Sin once.

Sin once was a jungle, a
wide, chaotic garden
tended only by beasts
and God. Now, it is
an orchard we have

pruned, to bring
forth fruits in
fecund abundance, their
tart juices grown tame,
fertilized
by method and attention;
pleasure by the bushel yield
harvested, bled dry,
free and easy, cheap.
Tasteless.

We need to try neglect.

Let the orderly rows grow
over, wound and vined
and brambled in with
beautiful weeds,
forbidden trees again
grown wild, grown wicked
in their re-abandonment
grown overgrown

until we, the prodigal
gardeners, return to
the scene of temptation
and find it again
blessed. But really,
though - we know neglect.

It's just another method,
not the best.

close

close

my hands gone cold in yours so warm
you've caught my breath, at last
With just one look you stop my heart, but
my blood flows twice as fast

I can't describe the shape you make
inside my heart and mind
picture all the universe,
as chains of stars unwind
you've knocked them out of orbits
by the sheer force of your pull
they all fall into circles,
concentric upon you

My forehead up to yours
the firmament on 'spin'
our love is heavier than suns
the universe leans in

our hands enlaced
collapsing star
drawn further in
to where we are

and

time skips

lightspeed standing still

we know what comes next,

And we can wait -

forever

The Devil!

Lucifer and Satan are the SAME DUDE -
Yet oddly, behind each other's back,
each is consumed by a gnawing sense
of how much cooler the other one's name

is

Non-Haiku Apocrypha

the towering trees of sky
spread their dark cloud leaves to heaven
while their roots drink lightning from the ground


- Basho, 1697

Disclaimer: Basho died in 1694

so what that let you know

Haiku Time!

Hey, baby! check it -
cherry blossoms back again!
dope, dope haiku time

A Christmas Letdown

When the mountain town opened for business
its annual walk-through Christmas display
for the holiday bustlers to come bustling through -
you and I,
resplendent in sweaters
nog lattes in hand
- were first in line.

At the start of the long, long park,
we stood; behind the green garland rope.
Ready to ooh and ahh,
not in the slightest bit ironically.
When they took the rope away,
we rushed forward in an ecstatic scramble:
oohing and aahing.

Well, the needles and leaves of the evergreen trees
were bedecked in arrays of electric eyes
and we ran hand-in-hand, gaily
so far ahead, so far, away far
ahead of the crowd.
Away out of sight, we ran ahead -
looking all around ourselves, like
children explorers, with mouths open.
We were the first to reach the Giant Tree.

Among its boughs, certainly dead, hung motionless
a worker
in a puffy quilted navy-blue coat,
and
a white-and-green snowman scarf.
He was smiling.
Tangled, suspended in the cords of electric lights,
among the decorations, his job
well done now forever.

You looked at me,
sad.
And I stooped down,
to lift a shiny red christmas ball
from where it had fallen in the snow.

You hooked it
onto the exposed elastic edge
of his white athletic sock
and we giggled, but
the mood had already been ruined
sad

The cat wants out

The cat wants out. He thinks
he's going to have his way
always, his way always.
The cat thinks his way
is the perfect expression of justice
carried out to its logical, feline extreme.
And he sits by the sliding glass door
restless
in dignity,
secure
in the rightness of his cause,

and singing.

And he has his way

the kisses goodbye

We taste like lakes of
writhing snakes
- cool washcloth,
on tormented heat -
a kiss that never ends,
that lingers on in mind
through days and weeks
All our sour goodbye kisses
holding on and latching on
final lungfuls underwater
desperate interlocking lunge
"do we really have to go?
will this be the last we see?"
- a kiss that never ends, until
it drags us back, to
endlessly

The Back of a Stranger's Head

You smile brightly as you catch
a glimpse of the face of a friend
but two steps closer, you see that it's only
the back of a stranger's head.
It's strange how the back of a stranger's head
can trick you like that - it's the early sun,
bright morning magic, casting blurs across your eyes -
that's what it does. When the back of a stranger's head,
distorted as by alchemy, becomes
the kind face of a friend.
And you smile.
But watch it!
That's the kind of friend you can't trust!

