This cracks me up

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Are you kidding me?

This could shock me into writing a political poem. Maybe not. I'm actually at a loss for words. Picture a gape-mouthed fish. That's me. What's wrong with people?

Procrastination?

Guilty.

At risk of being eaten by a bear,
I'd like to share
this quiz I found somewhere.
Oy.

I know I should be telling you that I'm A rubai - but perhaps some other time. It sounds like work, and anyway, it's late - Unless I sleep, I'll be too tired to rhyme. Besides, there's plates to clear and cups to clink, And when that's done I have to sit and think, Since then it won't be long before I need To sleep again and eat again and drink. What Poetry Form Are You?

Alternatively, my form is blank verse. We won't go there today. Lucky you.

In Spired (A Found Poem)

Welcome.

I hope we see your critiques.
The other would like three.

We aren't actually counting.

As to this poem,
free verse is playing rings of life.
For this piece to stand on its own,
think of it as just itself
written as such.
Overlapping the voices,
It appears. There are elements
of the absurd here.

You may wish to explore.

When I have more time
to consider this piece,

I may return.

Dear Richard

There are still Thursdays
and poems
and me.
Sometimes we collide.

Apnea

Whatever you've come here to get,
forget it. The muses sleep and dream
of bygone lines, of dusty words,
and of the men who chased them.
Ink drops, smears, dries on the page
while you hold your breath.

Trophies

You tell me
I once appreciated
the taste of wild meat--

that I never curled my nose
away from venison, rabbit,
pheasant or squirrel,

but all I remember is rotting

fish skulls nailed to a tree,
bluebottle flies buzzing
near buckets of legless frogs,
piles of bony rodent feet,
and the stench of wet
feathers and blood.

You tell me
I once appreciated
the taste of wild meat,

and I know you must miss
that bright-eyed girl--

the tiny child who begged
"More rat, Daddy. More rat!"
always smiled and giggled
as you filled her plate.

Time Twist (a paradelle)

I am the audience who listens and laughs.
I am the audience who listens and laughs.
I am the clown who visits your dreams.
I am the clown who visits your dreams.

Who listens and laughs? The clown, I am.
Who visits the audience? I am your dreams.
Hell is a question that's not what it seems.
Hell is a question that's not what it seems.

Up is a downer that huffs and puffs.
Up is a downer that huffs and puffs.
It seems Hell huffs and puffs. That is a downer.
Up? That's a question. Not what is.

Time is a number. A fish hook, it twists.
Time is a number. A fish hook, it twists.
Sleep is a tunnel. Like death, it looms.
Sleep is a tunnel. Like death, it looms.

A fish is a hook. It looms like sleep.
Death is a number. It tunnel-twists time.
The clown, I am, who huffs and puffs dreams.
I am your question that's not, it seems.

A fish is a sleep number who visits Hell.
The audience laughs like that is a downer.
Death is a hook. It looms up a tunnel.
Time, it listens and twists what is.


***The paradelle form is a parody of the villanelle. It was created by Billy Collins.

My Ignorance

My ignorance is amazing.
I could fill this page, a book,
a shelf, this room, this house
with all I do not know.
My ignorance is enormous.
Isn't it astounding how it fits
so neatly in such a tiny brain
wedged inside this swollen head.

Disposable Thoughts

With a flick of my Bic, your butt
and the grasslands are disposable,
like diapers, batteries,
paper plates and Dixie cups,
like paper napkins, tampons,
newspapers and butter tubs.
We are cameras
and cell phones.
I thought to call you.
I have your number, but I lost your name
in a Christmas card.
Disposable: trees, wrapping paper
and dead rappers. Tupac.
I never listened to his music, anyway.
Like vinyl records, we are albums. LP.
We are gas.
With a flick of a Bic, we are disposable.
Old maps, postcards,
we are a dozen dried up roses.
We are daylilies
and plastic razors.
We are sandwich bags.

Loopity Loops

When Jesus Christ came upon the Earth,
you killed Him. The son of your own God.
And only after He was dead did you worship Him
and start killing those who would not. -- Tecumseh

Fire, cancer, home invasions, politicians
on mad horses--yellow gods. Humdingers.
Have you ever seen the rain? Blue on blue.
Daffodils. Daisies. Dodder. Gadzooks!
Win the lottery. Never clean house.
Perfect figure. Perfect health.
One day you must have learned cursive.
Q like two. S like a backwards treble clef.
Now, insert kazoo and blow. Just as I am.

