our love was like a cherry tree
whose flowers fall like snow
through their pink haze we failed to see
as crow by evil crow
took refuge upon every branch
until at last, their murder's stench
each hungry, sharpened beak --
misfortune's what they seek --
until at last, its fruit decayed
the tree now naked and afraid
produced just one more berry
I reach for it, though wary
Author notes: picture by Chiara Bautista
lonely boats out by the pier
wait for someone to appear
to untie the rope that chokes
and to paddle with bold strokes
out there, where the water's deep
come, please, wake them from their sleep
Author notes: image from vineyardgazette.com
I met a traveler from a modern land,
and she's like: "don't you give me any lip!
Lie here -- stay partly covered by the sand.
This picture will remind me of my trip."
Her stylish shades obscure her upper face
but I well know the strength behind that tone.
It's known to pharaohs throughout time and space,
and so I pose with her, a silent stone.
Thus captured, she will send me through the air:
"His name was Ozymandias, King of Kings"
and others will reply: "wish I was there!"
and add "oh, L.O.L, what ARE those things?"
And I'll stay here, refusing to decay.
The sand dunes that preserve stretch far away.
Author notes: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/46565/ozymandias
Could I but draw, I'd sketch you day and night.
I'd capture your sweet cheek line as a peach,
the soaring eyebrows as a bird in flight,
the lips a gentle wave upon the beach.
I'd draw your eyes as rainbows through the dark,
your hair as raven feathers, deepest black.
The smile as lightning, blinding with a spark.
A graceful swan will model for your back.
I'd draw no landscapes and no nature morte,
no flower vases and no setting sun;
no vain cartoons one draws for fun or sport.
I have no need of subjects: I have one.
I cannot draw, but you're on every page.
Still beautiful. Still mine. Still young. I age.
I hunt at night. A harvester of souls
is far too mild a term. I tear out throats.
Don't judge me by mere human mores, roles.
Mine is no simple sowing of wild oats.
Rare are the nights that help me in my hunt.
Some are too cloudy; some are wholly black.
For me there is no satisfying grunt,
unless I see the moonlit victim's back.
Oh, harvest moon, why must you be so rare?
Why must you wait for that time of the year,
when noise from the cicadas fills the air
and pumpkins sit out grinning, ear to ear?
I wouldn't be a werewolf without you.
Come light my kill, I've just begun to chew.
Paris flattered Aphrodite
she was always fond of Trojans
Might have been her sexy nighty:
a debate for theologians
But she made him fast and nimble.
And that tower? Phallic symbol.
Author notes: image from Pinterest
He laughs at me then,
does the man on the moon.
A blood curling laugh:
what, you're leaving so soon?
Dark vapors surrounding his face.
The bats, his sworn servants, give chase.
Author notes: image from tenor.com
an eye for AI
souls into bits and pieces
god in the machine
A free verse poem
is only as good
as the name of its author.
Try this experiment:
Get a recent poem of the week
from a lit. journal.
Then take one from this site,
preferably one that is awash
in crimson and vermillion.
Can you tell the difference?
Perhaps better spelling?
As to Bukowski?
He wrote some really
poetic prose.
He stopped to stare, hard to know when, exactly,
besides perhaps the clothes, a bit outdated.
He stands and others pass, matter-of-factly;
they're city dwellers: no surprise, they're jaded.
What was he looking at, to freeze him solid
dust gathering on iron, stoic, stolid?
A lady with her dog? A bitter rival?
Newspaper boy, out trumpeting arrival of some momentous day?
Well, who's to say, we only know he stands,
lamenting no one, no one understands.
alien galleons
are lighter than air
and much faster than light
practice makes perfect
as the brush traces the form
function will follow
Author notes: image from unsplash.com