Put It In Writing

Attention All Company: Effective immediately,
this policy replaces all previous policy
on the topic of whatever is relevant.
All previous understandings; written, oral,
verbal or anal, are now null void and overturned.
If you have any questions, please contact the person
previously identified in the formerly effective policy
as your contact, and make known to him or her
your concerns. He
or she
will be certain to refer you to this memo
for further clarification. That is all. That is all.
That is all. That is all.

That is all.

Ode to Boont Amber Ale

Thy barely-sweet and slightly-nutty flavor,
thine angelic finish and voluptuous body -
with a bold swish of your bottle's hips,
I pour your virtues into a slanted glass - careful!
Lest you overflow the rim with your prodigious head.
O! Ye amber waves, sloshing frothily in my pint glass
'blazoned with the proud Boonville Beer,
How sweetly I sing your praises! In such a tuneful voice
that all who try a taste join in.

The Sea-Bird by Geholmes Watchfop Thacklevoy

The Sea-Bird

- by Geholmes Watchfop Thacklevoy -

I saw a mighty sea-bird hover,
wings athwart, above a choppy river-mouth
that empties to the Bay.
She labored lightly, leaning into
headwind, shaking wings akimbo
barely flapping, course correcting,
one foot over copper waters.

Making slow but forward progress
all unsteady, shaking pinions
barely just aloft, but gliding
ever forward, yard by yard.
Suddenly, mid-air she stumbled,
tottered as the wind from under
failed her - her with only inches
'twixt her and the waves beneath.

Up they slapped, to catch and gather
her ungainly, graceless flapping,
floating now, and looking 'round to see
if any witness saw. I will never tell -
my lovely sea-bird: please consider
your indignity a confidence
between us that I vow to keep

as I make my way on forward
slowly, leaning into headwind
ever forward, yard by yard
catastrophe an inch beneath

Grasp Fate by the hand, my darling.

Grasp Fate by the hand, my darling.
Twist its thumb back painfully,
and it will do your bidding for a time.
Will take your lead, and follow behind
Will meekly bow its head and submit to your
Will. But if you let it go, then it will rub its hand,
and look at you implacably, and wander off -
expecting you to follow. Expecting you to heed the call
of its inscrutably retreating rear end. Fate is used
to having people trail after it, pleading and entreating;
gnashing their teeth, wringing their hands. But darling:
don't waste time trailing listlessly in Fate's wake.
Grasp Fate by the hand! Go for the thumb!
That's its weak spot.

lullabye blessing

May sleep gather you in
with the softest embrace
and forgetfulness
wash all the cares from your face
as the dreams of the night
take you where you most wish
to be held by the light
and caressed with a kiss.
May the love of your life
beat more strong in your breast
than a pessimist army could hope to contest
and when night quits the field,
and the birds sound their call
may you wake to a dream,
and your life conquer all.

Wassails and Yuletidings

When Christmastime
shrieks by overhead,
and your Christmas thoughts
close in around you,
repeat to yourself: "it's just once a year"
it's just once a year, when that magical time
comes crashing down
and crushes our souls
into sugarplum pudding.

A bird lies dead.

A bird lies dead
in the first frost of late autumn.
A dead sparrow, I think.
Something small, brownish,
dead at any rate. One
of the birds that hop,
not walk.

I think of the birds
that you see, wheeling as one
in numberless flocks, turning
and contracting - individual birds
beating wings so hard, you picture
tiny looks of concentration
on each bird's face.
The whole flock
appears at once, rushing up
into the air in one great shape,
as if at some sudden
invisible call.

