Unwritten Poem

I didn’t write my poem today.

It was cold,
but I was out on my writing porch, inadequately dressed;

now back inside, but I’m regretting
not writing that poem.
What was it that distracted me?

I guess it was my Facebook
business, fussing
about the stuff I did yesterday—

especially that fiddler’s dance collaboration with Lorriann,
like moonlit strings on the sea
my fiddler be lookin’ for thee

Mike Pence

Mike Pence won’t let himself be alone with a woman.
His reluctance is pretty virtuous, right?

Why doesn’t Karen kill him?

You and I might think lust only human,

but Mike Pence is on his honor bright

never to let himself be alone with a woman.

When you are a young professional woman,

one day you might have to walk across Mike's gun sites.

Why doesn’t Karen kill him?

Under those circumstances, it’s only human

to feel that you are drowning in the floodlights,

but Mike Pence won’t let himself be alone with a woman,

so you are spared the embarrassment, lucky woman!

Except that you’re forbidden to enter the daylight!!!

Why doesn’t Karen kill him?

It amounts to not being allowed to be human,

so that some creepy man won’t have to feel contrite—

namely, Mike Pence, who won’t let himself be alone with a woman.

Why doesn’t Karen kill him?

My Working Space

A poet may have a mythology about their working space,

outer vantage from which to view their inner world—
my back porch, in my case.

Like Stone House in his mountain hermitage—that place
visited by Red Pine, where the tiger purred.
A poet may have a mythology about their working space.

It might be wherever the poet can sit and face
existence, while they assemble words—
my back porch, in my case.

Feeling fairly safe from the police—
cold, late September, I’m curled
up in my blue bathrobe in my working space,

and I’m hearing a voice,
but I think it must be the neighbor’s radio—words
jabbered in my ears. But in case

you want to visualize, I’m wearing my chipmunk fleece,
and the Rose of Battle has their flap unfurled—
ancient myths jousting in the working space—
my back porch, in my case.

Villanelle

What’s the meaning of villanelle?
A villain’s a rustic, a slob, a yokel.
My villanelle’s a town belle.

Jean lost his tourterelle,
his cooing dove, his chick, his turtle.
That’s the meaning of villanelle.

You tell me I’m courting hell,
my rhymes more than a mite disgraceful.
But my villanelle’s a town belle.

You say, “I need a tylenol!
“You’re rhythmin’ like a mother-fucker!
“That’s not what I call a villanelle!”

What did you expect, do tell?
I ain’t gonna quit this ice cream social.
My villanelle’s a town bell.

Let’s see how rude a zinfandel
can be when you’re drinking local,
the true meaning of villanelle!
My villanelle’s a town belle.

Counting Feet

I’m sitting here trying to count my poem’s feet,

each stepping with a nifty sharp accent.
How can I make sure my poem’s not a centipede?

Well, each foot should have a certain beat
that makes it amenable to measurement.
I’m sitting here counting my poem’s feet.

It’s kind of like when I listen to my heart—
I can hear plain signals, long or short of count,
but I don’t want it to spaz out like a centipede,

some of whose clickety feet might clack quite sweet-
ly if I could slow them to the right wave length.
I’m sitting here particularizing my poem’s feet.

One thing my feet won’t beat is a retreat
when my heart goes off a-cantering to hounds
that’ll rip a poem up like a centipede!

I’ll be the last one standing beside Schrodinger’s cat
when God’s strange Word tears apart the mount-
ain tops. My poem’s counted feet
will run both ways, like a cloven centipede.

Red Tassel

Got my red tassel on.

Your cue:
You rascal!

Got my blinds drawn,
open to view.
Got my red tassel on.

Now I’m out on the lawn,
feeling the dew.
You rascal!

And I’ve got my phone!
Guess who
‘s got their red tassel on?

Beat your tomtom!
I'm weaving through!
You rascal!

Feeling right at home—
what else is there to do?
Got my red tassel on.
You rascal!

