Clueful

Debate

A conflict settled
by debate, away
will rise in appeal
some other day.

A Hybrid of Life and Death

The disease will not settle
for medicine, nor will the
remedy quarter the disease
doctor bills, they are piling up
a shot of whiskey, please.

Continuance

Things appear
to die, and I appear
to keep living
the welders are in dry dock
assembling the hulls
of sunken ships
at what point in the
figure eight of continuance
can one say end, or begin
at all points
amazing, how gracious
how sweet it is.

Clueful

I’m feeling clueful
today, little hints peeking
out from under bushes
the neighborhood jingling
like a phone full of urgent texts
bits of the crux of all matters
sparkling here and there
like gems tossed out
over beach sand.

Epitaph

Long in the hair and
gray in the tooth
he learned how to dodder
then he died, forsooth.

Pray (sol dep)

In the six regions
throughout the three times
under the one sky
peaceful, happy.


An incoherent notebook-dump from October 2018

Blue Plate Special

a poem should be written
on a whim, in the dark
its meaning a puzzle
its purpose a lark

assertions, like tires
should be poked with an awl
erudition abandoned
it’s not needed at all

extruded ideas
so much pasta, all carbs
an early-bird special
no spices, no barbs

rote and pedantic
sanitized and deburred
screw that, draw your daggers
have quarrels with words

make inanities dance
to a literal din
as many as will fit
on the head of a pin

when done it should lunge
at your throat off the page
in a cheeky, precipitous
perpendicular rage

or at least make us laugh
at ideas we hold dear
or confront the hobgoblins
of truth that we fear

if not, set some meta
to meter and rhyme, like
a bore, argue theories
per dozen, a dime

Damn Smart Hamster

Dizzy on the roundabout
We busy bodies raise a cheer
Tomorrow always comes, but never
Comes precisely in the way
We thought it would, now let us pray

When the next thing beckons
Say you wait a tick, hold on
The thing that came before has yet
Been done, or even well begun
So up again and at it, son

This time it won’t be at all
Like all the other times
You’ll see, the glory’s mine
Before I die I’ll make my mark
Get on it soon, the falling dark

Too much on your hands this
Stuff, this passing thing
This time, this beating wing
Not enough at hand, but wait
More coming, knocking at the gate

Footfall one upon the other
Look about, what do you see
No minister of fate, a
Damn smart hamster on a wheel
Keep it spinning, that’s the deal

Damn Smart Hamster first appeared in this blog on September 4th, 2016.

Merrily, Merrily

a scattered bit of happiness
little folded-paper boats
origami motes in aimless breezes
on ocean rooftops, float

the water surface tension, holds
above the deep, a membrane coat
supports in careless-seeming splendor
little folded-paper boats

Forever and a Day

if the Lord had given me
forever and a day
I’d squander the infinity
and then sweat it for a day

but if the Lord had given me
enough of time to do
what needs be done in this short life
I’d screw that all up too

and if the Lord gave me a tick
to simply sit and be
I’d wonder what to be like
while I rubbed my rheumy knee

the truth is we can’t count the days
that haven’t yet arrived
and lay to waste the ones that have
in strategies contrived

from this day on I do commit
to live life off the clock
for time is an illusion
boss, we need to have a talk


This bit is in response to my favorite rhyme & meter guy, Frank Solanki. His poem Sunday Comes Too Early is my kind of stuff.

Silverfish

You seem to have it in for me
and by my life, from you I flee.

Now I know I give you fits
because I chew your books to bits.

And eat them do I ever, man
the cloth and paper, leather tan.

It’s food to me, these tomes you love
that in my hungry mouth I shove.

How is it you can sit and look
for hours at a tasty book?

It’s three A.M. and still you read
please hurry, I’ve got kids to feed.

Fortune on the Ropes


(best heard in the voice of Tom Waits)

The mother of all hopes, say why
It is the hope that you won’t die

All your other little hopes
And fears of fortune on the ropes

Are you and mama’s little babies
Raised on could be, might be, maybes

Small, defenseless, toddler hope
Together you, in patches, cope

Do not these puny hopes obscure
The big one? Never speak it, sir

Me, oh my.

If there’s an I that I can see
it’s me that sees it, got it? See?
If there’s a you that sees us too
then count us: one, two three.

But if your you has also two
like me and I, one tally more.
That I and me and you and yours
would make it… two, three, four.

My alter-ego checked my math
and says it rather stinks.
We have six personalities,
he says. They’re out for drinks.

Your alter-ego, may I know
the head count please? I’ll wait.
Eleven more and counting? God!
Well, this is bonkers, mate.

I wish the I and me, and you
and yours, and all the others well.
I’m quite perplexed (or is it me?)
and how about you? Do tell.