Reaper's Got The Last Word

You sure you ain’t jiving us, 
You’re really on to something 
Big you’re dying to say? 

Don’t 

Let me stop you—get it 
Over with before you drop 
Dead in your tracts 

On the way. 

Poetic Wanderlust Partly Explained

Breathless 

You of the over- 
Worked beautiful 

Voice never faltering, mind that 
Wanders, wonder not. 

Bottom Line Disconsolate Consolation Prize

Terrible and most dishonorable 
Things too dreadful to mention
Are taking place

Now all over a world rapidly
Becoming lost forever and you— 
All you want is for your poetry

To find itself winning, 
If nothing else in the end, 
Just Honorable Mention.








 



 

Know Thyself, Brother

Knowing silence waits 

For the busy man to drop everything
And join it, 

But the busy man has other things 
On his mind and does not 

Know it. 

Machiavellian Drawing A Blank At Eighty-five

Said subject in question being 
In his lifetime a village president
Many times over, machinating

Political animal and owner
Of a coffeehouse having 
The only phone in town, thus 

Suspected police whistleblower, 
Spent his last days lying
In bed staring at the wall, 

And never once spoke, 
Not even to the wall. 

Growing Up On The Wrong Side Of The Tracks: Raymond, Washington, Circa 1953

A double set 

Of rails ran right by 
Our house and how 

I never tired of walking on them 
As far as I could, trying 

My best not to fall, pretending 
All the while they were 

Heading nowhere 
In particular save 

To carry each new balancing 
Act a little farther 

Out of there. 

Without Peer

Insistent song 
Bird I know 
This song’s no 
Match for yours, 
Nor will it ever be 
Around as long, 

And yet there’s some 
Thing dumb in me keeps 
On wanting to match 
Your matchless song, so 
Knock it off, can’t you 
See, I’m almost done.