All My Thoughts Speak of Love, Dante, La Vita Nuova

All my thoughts speak of Love;

and they take on great variety:
some try to impress me with brute strength,
others reason foolishly about their valor;
some delight me with hope,
others depress me with weeping.
And they agree only in begging pity,
which I do with trembling heart.

Whence I can’t find my cue;
I want to speak, but I don’t know what to say,
because I find myself in this loving quandary!
And if, despite, I should come to an agreement,
it will only be by calling on my enemy,
Lady of Pity, who defends me.

Dante, La Vita Nuova, XIII

Tutti li miei penser parlan d’Amore;
E hanno in lor sì gran varietate,
Ch’altro mi fa voler sua potestate,
Altro folle ragiona il suo valore,
Altro sperando m’apporta dolzore,
Altro pianger mi fa spesse fiate;
E sol s’accordano in cherer pietate,
Temando di parua che é nel core.

Ond’io non so da pual matera prenda;
E vorrei dire, e non so ch’io mi dica:
Così mi trovo in amorosa erranza!
E se con tutti voi fare accordanza,
Convenemi chiamar la mia nemica,
Madonna la Pietà, che mi difenda.

Good Old Golden Rule Days

School kept me in the charmed zone.

Or did it?
Never less than a few blocks from home.

There was homework to be done,
themes to edit,
but school still kept me in the charmed zone

because I wasn’t at school alone—
there were other kidlets,
never less than a few blocks from home.

School was where my affections roamed.
I kept losing my green heart.
School kept me in the charmed zone,

the enchantingest was brown-haired Kathy from Baton
Rouge. She had bangs and a salty sweet accent,
never less than a few blocks from home.

I never courted Kathy. I was prone
to shyness. But I want to claim fair credit
for holding steadfast in the charmed zone,
never less than a few blocks from home.

Ain't It Neat?

street music

beating your feet
on a Minnesota street

put your seat
on the curb
let your wrist beat

along with your feet
let the core of you greet
the faces that you meet

as you beat the street
with your feet
singing

Baltimore
ain't it hard
just to live

beat your feet
on a big old wagon bed
tragic and sweet
on a Minnesota street

Donald Trump Villanelle

Listen while I sing this song:
Aren't we glad we have the Devil for our President?
We thought we hated Satan, but we were wrong!

Satan boasts about being hung
like a donkey—not reticent,
our President. So I sing this song!

Satan’s main claim to fame is being flung
from Heaven with all his minions. There was a precedent
worth following!—I don’t think I’m wrong...

But Satan has such an appealing come-along,
though always angry-in-the-face—my President—
snarling abuses, while we howl along.

His friends are trying to revoke our get-along,
and life's worth nothing to an immigrant.
His friends think they hate Satan, but they’re wrong.

Mostly, he reminds me of Mao Zedong,
and I’m afraid my blood’s part Mexican!
Listen while I sing this song:
We thought we hated Satan, but we were wrong.

I Went Down to the Mowing Field

All redounding to Their praise

(resounding through the brakes and rills)
from whom I can’t avert my gaze.

Fading in and out of phase
(panning movies, shooting stills),
all redounding to Their praise.

Heart-sung, the hymns I’ve raised.
Light from that image overspills,
from which I can’t avert my gaze.

Birch-bark enamel, crazed;
lake that, filling, overfills—
all redounding to Their praise.

Cast in my allotted days,
sweating in exhausted mills,
from which I can't extract my gaze.

Twilight purples the sun's rays,
and the black serpent strikes and kills,
all redounding to Their praise
from whom I can’t avert my gaze.

What Rhymes With Poem?

So maybe today there won’t be a poem.

It’s cold and I don’t want to put shoes on.
What rhymes with poem?

If you’ve got suitcases, where do you stow ‘em?
Whatever you do, don’t turn the news on!
Maybe today there won’t be a poem.

Well, not a poem, then, but maybe a proem—
a kind of placeholder while I'm getting my blues on.
What rhymes with poem?

