Tenterhooked

It is the curse of
artists and poets
to be driven
beyond reason
by some
unseen force, to be
helplessly coerced
into attempting to contain
the very essence of
nature and the gods themselves
in tightly laced straitjackets
of lines and rhymes, to stop time
and twist the formless into
crude word forms.
Words!
To think that
my poor language
could contain
the majesty
of what my eyes see,
that they could convey
the power of my dreams,
that the absurdity of
“green”
could grasp the
heart of Spring!
It is madness
but I must try.
The relentless
fire inside
me rises
and must be
freed
lest it
consume me.
No, there is
no hope
for poets –
we are not
our own

Flight of Fancy

There was a swing at the park. Long, heavy chains, worn plank seat, a rutted gouge in the earth from a thousand dreams hastily halted by the call to dinner, and wrapped in October I would swing, fearless, the chain rattling and yielding as I willed myself higher and higher and I would have flown away if I could. The youthful sky begged me to come, to join the birds, I know it did. I saw its outstretched arms, the sun smiling encouragement at the apex of every heavenward thrust. But my wings never grew. That swing was as close as I’ve ever been.

Taste of Irony

Never a dull moment, or so some
easily excitable soul opined,
but no shortage of dull people
leading dull lives, dull eyed
under the dull gray skies
of their dullified, tired minds –
casting the veracity of
the first assertion
into doubt.
I’ll watch TV tonight
(like I always do),
and drink some wine
and perhaps the answer
to this mystery will
be revealed to me.

Funny Bone

I am touched by the
outpourings of concern for the
potency of my penis
that propagate in my
junk
file,
but these missives
are positing
a creeping paranoia
over my performance.
The offers are
premature,
I am not –
yet,
but their
crystal balls
see a safe bet
and they won’t curtail
their advances,
waiting for their
chance,
that fateful day
when I awake
forlorn,
limp, and
looking
to get things
cooking again

Birdbrain

There’s a finch
with a rusty red chest
carefully clinging
to the spinning,
wind-driven
feeder on
the deck,
an avian
amusement ride
providing
safflower
and thrills
for young birds
new in town,
eager to eat
and play around,
shrugging the
last of the cold
from tiny shoulders
in a gleeful
cacophony of
carefree chirping
and when the
sun sets,
they will sleep –
for that is all
they care to know.
I should be so, too,
but no,
I have such
thinking to think!
Much ado
about nothing.

Last Sunday of April

The last
gasping
breath
of ruthless winter
buffets the newborn leaves
of our long suffering mother maple.
Two summers ago
she lost a limb
to a villainous
summer wind
and now this.
Callous, bruising slaps
twist and turn her tender green cheeks
of unfurling life, the brutality of the
last vestige of cold as it rushes east,
raging at its forced exile,
without compassion,
lashing out to defile
the warmth of its
seasonal usurper.
To all of this
the robins
bear witness
and still
they sing –
as if it
means nothing.

Reaper

Too much idle time
attacks the mind
with endless realization
that you will die,
contemplating the how,
when, and why
you try
healthy eating
and exercise,
pumping nutrition
into the
big fat lie
you’re growing,
the one where
you survive
this crazy ride
unlike all the
others who tried.
The wise wrap
themselves tightly
in life,
passionately gliding
through busy days
until death is nothing
more than an
unexpected surprise

Brushstroke

What beauty
greater known
than a cardinal
midst the snow,
a point of grace
on cedar’s bough,
a crimson cloak
nature endowed,
quickly seen
then gone again
but the vision
lingers, and reigns
as hope, strong,
for he will return
ere-long

Wall Street

The city’s wallet
reeks of
illicit orgasms
squeezed in on
the way home to the
wife and kids
but the suit
that sits
on its shoulders
is golden,
integrity
folded
into crisp
pocket squares,
a daring
display of
patrician
plumage
that fools
too many as they
are shuffled toward
a mythical
land of plenty,
fattened calves
for the
gentry

Gangsta Word Nerd

I could crush you
with my poetry,
trust me,
but I’m too
lazy,
pissing away
my gift
on red wine
and Netflix,
no time
for sublime
words and
rhymes that
would leave
you blind,
my mind
far past
the sad
missives
of the masses –
behold this power
scratched out
in a quarter
of an hour!
DJ,
gimme a
beat,
all the
pretenders
retreat,
I’m the OG
on this street,
if you are careless
you will bleed