Long Poem

I hate long
poems that
go on and on
forever
making some
cerebral point
pointed by a
point of view
only the poet
who wrote the poem
would ever know
or care about.
Universal truth
abandoned and
a common bond
never bound but
words expected by
some teacher in
an obscure
junior college
to be understood
by her students
-What it mean?
-Why line break there?
-Why 50 pages
but each line
only 3 words?
Only the poet
who wrote the poem
would ever know
or care about
a lack of rhyme
or mention of
misanthropy on
the eve of winter’s
Dalmatian grip
or a circus
of puffins
returning to their
birth-place-slowly;
How magic
leaves leave Fall
by falling magically
with thoughts of
stardom fading as
the noonday sun
shines brighter
than all the home
fires burning to
call the lost
home for love
or hate or
whatever awaits
their time scarred lives.
For It’s these
obvious signs of
elevated “greatness”
and existential
extension that
grip me by
the throat and
threaten my very
being until, relenting,
I grasp the drawn-
out beast in a
fervent embrace
and declare my
acceptance and love
for all eternity but –
I cannot with
right conscience love
what demands to
be unlovely and
rip my life from life
and imprint it on
an unprintable page.And that is why
I hate long poems
that go on and on
forever
making some cerebral point,
pointed to a
point of view
only the poet
who wrote the poem
would ever know
or care about.

Universal Art

Most tissue boxes have patterns printed
with wavy lines, paisleys, arcs or dots.
And colors ranging from simple to gaudy.


But few are perfect for my home and
why should they be? I mean,
unless every box had an infinite palate 
and a nuclear skin that could explode
into every shape imaginable how
could the tissue box artist know
what I need out of tissue box art?


There is no universal art in
my universe, that is to say I
have never found it so. But
I usually get lucky and
find a tissue box that works
well enough with my décor.

Hate is Such a Lovely Word

Hate is such a lovely word
When conferred upon a lonely man
Who sits atop a lonely hill
And watches watchers waiting madly;
Waiting gladly for his fall
Teeth bared, blood lust, cancers all.

They hate him ‘case he looks unlike them
Reeks of power in his control
Something wicked listens paltry
(He is us though they are not he)

Given no more than an inch
They recoil from being benched
But all fault lies with them because
There’s never been a thought of love
Yet hate rains fire from above
And below and all sides round he
Weathers storms upon him hove

He smiles upon the ware wolf horde
‘cause hate is such a lovely word
When conferred upon a lonely man
Who right the wrongs too vast to number
Then sits to service without slumber
And wears their vengeance like a badge

The Barcode Poem

I wrote this poem a few months ago but I can’t remember the product that inspired it. I just remember that the font all of the text looked different from most of the “back of package” writing I usually see. 

There’s something highly appealing to me about poetry that addresses aspects of technology. And it’s not just poetry. Some of my favorite photography subjects are power poles.

Upon a Ship


Upon a ship bound for no port
I spied a waiter waiting widely
So I spoke to him in short
I ordered waffles of a sort,
And sat there gazing at the sea
Its breakers breaking snidely.

No waffles came that day I sailed
Though many pancakes sank the bow.
Where was the waiter whom I hailed?
I feel that he has greatly failed
To render service due somehow,
And all I am is hungry now.