If you’ve got seeds to sow, you might as well sow ‘em.
Let’s therefore take our ancient friend, Don Juan,
or else today there won’t be a poem.

And, of course, you’ll go out to your fields to mow ‘em,
and I can prick my spurs and get my buckaroos on!
What rhymes with poem?

I’ll need to imbibe at least a jeroboam,
but it’s too early to start putting the booze on,
so maybe today there won’t be a poem.
What rhymes with poem?

O You Who Pass by the Way of Love, Dante, La Vita Nuova, VII

O you who pass by the way of Love,

wait and watch!
and if you think your grief is as hard as mine,
I pray only that you hear me out,
and then decide
if I own the key to every hostile torment.

Love, not for my small dessert.
but from Their own nobility,
first placed me in such a sweet and gentle life
that I’ve heard it said behind the wall:
"Lord, through what worthiness
is this man’s heart so rich with joy?”

But now I have lost all my boldness
when moved by Love’s treasure,
and I have become so poor
that in place of speech comes insecurity.

I want to be one of those
who cover up their poverty for shame,
and while I wear a happy dress,
in the depths of my heart beseech and pine.

La Vita Nuova, VII

O voi che per la via d’Amor passate,
Attendete e guardate
S’elli è dolore alcun, quanto ‘I mio, grave;
E prego sol ch’audir mi sofferiate,
E poi imaginate
S’io son d’ogni tormento ostale e chiave.
Amor, non già per maia poca bontate.
Ma per sua nobiltate,
Mi pose in vita si dolce e soave
Ch’io mi sentia dir dietro spesse fiate:
“Deo, per qual dignitate
Così leggiadro questi lo core have?”

Or ho perduta tutta mia baldanza,
Che si movea d’amoroso tesoro;
Ond’io pover dimoro,
la guisa che di dir mi ven dottanza.
Sì che volendo far come coloro
Che per vergogna celan lor mancanza,
Di fuor mostro allegranza,
E dentro da lo core struggo e ploro.

To Every Hard-Pressed Soul, Dante, La Vita Nuova, III

To every hard-pressed soul and noble heart

in whose presence I tell you this,
writing out your own testimony—
health in your Creator, who is Love.
Already the first three hours of night were passed,
the time that every star shines down on us,
when Love appeared to me so suddenly,
whose essence I remember, to my distress.

Cheerful was the look of Love as they held
my heart in their hand, as in their arms
my lady lay wrapped as in a drape, sleeping.
Then they woke her up and burned her heart out,
she fearfully, humbly trembling.
When I saw them I saw them crying.

Dante, La Vita Nuova III

A ciascun’alma presa e gentil core
Nel cui cospetto ven lo dir presente,
In ciò che mi rescrivan suo parvente,
Salute in lor segnor, cioè Amore.
Già eran quasi che atterzate l’ore
Del tempo che onne stella n’e lucente,
Quando m’apparve Amor subitamente,
Cui essenza membrar mi dà orrore.
Allegro mi sembrava Amor tenendo
Meo core in mono, e ne le braccia avea
Madonna involta in un drappo dormendo.
Poi la svegliava, e d’esto core ardendo
Lei paventosa umilmente pascea:
Appresso gir lo ne vedea piangendo

Without Care Never

Singing is all about piss and vinegar—

mostly songs about hard times.
There’s no such thing as a sinecure.

You won’t find that stuff in the literature—
the poisonous well-holes, borax mines.
Singing is all about the piss and vinegar

you bring because you’re so immature,
you steep your sorrow in sour limes!
There’s no such thing as a sinecure,

that’s for sure!—
you’ll probably have to remove porcupine
quills by soaking your feet in vinegar.

You’re hoping to be the last one of her
minions, when she stings you with a rhyme—
that’s the closest you’ll ever get to a sinecure,

and you’ll put that fine day on the calendar
so you can celebrate it all the time
by singing about piss and vinegar!
You’ll never ever have a sinecure!

