Timeless Cycladic Artistry

Before you can finish 

Sipping your morning demitasse 

Of bitter black coffee, 

 

Frail-framed, black- 

Robed middle-aged 

Woman wielding blue 

 

Long-handled brush 

Finishes off weathered, 

Grey churchyard wall 

 

With blinding whitewash 

In what looks like 

No time at all. 

 

 

 

 

 

First Futile Attempt At Solving The Mystery Of Lost Youth

Of course you admit right off 

There’s not much left 

 

To go on, even though you insist 

On following each telltale lead, 

 

As one after the other springs up before you 

There on a pogo stick, only to disappear 

 

Furtively into the oscillating distance, a lot— 

No, too much like your favorite slinky.

 

 

 

Thingamajig, If You Please

Oh, dear 

Whatever 

 

Just has to be 

The perfect mot 

 

Valise one needs 

To get a grip on life 

 

These days, so long 

As you keep it 

 

Close at hand to throw 

Out whenever 

 

You think you know exactly 

What the long haul requires, 

 

Duckies. 

 

 

 

Eternally Besieged Babbling Pearlies

Constant that sound 

Ringing unsound within 

 

The walls; outside still 

No sign of the next 

 

Round of jaw-crushing 

Swine rushing 

 

Tottering rusty gates again.

 

Yonder Captives Clearly Out Of Their Element

“I want to paint 

The way a bird sings.” 

—C. Monet 

 

Easier said than done, 

Claude, but at least it seems 

You had an inkling of how 

 

Helpless poets can feel 

Whenever their words keep 

Hightailing it into that too 

 

Familiar wild blue wonder 

More often than not— 

And would you know it?—

 

Seldom looking back.