poems on the run/roast

at times i write them
want to hold them tight
not turn grey mice poems loose
out of the sock drawer

snap go now puppies on the run
out on their own
beyond my control
out of reach, out of sight

crossing the street
against the light
a lone drifter may find them
some blue dark still night

perhaps, and take comfort
then i guess it’s alright
the preceding has been noble, thus,
considering the source, largely untrue

so there goes nobility shit out the window
chasing my poems
what is left pass around
to you and you and you

it’s okay, Descartes wrote:
i think therefore i am
okay, i think i can
go along with that.

an some sonofapup drifter is liable
to catch my poems
cook them, debone 'em
or eat 'em alive

if i could

if i could write each poem
as a precious drop
warm sparkling clear
i surely would

instead, with my back to the rock
surrounded, i reload ready to run
like Butch and Sundance
into freeze frame

as the great theme grows under
the credits roll on the screen
lights come on, people go home
with proud steps and good memories

when you’re in the game
you take the pieces you have
and create with them
the best you can

poetry identification

a woman i am closely associated with
call her my wife for sake of argument
wanted to know why
what i write is poetry

i responded with the old adage
that by comparison if it looks like a duck,
waddles like a duck, quacks like a duck
then it’s poetry

Bad Poetry

Writing bad poetry is good conditioning.
You wonder if I feel bad when my poetry is lousy, no way.

If Tiger Woods put the ball in the hole every time he took a shot
they wouldn’t let him play any more.

poetry au jus

sample poetry au jus
whipped up fast and free
add a dash of rhyme
simmer all slowly

pitter-pattering like the rain
keep from dribbling down your chin
add a spoonful for your brain
remember, use your napkin

you may have to use a straw
if it starts to run too loose
above all, don’t get any on you, it makes a tasty stain
you silly goose

after writing a while
talked to my wife
was sitting when i pointed
and meant to say ceiling
instead i said sky
of course i know why

a simple reason
like thistles and rabbits
thrive with old habits
it’s most likely, you see,
working with poetry
does that to me

Bad Name

with a name repulsive enough
to cause grown men
to moan and turn away
poetry harbors grace and beauty

sometimes like tennis
there is a head nodding
back and forth
rhythmic iambic pentameter

unlike professional football or soccer
you generally won’t risk getting bruises
or breaking bones playing
poetry without a helmet

perhaps it would become more
appealing to the base masses
if only we called it
word slugging

a butter year's worth

with one pass
may as well run like a wagging dog
wild in joy in the wind
and do what you can
with what you've got

when i wrote songs
i spent too many hours repeating them
trying to hold all of them in my head
keeping the old ones familiar

getting poems right seems more to the point
i can work words back and forth
don't have to play them in a straight line
and when i'm done they stay there

then anyone can pick them up exactly
not like a song
that you have to play or listen to
beginning to end

words you can play with
then take them along in your head
that's packing light
even a whole butter year's worth

poetry blog

telling someone
i have a blog with poetry
is like saying i just bought a used
hearse from the funeral home
and i got it cheap cause it was in a wreck.

"oh, how nice. How many miles on it?
and are the seats always folded down?"

it's a conversation stopper
right to the bone
wanna go for a spin?

how poets do

like accountants
poets work alone
grinding out word minutia
and are essentially worthless
except for what comfort they bring

they read a lot, enjoy the out of doors
often from a window
drink, smoke and unless someone cooks for them
eat lousy

are unaware of the time
yet, come early for appointments
choose to wear the same dull clothes and
sleep easily each night with untroubled minds

when at night i close my light
tuck myself in, covers to my chin
vivid dreams leap on me
and if the window is open
the wind will carry slow motion
under water blurry pictures directly into my head
that come alive in swirly drama

entertaining dream-rooted inventions of what could be
flash on an off as humming trucks roll on
through the night on distant blue highways
as heavy metal trains sound a mournful melting Doppler effected melody
calling hello to you, hello from me

awakened in the night
to listen for what is there
and what isn't
often getting up to write a line,
an idea to pursue before it evaporates,
then fall immediately back to deep sleep
like babies do, until morning

i admire other poets i have read
how they hop-thoughts on the pages
i know they do as i
for that is how it is done
alone in thought
one by one by one
for ages upon ages

let me slip-roll into sleep
for another jumbled, bumbled,
senseless journey
until i wake
but, not too early

on the road to hand-over- fist big money for poetry

once i wrote to hallmark
in Kansas City
and told them i'd like to be a poet
they thought that was fine
but had one already
wouldn't you know it