Famous Last Words

Even without mentioning you know what

(the sunshine, the color of the grass, the squirrels),
I can say, my life has been nothing but!

Whenever I get down in a rut,
I give YouTube another whirl—
those songs might mention you know what!

And even though I might feel stuck
and can’t get no re to save the world,
I can say, my life has been nothing but

groovy, nothing but grand! And even though my luck
has never been that winsome with the girls,
their kisses, their luscious you-know-what,

I can say, I got to ride the truck!
And even though I’ll soon be hurled
into the cold, dark nothing-but—

love burning blindly in my gut—
I opened up a shell and found a pearl!
Even without mentioning you know what,
I say, my life has been nothing but!

Pirates

What does “no holds barred” mean?

You put bars in front of ships’ holds
to keep them pirate-clean?

Fighting-tactics can be mean—
biting or putting someone in a hammer-hold,
but what we mean

by “no holds barred” is seen
in the claim that nothing’s illegal, all holds 
are clean.

Meaning itself can be mean when you make that scene,
most everyone left out in the cold,
uncertain what the hell you mean

when you say, “There’s a land of green
beyond the next tectonic fold
where the sun shines and the air is clean.”

Hold this in your little bean:
Pirates will board your ship and bold-
ly show you what “no holds barred” means.
You can’t keep ‘em clean.

Sonnet addressed to Beatrice’s attendant women, Dante, La Vita Nuova, XXI

Women, my eyes bring you my lady Love.

They bring what they behold.

When she passes everyone turns,

and those she greets tremble to their hearts,

forced to lower their white faces

and sigh for every defect they possess.

Pride and anger flee before her.

Help me, women, help me honor her!

Every sweetness, every humble thought

is born in the heart of them to whom she speaks.

Who praises first is the one who saw her first.

Her image when she smiles a little

can’t be conveyed or held in mind—

a new and noble miracle!

Dante, La Vita Nuova, XX1

Ne li occhi porta las mia donna Amore,
per che si fa entil ciò ch’ella mira;
Ov’ella passa, ogn’om ver lei si gira,
E cui saluta fa tremar lo core,
Si che, bassando il viso, tutto smore,
E d’ogni suo difetto allor sospira:
Fugge dinanzi a lei superbia ed ira.
Aiutatemi, donne, farle onore.

Ogne dolcezza, ogne pensero umile
Nasce nel core a chi parlar la sente,
ond’è laudo chi prima la vide.
Quel ch’ella par quando un poco sorride,
Non si pò dicer nè tenere a mente,
Si è novo miracolo e gentile

The Roast

When does the torrent end?—

flow choked to a trickle.
How far do these rocks extend?

When there’s no more aid to lend
and the world looks like a hammer and sickle—
is that when the torrent ends?

You’ll break, but you’ll never bend,
all loves proved fickle—
How far do these rocks extend?

Wishing you had one friend
with whom to share a tickle
before the torrent ends.

Hearts and minds to mend
for just a wooden nickel?
How far do these rocks extend?

They’ll tear you and they'll rend
you like the tongue of Rickles
before the torrent ends.
How far do these rocks extend?

Plato's Pharmacy

Crazy day yesterday, putting pictures

in with the skeletons—keepsakes, newlyweds.
It was like repairing bathroom fixtures
or trying to arouse the slugabeds,
everyone snoring like tank treads,
trying to evade the harsh strictures
enforced by the richly-paid and blindly-led,
while soothed by balms and aroused by tinctures.

These structures are too hard for my head!—

all my brain’s little winding fissures.
And I know I may soon be dead,
but it can’t be that I’ve lost all cred
for assembling clever mixtures—
potions, cautions, ointments, and elixirs.

The Big Black Book

I think the dissertation is somewhere in Wilson Library.

Or where the hell is it?
Joe Green found it the other day.

Nearly busted his sacroiliac
kneeling and trying to pull
it out from a bottom shelf.

Now it’s back,
resting there
peacefully.

I wonder if others have consulted it
in the nearly thirty years
it has been available.

