Poems

Recite the Seven Wonders of the World
demanded my peculiar professor,
as if they were a list to be unfurled.
Are any of these wonders greater, lesser,
depending on their placement in our lists?
Atop it, the Great Pyramid of Giza,
the wonder that continues, that persists,
and is it any wonder when there is a
pronounced lack of existence for the rest?
Perhaps I should examine them in order
and see if one would qualify as best.
Let history, that wonder-full recorder,
direct me to an answer, if there's one.
Recounting each, in turn, until I'm done.

Recounting each, in turn, until I'm done,
I move on to the gardens. How's it hanging?
It doesn't, huh? The pride of Babylon,
by all accounts, magnificent and banging,
is missing. There are some who even claim
they weren't ever there: Nebuchadnezzar
had built them, or Senachreb, all the same.
(For who can name the name of each successor?)
The gardens, later swallowed by the sands,
and drifting, oh so slowly, into legend,
so now, when Wikipedia demands
a picture of a bush to trim and hedge, and
it cannot even find one, much less two…
The gardens have their fans, but they are few.

The gardens have their fans, but they are few.
What of the pride of Ephesus, the temple
to Artemis, the virgin goddess who
routinely magicked those who'd try to sample
her charms into an amply antlered deer?
Aside from its sheer size (we're talking Turkey),
its claims to fame remain a bit unclear,
and virgin status altogether murky,
as Isis, also worshipped at the site,
was meant to grant fertility and healing.
Size matters, though: it must have been some sight,
the ratios mathematically appealing.
Rebuilt, and more than once, but count 'em, three,
its safely on the list, we all agree.

Its safely on the list, we all agree,
and usually placed right next to Zeus,
whose statue, I could almost guarantee,
(from renderings on coins, which left us clues)
was something of a wonder to behold.
Pure ivory and gold, chryselphantine,
by Phidias of Athens, I've been told
So tall that it is said whoever's been
to see it, thought, should Zeus decide to stand,
(the king of gods was seated on a throne)
he'll lift the very roof. The sculptor planned
to awe his audience. Their deus shone
like no Olympian had shone before.
The better to admire and adore.

The better to admire and adore.
Since adoration is what rulers crave,
in life, and even after they're no more,
the man who coined the term for "fancy grave"
must surely be discussed. He's Mausulus.
No pharaoh, nor an emperor, and yet,
the tomb he'd built himself: ridiculous.
The scale of it ensured we won't forget
about him, although he is barely known,
this ancient satrap. Was he really missed?
He died, just like the rest of us, alone,
but nonetheless did make it on the list.
So what can one conclude for number five?
Dead, Mausulus was worth more than alive.

Dead, Mausulus was worth more than alive.
That couldn't have been said of Alexander.
The man had such enthusiasm and drive,
a wonder he had not wound up down under,
in conquering the world that we once knew
(that "we" above our "royal", Western asses)
Had he but lived, he might have followed through
and gathered the appeal of untold masses
from the Atlantic to the China Sea.
Eponymous, his cities, 'cross the planet.
A lighthouse made for everyone to see,
in Alexandria, from quarried granite,
must therefore make the list at number six.
We're nearly done, so let's review our picks!

We're nearly done, so let's review our picks!
The pyramids, the gardens, and the temple.
The statues and the segways to the Styx,
and Alexander, leading by example.
A lighthouse in the aforementioned city,
so tall, you would have seen it from the roads
to Karnak. It's long gone, and more's the pity.
To rival it, the gentle folk in Rhodes,
they built one of their own. No gentle giant,
a model for our Liberty, to boot,
it stood above the bay, lit up, defiant,
but ended up as plunder, prize and loot.
The lighthouse over Rhodes comes in at seven.
Oh mercy, I'm so glad there's not eleven.


Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

So practiced in the art of self-deception
that mirrors feel no further need to lie.
The mind performs the trick, then takes exception
when shown a photo selfie that gets by
the brain's embedded filter. I look… beaten.
When did I get so derelict, so frail?
Why can't my vision sugarcoat and sweeten
this captured graven image? Does it fail
because it somehow knows the real story,
or does the mirror know some magic trick,
some unsuspected method to say sorry,
you cannot see this, lays it on so thick
you're shocked when forced to see the real you.
Turns out it's hardest to thine self be true.


Author notes: image generated by author prompt to GPT

My muse resides in a museum,
trapped in a painting, as a nude.
The one next to the Colosseum,
yeah, that one. She is shown pursued
by young Apollo, horny bastard.
A Rubens, but before he mastered
some of his skills. At any rate,
they say she's somewhat overweight.
It was a time before Ozempic,
and muses seeking to indulge
would lose the battle of the bulge,
but that's a battle he let them pick.
Who? Rubens. Captor of my muse.
A lady who refused to lose.


Author notes: image generated by author prompt to ChatGPT

A cemetery of abandoned plots,
unfinished poems, stillborn compositions.
Self-centered daffodils, forget-me-nots,
a stichwort stichwork, shriveling ambitions,

all swaying in a gentle autumn breeze.
No storms here, those have long ago diminished,
and vision bends along, with practiced ease:
Why fight if you already know you're finished?

Strike lightning! I demand. And thunder loud!
Let headstones bathe in sharp, chromatic colors
as sunshine penetrates the permacloud,
a mourning dove takes off, a raven hollers…

Demand… Or beg. Refuses to comply.
Best learn to crawl... Forgotten how to fly.


Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

Committed to a sonneterium.
Reduced to limericks, haikus, and puns,
with neither Rogers nor a Merriam,
nor Webster to consult, I feel a dunce,

unable to compose a single verse
without resorting to pedestrian
line endings, though I’m not at all averse
to an occasional equestrian,

but not in sonnets, well, unless the goal
was all along a stanza on the birth
of a well-bred, thus consequential, foal,
one not as yet accustomed to its girth,

then I might use equestrian to fit,
and judge the sonnet, with its use, complete.


Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini

Here's my list of Christmas wishes:
Robot, you will do the dishes,
and while I remain a bard
do some work on the backyard:

Leaves need blowing, overflowing
grass obscured, no longer showing
Logs need splitting, time permitting,
while I write my poems, sitting.

Also, too late for the turkey,
long ago reduced to jerky
but the Christmas table ham
cooked, while I read Sam I am

would be perfect. Inspiration,
two-thirds, they say, perspiration,
I'm concerned, however clever,
Robot won't help the endeavor,

and I might be forced to labor,
or worse yet, to greet a neighbor.
Compare selfies, sing, and carol,
ugly sweater, my apparel…

Unacceptable, I tell you.
So dear Robot, I compel you,
yes, dear Robot, set me free.

Too bad, Robot, you are me.


Author notes: image generated by author prompt to GPT