Poems

To Be Published

I left a silver trail

Of madness, love and rhyme

Behind me like a snail

Leaves a streak of slime.

Now I'm on the crest

Looking off the brink.

I've written all the best,

But I refuse to sink.

I must get in print.

That's the purpose of the game,

Earn a wholesome and mint

And equal Junkets' fame.

7-19-13

 

Genius

The English murdered Wilde

Who gave them such delight.

Then they murdered Turing.

An Englishman is right.

The horrid death of Edward

Under Marlowe's pen.

England wasn't quite

As civilized back then.

Once I was an Anglophile,

No longer one because

An Englishman hates genius.
Everybody does.

7-19-13

 

Off The Cuff

If I meet my mother in hell,

I'll spit in her crazy face.

My father will be hidden well

Behind a bolt of lace.

But oh he wouldn't tell me so.

He was everything but free.

But out it oozed in a nasty show

Of self-contempt for me.

I am trying to be rid

Of every human fetter.

She to everything I did

Just said, “You're getting better.”

7-19-13

Jacqui Schiff

Jacqui Schiff was quite a talker.

Simply ask, “What's up?”
And you'll begin to wonder

Whether she shuts up.

Omniscient but normal,

Her speeches should enthrall,
However there was really

Nothing there at all.

7-19-13

Friends

I stopped having friends in Hackensack

In 70. It's never coming back.

I live in an insanity of night.

Nothing's wrong. So therefore nothing's right.

Among his few peculiarities

Is that I must obey. God bless releasing.

Another is the gross disparities

Between his friends and me. God bless deceasing.

One of his endearing qualities

Is to want me here when he is sleeping.

Another is our rapt frivolities.

She sang about commitment. And I'm weeping.

He like Howard Roark can be trusted.

I'll pursue my genius, but alone,

End up lonely, dead or maladjusted

And know the only truths that can be known.

7-19-13

 

Honesty

Sententious! Tell the truth and you'll be right.

But living in a sempiternal night.

Your poesy will have the edge of truth.

Verity and love are games for youth.

This was so when talent held the reigns.

Talent's gone. Surrendered to the crowd.

Rich men have Puccini and no chains.

The poor just have tattoos and sound that's loud.

Wrong again! How often can I be

Mistaken when I'm writing poesy?
Being wealthy doesn't really mean

That you are any less a philistine.

7-19-13

A Complaint

My heart's too full to love.

The little feelings can't get in.

My psyche is congested.

What's outside but din?

Ineffectuality

Pushes on the wall.

Anger, stress and fear,

The edifice will fall.

The puddle of the world

Is continually expanding.

Uselessly the rabble

Will not stop demanding.

7-19-13

 

A Purpose

A man must have a purpose.

That's one of nature's laws.

However, he must choose it.

That's one of nature's flaws.

Otherwise he perishes

And sinks into a fen

And only lives to die, unless

He flourishes again.

Never have I been

At such an ebb. I rise

Out of stark insanity

And embrace the skies.

Though now at 67

I poetize as fast,

And all of it unpublished,

And coming to the last.

Lazarus is fiction.

His body was not raised.

My mind is clogged and occupied,

And I cannot be praised.

7-19-13