One might feel bitter,
but I don’t.
I certainly could have done more to promote it.

It was rejected by one editor,
who said it was part of an earlier conversation,
but I never sent it to another.

Regretful, yes.
How can there not
be regrets?

Thinking about what you didn’t do
can eat up all the joy
in what you did do.

Like one of those black holes Stephen Hawking
has us all worried about.
Don’t look now, but you and everything you love

are due to be sucked into a nothing mouth 
that’s growing somewhere near
some nebula or other.

So I pull my hat down
over my eyes
and walk across the tracks.

There’s some pretty lively stuff in that dissertation.
I wonder if it’s illegal to publish some of it with ISSUU.
Nah, I doubt if it could be cut well enough to be readable.

Silly Rabbit

Don’t express yourself physically too much!

You don’t always have to be jumping for joy!

Put your rabbit back in the rabbit hutch!

You can play tackle or you can play touch,

no matter whether you’re a girl or a boy,

but don’t express yourself physically too much!

Admittedly, your libido is such

that you’re a virtual Helen of Troy,

but please put your rabbit back in the rabbit hutch!

Are you paying double, or are you paying dutch?

Now don’t go acting all bashful and coy,

but don’t express yourself physically too much!

You might hit a home run in the clutch—

then again, you might die of exposure like Tolstoy

if you don’t put your rabbit back in the rabbit hutch.

The last straw was when they asked for my crutch,

tried to take away my precious toy!

Hard not to express myself physically too much!

Put my rabbit back in the rabbit hutch!

The Poet Speaks

It sometimes seems that my whole life

has been lived for the sake of words,
when, actually,

the evening I met you,
I didn’t want to talk
at all.

The War Against the All-Terrain Vehicles

Ingenuous prettiness against the John Deere Gators!
No question about who will win!
I guess I may as well take off my waders.

Not wanting to be one of the afraid-ers,
who shrink away from showing skin.
Ingenuous prettiness against the John Deere Gators!

Knowing I’ll get what’s coming to me in spad-ers.
The gators make an awful din!
I guess I may as well take off my waders.

Don’t make me have to deal with the bribed-and-paid-ers!
I’ll never bow to HIM HIM HIM!—
my ingenuous prettiness to the John Deere Gators!

Remembering that game between Philly and the Raiders,
played down in New Orleans. Old Jim
Plunkett never had to take off his waders.

Let’s face it! I’m among the made-in-the-shad-ers,
but I want to be lean and thin—
ingenuously pretty against the John Deere Gators.
I guess I may as well take off my waders.

Cajun Breakfast

at the Neighborhood.

Hollandaise on the side.
Two eggs starting up

at me atop the hashbrowns,
easy-cooked,
sprinkled with smoked paprika.

Cajun Sunshine.
Cholula.
Catsup.

OK, the whole left side of my plate
devoured already.
One egg, staring

up at me. Put
more pepper on it.
Whole wheat with marmalade.

OK, no eggs staring up at me,
just some hashbrowns,
sausage and cheese.

Maybe slow down,
give the brain a chance
to turn off the hunger signal!

Below 160 for the first time
in years this morning. This Cajun
should take care of that!

Almost an Imitation of Spenser

Where I my true love see—where was that place?—

the leafy bed where we were wont to lie.
Nor ever needed any chase,
and a bright sparkling coulie ran nearby
in which we two did bathe refreshingly.
The arrow we released from our drawn bow
climbed higher than the tops of tallest trees.
We slept. Our breaths were coming soft and slow!
We thought, “We have discovered nature’s flaw,
the wondrous animal that we can’t see—
a lion with a wounded paw,
a lovely deer bound to a tree.”
Something first made me stop and notice you.—
It was the sunlight feasting on the dew.

Three Sonnets

1. Stella Maris

OK, I’m ready to write a sonnet now,
but I want to do it on my own sole power,
not put the shovel backwards on the plow,
nor flood the choke and kill the lawn mower.

