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.