ground 

Floor. 

Exemplary Poetic Specimen

Go ahead, 
Stare at the blank 
Page all you want— 

Nothing needs all 
The help it can get, 
And you’re no exception.

Best Laid Plans

When the rudimentary yet 
Humungous suicide 
Bomb went off 

And everything and everyone went 
To pieces with it, there was nobody to ask 
What became of the intricate 

Nuts and bolts designed to hold 
The whole shebang together. 

You Don't Say!

Listen up, young fella— 
People who say 
They like to tell it 

Like it is most likely never 
Tell you what it is 
They like to tell; 

The few times they do though, 
More than likely they 
End up short on the telling 

End of another tall tale. 

Air of Yearning

The pine’s whispering 
Something all but inaudible 

Under its breath 
The wind pines

To hear it, too. 

Shape Up Or Ship Out, You Swine

Tut-tut now, we know they say 
All the world’s a stage but 
Then again, it’s not 
Your oyster, mate— 

Though it could be 
If you were but a god- 
Damn watchdog standing 
Sentinel at the pearly gates. 

Timeworn Life Sentence

In the morning it’s easy 
Getting caught up 

In the hope it won’t be 
One more wasted day, 

Only to spend the rest 
Of your life wondering 

How that too got away. 

Unsettling Unearthly Affair

where sudden suspect 

gust in trees 
leaves 

                    minding 
                    nobody’s business 

still up in air. 


 

Curious And Curiouser At Four-And-A-Half

My wife holding 
A sloshy plastic bag 
Into which she’s thrown 
Up half her guts, Phaedra 
Peers into the bathroom 
And asks her 

Granny, I wasn’t 
Here when you started, 
Please do it again— 
I want to see how 

It all comes out 
In the end. 

First Things First

—for Eleni, first of all 

I suppose you’re right, my love, 
After all— there are many things 
In this world worth pursuing, 

But who can recall them and why 
Try when most of the time 
I end up wanting

Nothing but to follow you 
To the ends of the earth. 

Heartthrob

Departing like a slasher 
In the night, you went 

The way you came, ever 
Returning on the morrow 

With my heart in your hands 
Like a bloody cliché, 

Willing and able to do 
Love’s bidding again

And again—touché. 

Barking Up The Wrong Tree

Trying to focus on what 
Your poem’s going to be 
About’s a lot like throwing 
A stick as far as you can 
Into a whitecapped lake, 

Then pointing to it so 
The pup at your side can see 
Where it’s bobbing so 
It can go retrieve it when 
All the while what it’s been 

Up to is wagging its tail 
Like all get-out, those 
Bright, beady eyes 
Of his concentrating 
On nothing but 

Your finger gesticulating 
In the ambivalent air. 

Anger Management For Rejected Poets Hung Up On The Muse

Keeping as much as you can
Of your cool, take one last look 
At all the abortions you’ve sired, 
Then quickly dispatch with them 
By counting slowly to ten--

When you've come
To your senses,
Send them back 
To that heartless bitch
In heat again.