Poems

she's a little verklempt
in this painting by Klimt
an attempt to preempt
to avoid being crimped
but stays silent -- been told
that her tears are pure gold

Author notes: art by Klimt

His rhyming now ambitionless and lazy.
Alliterations literate but stale.
The metaphors more Lucas than Scorsese;
they're hooking neither Jonah nor the whale.
Clichés abound in sentence after sentence,
no letup in the roses that are red,
nor any sign of penance or repentance
for sentences that struggle to be read.
And yet I sense some hints of former glory,
in brief though somewhat reticent refrains.
A hint that there's a bit more to his story,
a bit that, despite everything, remains,
refusing to surrender or to die.
Who is this poet? To be sure, not I.

What's left, then, for a poet, when all meaning
is squeezed, wrung out from adjective and verb,
the simplest of sentences needs gleaning,
and metaphors, if anything, disturb?
When words had ceased to serve their proper sentence
and punctuation rarely gives a pause,
vain adverbs fail to sanctify repentance
and participles, partial to applause,
forsake -- indeed abandon rhyme and reason,
relying on the maudlin of free verse.
Should meaning manage to come back in season,
and bring with it -- both blessing and a curse,
ability to recognize a poem,
we'd best be ready to pretend we know 'em.

the sunset, fire in the distance
the ocean swallowing its flame
a lighthouse blinks into existence
to signal sailors that lay claim
to these unmapped, uncharted waters
and keep them safe from Neptune's daughters

Author notes: artwork from facebook

caught in vivid pastels, rooftops vie for the sun
bnbees and hotels carve their slots having won
just a bit of the land on the cobblestone street
stay with me, they demand, take a load off those feet

Author notes: image from Facebook

The air is cold and grey, the morning bleak.
Your breath escapes, condensing into steam.
A trail of salty water on your cheek.
Inexorable crushing of a dream,
or just a gust of wind against raw skin?
Wind finds its way through every nook and fold,
attempting to subdue you, to get in,
to freeze your innards; to declare: you're old!
What business have you here among the pines,
here in the land of icicle and snow
which nature shapes in intricate designs,
where man has yet to rule or overthrow,
but soon will learn the earth exacts a price
for winning when the game is on thin ice.

Had Romeo and Juliet eloped
we'd never know this tale of star crossed lovers.
By killing all his darlings Shakespeare hoped
each generation reads it and discovers
the Montagues and Capulets anew,
and weeps over their sorry tale of woe.
We'd wonder if our love is just as true
as that of Juliet and Romeo.
But Shakespeare did not deal with focus groups,
though possibly a run in with a censor
might force the playwright, going through their hoops,
to skew the storyline or make it denser,
and write it as a comedy instead.
Like Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead.

was Passover taken offline

Like Tantalus, whose thirst cannot be sated,
I hunger for each rough, each clumsy touch,
a hunger that can never be abated.
Compulsion eases slightly as I clutch
your body in its snakelike, fluid motion,
then floods back in as soon as you release.
A coupling devoid of all emotion,
where pleasure comes from swallowing your pleas
to please, please feel, please join me as we tremble,
indulge in sacred fetishes and hurts,
then let me put together, reassemble,
the me that redefines and reasserts
those parts that are still mine, that I still own.
Together but as always, all alone.

some rains are a shower to wake up the earth
and sate every flower and seed their rebirth
some signal a season to hear children sing
some rain for no reason except it is spring
some remain unexplained, some we've yet to discover
and some are a maiden -- she waits for her lover

Author notes: photo from facebook

for President Trump
to get over the hump
must stay out of jail
which his Court will avail

for President Biden
everything's ridin'
on prices of gas
which he also has

for sad RFK
who jumped in the fray
on the strength of his genes
really hates those vaccines

for Kamala Harris
Olympics in Paris
a horse by committee
and that is a pity

and as for Tim Walz
does he have the balls
but Democrats wager
on this minor major

and last for JD
the new Zebedee
in hell or in Hades
stop talking cat ladies

No elephants or tigers at the circus.
No death defying tamers with long whips.
When was it that the circus lost its purpose,
its maximus, the coarseness that equips
the spectator with calluses and ridges,
inuring to the brutal and the cruel?

Now gluten free, though lacking roads and bridges,
and just as well, look at the price of fuel,
we've missed the sly, insidious transition
that put us at the center of the stage,
perform as best you can in that position.
The safe, and barely noticeable cage
is really only there for your protection.

They'll let you out in time for the election.