Trickster

I can't pretend to understand
what strange passion compels
your lonely midnight vigils
near the ripe corpse
of a slaughtered hog.

Does hunger
(or curiosity)
lure coyote
to his death?

I can't pretend to understand
the trickster's glory;
but, on my ears I wear your gift--
ivory canines set in silver.
Perhaps their whispers will explain.

I've Never

I've never been to Nebraska.
I've never built a bomb.
I've never swam the Atlantic
or drank a rabbit's blood.
There's a lot I haven't done.
I've never jumped off a roof.
I've never kissed a pig
or slept with Winnie the Pooh
or learned the Watusi.
I've never worn a fez or taj
or wrapped myself in silk.
I've never bathed a camel
or eaten a poison mushroom.
I've never met Willie Nelson
or felt the urge to tango.
I've never liked pea soup.
I've never been to Iraq
or walked along the equator.
I've never run off with the circus
or camped in the Petrified Forest.
I've never joined the ACLU,
nor have I ever needed a shiv.
I've never been to a powwow
or seen 'possums having sex.
I've never visited New Jersey
or written a poem that ends with Z.

Really, I haven't.

Inspiration

I wish I could end this
Nagging dread, send this
Soul-sucking apathy packing,
Pick up a pen, and piss
Inspired words across the page.
Retched poetry is a sloppy kiss,
Aversion therapy, dying bliss.
There must be something
Inspirational, something good
Out there waiting for me, but
Nothing comes to mind.

Deep-dyed Blue

Momma was born with frown lines,
and Gramma cried for eighty years;
so, even if you drench me
with a thousand brilliant smiles,
I'll never be anything
but deep-dyed blue.

Labor Day

Saltwater taffy days end in September.
Part-time carnies pack up their wits,
wheels, and stuffed tabby cats,
and the clowns stow their smiles,
while nervous teens trade rollercoaster screams
and fireworks for study hall, chalk dust,
and twelve days of Christmas.

Best of Show at the County Fair

Diesel fuel, dust-tinged phlegm,
barbecue at 10 a.m.,
seed corn, cows, green John Deere,
pig crap and rabbit fur
delight the red-naped cropper.
Another showstopper,
each brand-new blue ribbon
is good enough reason
to cock-crow victory
and dance rockabilly.

The Lady of Orange

I have always loved The Lady of Orange,
the aunt whose only continuity
(other than the ever-present
tangerine tint on her lips and nails)
is her inconsistency.

As unpredictable and effective
as Death's whim, her moods--
raucous, raunchy, tender,
somber, playful, and vile--
shift and strike unannounced.

Husbands and lovers,
grudges and favors,
wives' tales and truths--
she collects and discards
with equal abandon.

Like a nomad (claiming gypsy blood),
fleeing landlords and boredom,
she uproots her small clan
to move from house to house--
and sometimes back again.

She fabricates creepy tales
of witches, vampires,
demons and ghosts--
not to terrify family or friends,
but to bluff reality's intimidations.

Years ago, as a teenager
in her domain, I was liberated--
free to smoke or drink
and even rendevous with lovers,
often men of her acquaintance.

More recently, during a dark moment's reverie,
she asked me if I blamed her for my problems.
Surprised, I answered quite honestly--no.
I still wonder why she claimed the guilt.
I have always loved The Lady of Orange.

Water

I guzzle cool, clean drinking water.
In my glass I see shrinking water.

Sweet bubbles--the happy spring's dancing.
Downstream, dead cows rot--stinking water.

Maybe we'll have a long, wet winter.
Please, don't come inside tracking water.

I spend every day sipping coffee.
I spend all my nights making water.

The bathroom sink sat unused for years.
Today it started leaking water.

Some study chicken guts for answers.
They might as well be asking water.

Remember, Agnes, nothing matters.
Don't waste your lifetime blinking water.

Red Lies War

The morning dust
releases what lies ahead. The tide turns
in a flow of black on white. Lies, all lies.
The morning news rests upon her breast
exposing what they won. Half-truths
lie in the east. No Red or Blue
envisioned an America where everyone
awakes intent on what lies behind,
what lies before, what lies within.
The warning sky lies in her eyes.
Morning is too long. Not that it matters.
Sorted and bagged, I am the root.
Temptation wears a crimson cape.
The morning news is black and white,
but there's red all over.