Απελπισία Ενός Μετρίου Μετρημένου Στοχαστή

 

Από τον κόσμο το ζαβό, 

Μπήκα σε πυθάρι να σωθώ, 

 

Μα γαμώ την γκλάβα μου γαμώ, 

Δεν βγήκα Διγενής θαρρώ. . . . . .

 

Taking Stock Of Your Latest Knockout Poem

 

Once you think 

You have it 

 

Down pat, another audit 

Of its particulars 

 

Finds you don’t 

Recall where it came from, 

 

Nor where you’re at. 

 

 

 

 

Moot: Dead To The Word?

If it’s true, why

 

Are we no longer still 

Stuck in the stillborn stage, 

 

Our eyes wide open, 

Dumbstruck 

 

Before the unfolding bitter- 

Sweet wondrous drama 

 

Of the only world 

We can call 

 

Our own? 

 

 

 

Henry Teel's Punt In A Nutshell

At rest on a sand dune safely 

Above the tide, its prow pointing 

Towards some lanky gesturing 

Grasses slowly moving in 

To encircle it, this weathered 

 

Light blue-grey punt going 

To pieces was once pulled 

Here by a man who soon went 

To the mainland and died there,

But still remains--an apostrophe. 

 

 

 

 

Haiku: Writ

 

How shallow the state 

Of minds that cannot fathom 

 

Pale sheets of grey slate.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Barbed And Wired

Bard, 

There are many things 

One can do that 

Go above and beyond what 

Some of us rather naive 

Romantics like to call 

A poet’s sense of duty— 

 

Straddled high 

And mighty 

On a fence 

Armed with barbs and not 

Knowing who 

To aim for is not 

One of them. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Looks Like Kilroy's Still Here

 

You, over there— 

 

In the space allotted 

It, no matter how

 

Large or small, 

If your life fits,

 

Write it.