Old Country Vignette, 1947

The big brother, next 

To the father, leaving 

The village for the new 

World, turning round, 

His arms outstretched, 

Crying out to the younger 

Standing motionless 

Next to the mother: Baby, 

Baby brother, why 

Won’t you fit into my pocket?

 

Take it Or Leave It

There is only one 

Reason one should 

 

Write poetry— 

One needs to. 

 

 

 

 

Unutterable Poetic Aural Disorder

Dear distinguished post- 

Modern colleagues—shout 

This dictum conundrum out 

 

Loud and clear 

If you can 

Hear it— 

 

Beyond silence there 

Can be no absence 

Of silence to speak of, 

 

Once the listener listening 

For the sound of his own 

Voice in the wilderness, 

 

Finally discovers 

It’s long gone over the hill, 

Taking his person with him. 

 

 

 

Emendating Diogenes The Dog

Who was said 

To have said so downright

Astutely all men think, 

 

But for some baffling 

Reason forgot to add 

Most of the time they

 

Just sit broodingly

Back on their haunches

And do nothing

 

But think they think.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Medium Of Augury

Some will 

Tell you your future 

By reading your palm, 

Others by perusing 

The intricate 

Patterns left in the dregs 

Of a demitasse that has been 

Turned upside-down 

And righted again, still 

Others will insist 

On a close examination 

Of the entrails 

Of some slaughtered 

Hapless animal, but whatever 

Your choice choose wisely, 

And with plenty of foresight,

As you have only one life to lose— 

Don’t waste it. 

 

 

 

 

Well-Addressed Aporia Of The Disenchanted Man

Bah, absolute 

Humbug I say—why 

Do we call it 

 

A brand-new day 

When there’s nothing 

New under the sun,

 

And hand-me-down

Habits continue 

To wear us away?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ossuary Dust

For those grief-stricken 

To the marrow, black is 

 

Never black enough, white 

Has to be washed clean 

 

To the bone, ashes are 

Best left alone.