Asian beetle hordes, since we last checked!—
we pick ‘em off and drown ‘em in detergent—
remembering when you went and wrecked
the motor boat—when June bugs were emergent,

their exoskeletons cracking underfoot.
You learn, in singing, you must skip a beat—
how your heart throbs when you’re thrilled to the root
and you have that special hop in your feet.

It’s now you’re most thankful for your mother’s love,
bright star looking down on you from heaven above.

2. Love and Light

Peace, the only way we can persist these days—
some of us remaining in absentia—those
who have found so many, many ways
to save ourselves. While Jesus rose

from the dead, where duties
deterred him for two bits.
He decided not to go hard on the tutsi-fruitsies,
but never failed to give a yard of shit.

Jesus did not abandon himself to death,
instead, he harrowed hell, is what I heard.
And he could play the guitar like the ringin’ a bell,
so we all now just accept him at His Word.

We’ll take our places on that other shore
where we’ll live in love and light forevermore.

3. Whatever

Whatever seems final will one day be reset.
Give up your moanin’—in that great tomorrow,
we’ll finally know that we’ve seen nothing yet
and we’ll forget our bellyaches and sorrows.

Whatever looks big will be shrunk down
to the size of a cleaned, frozen, packaged shrimp,
a mincing melancholy midget clown—
so if you’re wearing shackles try not to limp,

but march courageously into the fray
(think about how strong iron makes your thighs)—
You have far more to crow about than cry,
if you can trust your tired muscles’s lies.

Damn the blue algae! Full speed ahead!
You might be crazy, but you’re sure not dead!

Nude Descending the Staircase

I won’t write today.
I need to drain the swamp.
What’s that you say?

I can’t be a good lay
if I don’t delay my hump,
so I won't write today.

I found out the wild way
how hard my feet can stomp.
What's that you say?

There's too much hell to pay
for such a fun romp.
I won’t write today.

There'll be ruin and decay
if I don't refuse the prompt,
but what's that you say

about descending the staircase
while you're waiting for Duchamp?
I won’t write today.
What’s that you say?

Old Stauncher

Maybe it’s all wrung out—

rag of my blood, rag of my tears.
Time to twist and shout!

What it’s all about!—
numbering numies, counting beers.
Maybe it’s all wrung out—

rag of my groping doubt,
rag of my wasted years.
Time to twist and shout

in my last grim redoubt,
parrying meat hooks up to my ears.
Maybe it’s all wrung out—

the drenching bloody clout
of songs sung to weary ears.
Time to twist and shout—

I’ve got to just release this trout!
Have a good morning! See ya! Cheers!
I think it’s all wrung out.
Time to twist and shout!

Come and go, Rainer Maria Von Rilke

O come and go. You, almost still a child, complete
for the blink of an eye the dancing figure
toward the pure star-picture of such a dance,
in which we dull nature

transiently surpass. Because she reached
full hearing only as Orpheus sang.
Nevertheless, you were from then on still the one excited
and slightly surprised when a tree took its time

remembering to go by ear with you.
You still knew the place where the lyre
raised itself in ringing; that unheard middle earth.

For her you tried the beautiful steps
and you hoped, once to the holy celebration
your friend's feet and face to turn back down.

Rilke, Sonette an Orpheus, Second series, 28
o komm und geh. Du, fast noch Kind, ergänze
für einen Augenblick die Tanzfigur
zum reinen Sternbild eines jener Tänze,
darin wir die dumpf ordnende Natur

vergänglich übertreffen. Denn sie regte
sich völlig hörend nur, da Orpheus sang.
Du warst noch die von damals her Bewegte
und leicht befremdet, wenn ein Baum sich lang

besann, mit dir nach dem Gehör zu gehn.
Du wüsstest noch die Stelle, wo die Leier
sich tönend hob—; die unerhörte Mitte.

Fur sie versuchtest du die schönen Schritte
und hofftest, einmal zu der heilen Feier
des Freundes Gang und Antlitz hinzudrehn.