Poems

Winnowing, refining

Winnowing, refining,

I remember every song

I ever wrote that's worthy.

They are gathered into books.

Eliminating uglies, anger,

Poems simply bad.

I'll be 67 in a month,

And I have written

Poems that would make another

Poet's mother proud.

I sit alone in Denny's

And I make a couple jokes.

They laugh and bring me coffee,

Go away, and I'm alone.

This is how I like it.

I am happy.

8-13-13

 

Worlds

I read a book I wrote,

Just like Bukowski.

I sat alone in Denny's,

And I read it.

An enchantment!

I forgot it all.

When the book was finished, I emerged

From it's coolness, sweet and Arcady

And happiness into the ordinary

World – of boilers, greasy dirt and dust.

8-12-13

Larry Hart

Not even Keats. Though Junkets moved the tide,

Not the moon. Endymion Awake.

I never wanted once to write a poem.

But Larry Hart! Clever and delightful!

Made me happy. Him I wished to be.

Superficial sentiment

Like people really feel,

Words and rhyme and wit! Imagination!

This I wanted. But I could not do it.

And my heart was drawn to poesy

8-10-13

 

Buck

Do selfish people always think they're

Selfish? They expect.

Do selfish people always think they've

Got it figured out,
And all the world is foolish? They expect.

Do as you are bidden or they're angry.

When you do,

They laugh behind their fingers at the fool.

Sartre said that selfish people

Have a certain charm.

And they use it on their hapless wives,

Who think it's love.

8-12-13

Grant

Silly Grant! Always in the wrong.

Mentions his vibrato

When he's going to sing a song.

Very dictatorial,

Pomposity and class!

Up their sleeves they think he is an ass.

Has he any inkling

Of what other people say?
Bought a gun and shot himself today.

8-12-13

Nothing Good

Bertrand Russell said it

And it's absolutely true.

What has Christianity

Ever done for life?

Drowning witches, burning books,

Impeding medicine,

Play the fool for science,

Send the children on crusades.

Lift the pontiff's cassock,

See if anything is there.

8-10-13

Happy America

I must be old. The happiness

Of people makes me angry -

Raucous, loud. I used to be

Loud and raucous too.

Denny's is a bit of the

America they love

For reasons they would

Like to overthrow.

When I die they'll put me on

A shelf beside Bukowski.

Keats is stale and decadent

And old. But not Millay.

8-10-13

 

A Book Of Poems

I have a book of poems

I would like to give away,

The oldest and my favorite -

A jewel and a treasure

Dredged up from the bottom of the sea.

I write in unrhymed rhythm

Frequently with rhymes.

The music of the cooks is even

Louder than the crowd -

Denny's in a century

Of anti-art and ugliness.

Keats is dead. Millay is just

A distant memory.

Everything forgotten

But the precious, ugly, horrid

Here and Now

Olympus gave injunctions to enjoy

And never leave -

Cluttered up and crusted over

Like a magic window

With blood and dirt and semen.

Can I sell my book of poems?

8-10-13

 

Where Is Bach?

In my life I've never even

Spoken to or known

People like the people you

Idealize and love.

In my world the people were

Impoverished and gentle.

All of them are older now

And possibly they're dead.

Forty years since I have seen

What I can just remember.

Today the fads and music

And madness. Where is Bach?

So pompous and pretentious!

“Where is Bach?”

Ugliness makes beauty feel

Self-conscious and ashamed.

8-10-13