pretty soon
pretty soon
pretty soon
now
tomorrow always comes
I’ll give it that
I’ll give it that
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Monthly Archives: April 2017
Amber
The immense still heat trapped the day like amber:
seeped into the lodgepoles and the ponderosas,
immobilized the blue air, hovered over the lake
that dispatched idle waves to lap the sand.
The taste of coffee lingering in my mouth, on my hand
the smell of you, dust smell rising from the path.
It was the hottest summer on record.
The sun made idle progress of shadows
across the path; the taste of dust lingered in the air,
the grasshoppers’ shrill shirr-shirr-shirr hung
heavy in the heat, neverending.
Where was I in all of this? I was the footprint
trod beneath the lodgepole pine, the dazzled wave
sacrificed to beachsand, the grasshopper
immobilized by heat somewhere in dry grass,
invisible, as that great endless summer
lingered like the smell of you, the taste of you
through that hot hot day.
Often in Error, Never in Doubt
John Skelton
put his hat of felt on
put his pants and belt on
and his shoes of leather
meet for any weather.
His outfit put together
no hesitation whether
he should go outside—
Aye! I shall! He cried!
And with furious stride
went out through the wide
open front door.
Never yet before
had traveler set out
with fewer pangs of doubt
and such a shout!
I viewed a knight errant; he was
I viewed a knight errant; he was
dressed in humble garb; he
knelt gingerly upon the sidewalk
avoiding cracks and mumbling
as if in holy contemplation;
a mantle of plastic wrap
he clenched about his shoulders
like a favor, a sturdy buckler
of greasy cardboard
pinned between his elbow and
ribcage (on the left side
where he keeps his heart);
his shoes sprung but serviceable;
his equipage stowed in ample pockets.
From the bent of his spine
and his questing gaze
I guessed he was seeking
a suitable weapon
and a world worthy of his service.
English Assignment
I misdropped the dictionary
I misdropped the dictionary
From the high topwobblest shelf
Now all the words are scatterfied
I’m absofoof beside myself
I simply known’t what to do
About this diffish puzzlication
It’s almost too incomprehandle
Such a mixcombobulation!
everything in between
Yesterday the world
was made of grief
same way the sea
is made of tears.
I knew it wasn’t
the same stuff
just couldn’t tell
one from the other.
Today as usual
the world is made of
everything in between
heaven and hell
the way it’s
supposed to be but
I still can’t tell
one from the other.
The Lives of the Poets
Ogden Nash
As a poet was brash
His lines rushed out in a lengthy and seemingly unstoppable torrent
And his rhymes were abhorrent.
Ezra Pound
Wrote verse difficult and profound
The fact that even he couldn’t figure it out
Should suffice to remove any doubt.
Edward Lear
Was rather queer.
But of course, the word had a different meaning back then
So instead, one should simply say that he preferred men.
Edmund Clerihew Bentley
Died discontently
Aware that decent rhymes for Clerihew
Are, alas, very few.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Was heard on occasion to say
That only the author of Euclid’s Elements
Had ever seen Beauty without habiliments.
The Monday subway station’s
The Monday subway station’s
full of faces
fair as flowers
– See!
Then the rush, the push,
the train’s electric flexing
the shut doors’ hush
the deliberate departure
and upon the vacant station
silence settles:
the bough stripped of its petals
I heard of a girl who told
I heard of a girl who told that she was haunted by her father
even when he was still alive
she was a Lesbian and lived in Berlin
back when you’d still capitalize Lesbian
like there was a homeland you’d visit some day
she’d let you know her father had more than one quirk
That man’s name goes in a drawer, was a thing he’d say
I heard she told that her father was unforgiving
unforgiving like God, that kind of unforgiving
I heard she was the kind who stayed careful always
not to allow love to overcome
respect for distance
and recognized that after all people, they are dangerous
even if they never act, even if they smile
and that you’ll never know everything wrong with the world
That man’s name goes in a drawer, her father would say
not to beat around the bush
I heard after her father pulled the trigger
they opened the drawer, sure enough it was full of names
I heard that was always the end of her story
but I believe it must have left her to wonder
what else that her father had said was going to come true
That man’s name goes in a drawer, that’s what he used to say
Bag of Anything 