a bite

of poems
i thought a thousand would do
though time has passed
i'm still not through

i could load you up
pour out my treasured best
you'd be stacked high in aces
with too much to digest

one at a time is better
so if you stumble through and snatch a few
that'll do
like the bird that occasionally
flies in an open window
who should have paid more attention
to catching insects
may find something to nibble
if he doesn't panic
and the cat doesn't find him first

perhaps some other day
there'll be a thought right for you
not too much, a line or two
even a bird flying with mouth open
is hoping, and sometimes catches a few

poetry lesson

on poetry
know the rules
there are no other rules

start writing and then finish
or just do part
then do some more later

editing is importance
sews spelling
an rhymes good

whether you start each line
with big or small letters
is to the authors perverse discretion
so i heard
but you hear a lot of contradiction

now go for the throat
oh, and read what you wrote
too cheek four ears

i found it useful to title poems
with names coming from the heart
so as they stack up
you can still tell them apart

no mystery

poems should not be a mystery
i want you to know
what the words are saying to you

easy to follow as a cleared path
in a well-kept country garden

go on, meander step by step
by fruit and flower
pine wander
an hour

a discovered treasure
will be my pleasure

just beware the sprinklers

i feel like you

i feel like you
that doesn't mean that i feel as if i like you
it means i feel about as you feel
but not completely
i don't wake up groping for the keys to your car
in my pocket or anything
i don't feel like that
now i'm not sure what i mean
or how i feel about it
so forget it
how do you feel about that?

listen, some of the stuff i write is crap
i know that, that's what writers are good at
the point is
it's not like i'm hiding it
i put it out with a purpose
two more, juliano. yeah, the red.

like you, i can recognize a good poem
and wonder how many did emily dickenson or robert frost leave buried in a drawer
sarah teasdale, i like her work also
geeze, i mention a couple of poets and feel like i've got to keep naming them

what i want to say is that
everyone has a different voice
every poet makes that choice
and when words work hot it's a kind of magic
when not - more like deforestation - nearly tragic

we'd learn if we could read
the partial poems the poets put aside
examine what was rejected
those things the great ones let slide
most often go undetected

so now this one is lying there like road kill
so enjoy it like sneaking through someone's refrigerator

poetini

sure i keep it short
you have a life, right?
it's nice you take a look
but i'm not going to keep you

there - a couple of lines
you read it
fine, like that, okay, forget it
and we're both out'a here

the writer's life, both of them

the little woman is telling me
a writer’s life’s too narrow
sighted only on what he can see
i see it like a winged sparrow

while the powerful princess whacks away
i’ve got to write my own, you see
let’s lift our hats to the writers work
without the mcmurtrys where would we be

the saga ends all to soon
give me the great stories and actors to play
winter’s gone, it’s nearly june
be content writers know what to say

the words fly on like a wounded sparrow
as thought lines soar, rush and dart
nearly downed by the random arrow
coming to rest, so near the heart

i’ll labor on long as i am able
the ship goes down while runs the rat
i hear her say, “supper’s on the table”
now tell me, how’d she do that?

jelly fine advice

meri always says
"quit licking your fingers"
but she is not the one with honey
dripping all over

let me clear that up
not all over really
just all over my fingers

and for this
i think my hand is lickable
the soonerable, the betterable
or the honey will be floorable

so, jellylovers
my advice is this
like it or not
lick it or else

i have to be careful now
cause that one i wrote yesterday
had a line that sounded like it came from hallmark
and i almost puked

see i wrote them for a job once forty years ago
wanted to be their poet
they wrote back and said they had one already
must have been the guys mother

(and don’t comment to this blog
that jellylovers is two words and not one
cause i like it that way or i’ll to put
you on my list to)

writing

writing’s a bit
like digging a pit
you have to know
how deep to go

and what do you do
when that work is through?
You cover that lover
and start on another

the blog has

the blog has become a wall to confront
some is italy and some is me
i wake up swimming in it
sea to si'

which poetic voice to use
something old or something new
what do you want?
what to do?

a friend wants to know a good place to eat
and all of roma pops up in front of me
i’ll come up with an answer when I see him
but for now it’s business as usual

meri and i went to lunch at Pasquali’s
sat the common table for the locals,
the citizens of roma, the head count.
how good can lunch at a family hole in the wall be?

saturday and the cook knows us
red pasta and a half liter of red
as good as it gets
then an electric bus home

presto, that's italian
that sounds like it means