It's A Dog's Life Until You Lose It

Beats me but coming 
After a hard day’s scrounging 
For scraps, I’d wager 

Those two dead- 
Tired, bedraggled 
Strays that spend 

Their nights curled 
Up on threadbare welcome 
Mats on opposite sides 

Of the main drag—one 
In front of the bakery 
And the other 

In front of the laundry— 
Most likely imagine that 
As long as they can 

Sleep and dream 
Of warm doghouses 
And doggy food galore, 

There will always be 
The prospect of waking 
Up one fine morning still

Very much alive, yet for some 
Strange reason always 
Wanting more. 

Huuklyeand Cinquor On Finding One's Way To The Domicile Of The Perfect Poem

Poets, I dare say 
Enough is enough, please 
Gather all your senses together— 

You just passed 
The sign 
That said No 
Trespassing— 

The next one says 
No Exit. 

Moderator’s comments: Hopeless perfectionist par excellence that Huuk is, 
no wonder it took him so long to check back in here. 

Douma, Syria: No Barrel Of Laughs

Yes, indeed 
That ghastly 
Still of a man 

Wearing a gas- 
Mask does look some- 
What grotesque as he 

Holds the body 
Of a gassed child, 
But hold on—just what 

Did you expect 
To see—a bunch 
Of debased home- 

Grown couch potatoes 
Foaming at the mouth 
At the prospect 

Of strange riffraff suffocating 
In faraway basements? 
Change channels.

 

Die-hard Hippie Listening To Jefferson Airplane High Over Greece

—for Tom (Diz) Carroll, music teacher/musician par excellence 
and frequent visitor to these parts 

The light-headed 
Mind can take in only so 
Much at a time 
Before it has to stop 

To ponder if 
The baggage it’s been 
Hauling over the years 
Might not be too fright- 

Fully overweight and better 
Off jettisoned, preferably high 
Over a luminous landscape 
Filled with nothing 

But diaphanous light.

Marching For Their Lives

Enough of this 
And that, my fellow 
Citizens—we all 

Know we get 
Enough of that 
From people who 

Don’t know where 
They’re going 
Or where they’re at— 

Not like these kids 
Who know exactly 
What they’re aiming at. 

Aphasic Synesthesia

Don’t forget 
If you can’t 

Speak because you 
Have nothing to say, 

Just remember when 
The time came for you 

To listen, you were lost 
In thought, looking 

The other way. 

Down In The Dumps, Period

Pollyanna, 
When I feel like shit, 
The last thing I want is you 
Telling me to forget everything 
And be happy—I was there once 
And look where I am now, 
Feeling twice as shitty.