Was it the cold
that stopped its puny heart?
Or did the cold come after -
drawing a cold blanket over.
Frost feathers frozen windows,
and no two snowflakes are alike
they say; nor any two feathers
on this little dude.
Poor guy. His head lies cocked,
as if listening.
I think that he died
waiting

waiting
for the call to take off.

rush of time

The slow rush of time -
you are dragged by the neck
through the towns of your life saying,
"I will miss this place already,"
always passing through:
your life
the street you walk down
has already gone behind you
you anticipate
the past.

And then eventually,
it comes.

You Rule

Like a monarch with a sceptre,
waving left and right forever
as adoring waves of subjects bow and scrape
your keen glance of command
masters all that you survey
as you stroke your regal purple fur-lined cape
your court holds court in courtly ways -
the supplicants with lowered gaze;
the jangling of bells upon the fool
and that's me in that stupid hat-
but even such a fool as that
can see the truth, it's plain enough:
You rule.

catlike

catlike,
I lie around for hours.
With catlike reflex,
yawn

I love you on a case-by-case basis

I love you on a case-by-case basis
each day's love comes up to spec
or else it's rejected. Needless to say
you insist on the best. There's an image
to uphold here, a standard to be met.
But that rejected love, I take it back
and retool it. To be slipped through later
on the sneak tip, perhaps.

this love that I have is meant as an encouragement

this love that I have
is meant as an encouragement
when the whole day sucks,
when the seconds of the clock
are beating down like big hammers
when the people that you know
are glowering at you scornily,
when the anger that wells up from within your bosom
tastes like certified grade-A USDA hate...
my love says buck up, little camper!

My love for you is for your own damn good

My love for you is for your own damn good
that look of reproach you give, can't sway me
the experts divide on the right approach,
but you know that this love that I give
is gonna hurt me more than it hurts you.
So think first next time maybe,
because otherwise, you might just get
a big kiss
on your smart mouth!

LOVE

the pome that I have for you
is LOVE
LOVE incarnate
LOVE almighty
LOVE with a vengeance
you sit there with a dazed look
on your face, just taking it in -
but the LOVE just keeps on coming.
finally you have to say "alright, STOP
that's enough love."

precaution

Are you sure that you love me? because
if you're not sure, I'll need to know about it right now
for my considerations. With bold swift moves,
I will secure your heart with a sudden flourish
of gestures and aplomb, with a subtle point driven home,
with a little trick I happen to know about.
But if you're not sure, and I don't know
right now about it - how then can my plan
spring into action? With what mistimed leap
would you have me fall to my death?

this hate that I have for you

the hate I have for you
is really miniscule
it's hardly there at all in fact
I had to get it out for you
and put it in this pome
and now that hate's all gone!
This epic pome in miniature
is just a souvenir

The people who look at you

The people who look at you
from across the lonely way,
they don't know how this love
that we have so deep inside
truly operates. They might surmise,
but we know otherwise.
How dare they mock our pain?!
Let's get 'em!!

Things such as cannot be said

My heart lives in a house on fire;
these feelings for you
that I have -
well they don't mean much;
not without that sigh of sudden tenderness
that awakens in your breast like a mighty shout,
a sweet whisper of the strange lands
that your heart hearkens unto
in the darkling deeps of love's sweet night of the soul -
when the toes of one's unreadiness settle
heavily
into the thickly downed slippers
of love's repose.

as we waltz achingly into the future,
dripping endless entreaties of love,
we sweet happiness to each other
over tender protestations of despair.
This, too, our dearly-made destiny:
falling haplessly by as the sleeping years
smite us hither with deep longing,
under the baleful glances of the moon.
you are beautiful
beyond flowers
and jewelry,
and sunsets,
and fine things,
beyond the soft glow of fires
and the sweet earth from which we grow
and I love you for it.
Your sweet head is in my heart
bumping and thumping around
but it can't get out.

