Poems

I'd imitate John Donne if I were able.
Let Shakespeare guide my iridescent pen,
and dress my kings in purple robes and sable.
Pose existential questions now and then.

I'd mimic Walter Scott. Love Quentin Durward,
though root for Burgundy over Louis,
and Robin Hood, if that is not too forward.
Dear Ivanhoe: Rebecca, set her free.

What is the point of putting pen to paper,
if I can't plot like Arthur Conan Doyle,
or Edgar Allan Poe -- now that's a caper.
A witch's cauldron slowly brought to boil.

Dumas, oh, I how I worshipped D'artagnan!
No musketeer, I shed a tear. Not Donne.

we swear in despair
to whomever will listen
by all that is holy
and all that is decent
in moments of terror
and raw spontaneity
Faustian bargains
designed for each deity
gum up our minds
as if they're really there
but God is indifferent...
the devil may care

made you look

thundercloud building a tower
air circles, spongy and warm
head bowed, the sullen sunflower
waits out the gathering storm
longs for a look at the sun
though mama said:
careful, son

The clouds obscure the sky. It smells like rain.
Lit by a lazy sun, the daylight scatters
and paints the world dark greys. Their murky reign
appears complete. No other color matters.

The reds, the greens, the blues: how sad their state.
Desaturated, dull, monochromatic.
Resigned, it seems, to their ignoble fate,
they're rescued by a sudden burst of static

as lightning overwhelms the greys' defense.
Ignites the very air, divine creation.
One second to rekindle every sense,
reminding every color of its station.

God's waters break, the sky no longer dark.
Reborn, the colors draw a rainbow arc.

double vision
indecision
doubt, uncertainty
rescission
you're so afraid to lose
still, you have to choose

Author notes: image from lifehacker.com

asking the prostate
to pee, not to pee
as I lie prostrate
oh, what will it be?

questions like this
occupy those of age
no, not existential
but am I a sage?

I find as years pass
can it only get worse?
Wife says don't be an ass
can you get off your horse?

Did you finish the tasks
on the honey do list?
I must do as she asks,
do I really exist?

I think therefore I am
as Descartes had surmised
and so I say yes ma'am
why are you so surprised?

as the man on the moon
surveys lands down below
knows his reign will end soon
as the sun steals his glow
can't help but reminisce
memory's just a kiss

Author notes: image from pinterest

he's no angel or Zeus
this young leader in flight
no, he's merely a goose
but the wind brings delight
so he chases the moon
here's hope catches it soon

Author notes: image from pinterest

Firecracker ignited, the sparkles soon fly.
Bright and lustrous, excited, they take to the sky.
Each seeks proper position and height.
And the Goddess' name? She is Night.

Author notes: image from Pinterest

Why would the wise require any words?
Such wisdom is required by the silly.
The sheeple, as they gather in their herds,
meandering through pastures, willy-nilly,

yeah, they could use a word, tell it to them.
And leave the wise to their informed devices.
The dumb, though, they could use help in a jam.
They're always lurching into some grave crisis.

Henceforward, I shall say: word to the fool,
and this way, no one has to pay attention,
and everyone's the wiser. What a rule,
and I'm avoiding causing any tension.

Advise, it seems, is rarely sought or wanted.
Although a few insist, remain undaunted.

on some summer nights
the moon is a stark haiku
the poet unknown