Twilight: No Time To Waste

“It is thanks to my evening reading alone

 that I am still more or less sane.” 

 --W.G. Sebald, Vertigo 

 

If this is still indeed 

The case, as it certainly looks 

To be, we must all make haste 

And have our heads examined— 

Preferably more—instead of less. 

 

 

 

Poem Written To Condemn Random Acts Of Poetry Day, October 6th

There should be nothing 

Random (or senseless either), 

About writing poetry— 

 

One should come to it forcefully 

Purposefully, with all their senses 

Intact and if possible,

 

With a hell-bent-for-leather 

Take it or leave it 

Chip-on-the-shoulder attitude,

 

Double daring any wimp who differs 

To just try and knock it off--

Have I made myself clear, dearies?

 

 

 

 

 

At All Costs, Three's A Maddening Crowd

Don't you see?

 

Poets who wager they’re solid 

Solitary figures commuting 

With their souls should take 

A serious look at themselves 

And board the first tram to Bedlam;

 

I did and it worked wonders— 

Now all I have to do is convince you, 

Myself and I--or should that I be me--?

To invest in a return ticket,

But only should all of us agree. 

 

 

 

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.