___________________

this is an earlier version of "Things such as cannot properly be said"

a pome

Your head emits a special radiance
as I put you in my heart.
The secret clink as I close it up
like a suspended bell.
My pulsing veins throb, an ever-changing note
eloquent of long ago, the seething winters
we had thought too soon forgotten.
Then, too, the after-times -
my simple wish defers itself.
Dreaming of a wheel
without a road

haiku

I sit on a tack
all day leaning to one side
damn stupid butt zit

spontaneous

A poem is spontaneous
that means it takes a lot of work
to make it look like nothing much
like children falling down in surf
like symphony orchestras tuning up
like down blown in through open windows
it's got to come across unkempt
but that's the unimportant part

critique

Your other poems were like brooks,
with too many bends for me to trace
or follow up; just meander down. The scenery
floats by, sudden bright patches dazzling,
the sound of an unknown bird. The eye
falls asleep to the soothing beauty of the world.
At the end you step out not really knowing
what land you passed through.

Or, like languorous conversation
flits, ideas skipping like stones across a pond,
like skipping across stepping stones:
touch on this, skip over that, and come to rest
here. In a papered front room of a very old house,
two friends sat close laughing and talking for hours.
Who can trace where the talk went? Or where
the talk went, when the silence fell? As,
leaning in, right hands brushed - touched -
in a way that seemed so suddenly
unexpected

This new poem of yours is short. Sweet...
perhaps. Direct, straight, in a way that is new
and nervous. For the first time I see what you mean,
conscious and clever and complete in one moment
and it scares me. For some or no reason, that old song
has stuck in my head: I like short songs,
I like short songs, I like short songs,
I like short songs!

The Summer of My Lost Youth

Has anyone seen the Summer of my Lost Youth?
What happened to that Summer, those treasured days now gone?
Actually it was more like a couple of weeks than a Summer
Then those guys jumped me and I spent the next two months in a cast
Ah! For that lost and lonely yesteryear of yore! Forever ago it seems.

samurai

SAMURAI!! hair-tie armor plate strollin'
through the ancient Chinese world in a rage
he's rollin' through the forest
on his way to find an ambush
but his foes are making scarce
so he gets a little careless
when he rolls across the bridge
well it's not a big surprise
there's a sucka in the way
he defeats him with his eyes
and his sword is always holstered
'cause he never takes it out
til he takes it out for blood
that's his crazy code, WORD!!
SAMURAI!!!!

Untitl'd

This poem, who knows what it's about?
I've just begun to write it out
yet as the end creeps ever near -
it's nothing very deep, I fear.

Memories were made to hurt us

Memories were made to hurt us
Memories of what we've lost
Happy times and cherished moments
'round our necks, like albatross
But memories will fade in time
Those cherished moments, too will fade
We'll turn our eyes to facing front
And leave behind the life we made.

origin

In ancient days,
my love of you
lurched formlessly
among the wilds
in search of you
to feel about
in search of me
to feel inside.
Down all those days
without a form,
my love of you
grew mad and strange.
'Til we were born,
and it found me.
And I found you,
and we were changed.

poetic dilemma

The problem with a poem is
you can't describe the sky unless
the person who is reading it is
someone who looks up.

they wouldn't get the reference
they'd say, what is he on about?
what blue, what sun, what puffy cloud?
this guy's some kind of nut!

Does a Poem?

"Does a Poem have to Rhyme?"
"Yes sir!" said the man,
so I showed him a poem
with a rhyme at the end
and he said, "Why you fool!
that's no rhyme, not at all!
you can't rhyme 'man' with 'end'!
Why, it's not even close."

Then he walked off askance
as I looked at his back
with a glance of reproach
and a crumpled-up poem
And I smoothed it back out
and I crossed out a part
and I wrote something in
but it's not even close.

The two cats

A poem about cats has got to purr
but this one's mostly lying there
it's found its patch of carpet sun
and it won't stir for anyone.

The signpost

I saw a signpost standing by the side of the road
that said "stop here awhile"
there was nothing else there, just a little old sign
and I took it as a sign as I passed on by

Other than that, there was nothing to see
The road went on forever 'til I left it behind
But at every journey's end, in the back of my mind
is that little old sign that I passed on by