Poems

The Demons

Clean and sweet, original -

A poem meant as art -

Not a nuts and bolts description

Of the poet's life -

Yet confession's what I'm writing

And writing it again -

Opinions unrequested -

And not a thing to love -

A poem never dies -

Prose sits on the shelf

And slowly fades from memory -

A verse you can recall -

Since 1999

I've wrestled with the demons -

Poetry, confession -

It's poesy I love -

9-22-13

 

Decline

I started writing poems -

Poesy per se -

Sporadically continued

Til 1998.

And then it went away.

We met in 99.

I took it up again,

But this time like a diary.

And looking back to then -

Wrestling with the demons -

Confessionals or art -

So very little poesy,

And such a lot of heart.

I prefer the poesy -

The quartz and crystal kind -

That shimmers in the moonlight,

The moonlight of a mind.

Here I am alone -

Confessions and complaints -

Poems about myself

And cats, and smashing saints.

9-22-13

 

Jill's Poems

Delicate and gentle things -

A touch that you can feel -

Mildly enigmatic -

Makes them very real -

Never quite the fantasy

That you expect in phrases

In artificial poetry,

But honesty – which fazes,

Like Rupert Brooke, without the edge

That made his poems sing.

Her poems are an altogether

Different, perfect thing.

Beneath the mask of poetry,

The face of truth is there,

Nothing overwhelming,

As gentle as it's rare.

9-22-13

About Noon

Everybody's writing books

And poems, advertising.

What's their purpose?

Immortality?

Wealth from sex and violence?
Take a mattress to the corner.

You'll get rich and faster.

Stephen King and Morrison

Got famous selling hell.

Tattoos, pain and rock and Jesus!

And Republicans!

If the GOP can help it,

Just the rich will live.

Such a morning with misgivings.

Nothing else is good today,

Except somebody said she didn't

Hear me make a hateful ass

Of myself impatient for a ride.

Tuesday he is coming home.

And we begin again.

He will give me confidence.

And I'll – continue writing.

9-22-13

 

Image

Another phony poet

Thinking he is great,

Stacking up his papers,

Hoping death will wait

Until he's rich and famous.

Prince of Poetry.

Don't express a word of doubt.

Someone will agree.

9-22-13

Countless Poets

Everyone writes poems,

And no one's worth a damn.

Even Johnny Keats.

Two centuries, a sham.

Bukowsky has some feeling.

Jeffers is a bore.

Merwin is ridiculous.

The time of art is yore!

Some paper and a pencil,

The clumsy hairy apes

Write their boring thoughts.

Laurels, wine and grapes!

9-22-13

 

The Saint

I'm not sad, I'm angry.

Are you a blessed saint?

Praise the damned untalented,

And tell him what he ain't?

I'm sad my verse is lousy

And finding out this way.

Mediocre phrases.

Embarrassing, I'd say.

Publishing those books

And passing them around,

And getting no responses,

Not the slightest sound.

I am not prolific.

It's just loquacity.

All I liked was Larry Hart.

Then came poesy.

9-22-13

 

State Of Affairs

We won't have any extra,

But today we have enough.

The homicides continue.

Were policemen always rough?

They gathered up the sick ones

And took them to the Bay

And left them on the sidewalk.

And then they went away.

Jacqui Schiff is dead.

A blight has been removed.

Tuesday he is coming home.

By someone he is loved.

My verse is like a diary.

It lacks the crystal edge

That would make it poetry.

I'm hanging from the ledge

Still wrenching with an effort

To hoist myself upon it,

As someone told me years ago.

(I cannot write a sonnet.)

9-22-13

 

Poems

Look at it. Your poems!

Like everybody writing -

Merwin and Bukowsky -

Though Bukowsky (hardly Shakespeare)

Has a modicum of feeling -

You think you are divine – like Jesus Christ!

At least you have five friends.

One is coming home

To publish his own verses,

And help you publish yours.

Three of them wait tables

At Denny's in the morning.

Tina offered you a ride.

Rebecca brought you cheese.

Not overlooking Emily

Who loves to sit and talk.

And finally there's Jill -

Not finally nor least -

But finally she's tired.

New Jersey's far away.

You used her to the limit.

She praised you like a god.

All of it a phantom

You didn't quite believe.

Too old for changing horses -

And nothing you can do -

After 50 years you're learning

Poetry's not you.

9-22 -13

 

After A Year

Fool! You thought she liked you

And to read the endless bilge

About you. So why would she?
Would anyone? Would you?

She didn't like your humor,

Ignored your anecdotes,

Has close to 20 other friends

Who probably aren't bores.

She gave your verse such praise

That even Keats would doubt it -

A heaven just to read -

You never thought was true.

You listened to his father

All the way to Vegas

And back. Did you enjoy it?
Perhaps that's how she felt.

And now a little coda

(A musical allusion) -

Poets never see their own defects -

Or comics realize they are not funny.

9-22-13

The Wrong Poem

I sent her a poem I did not like,

Rhythmless, contrived.

She answered it was excellent,

Believing it was mine.

She said that it was deeper

Than I usually write,

And when I disabused her,

She insisted it was great.

A bleak misunderstanding,

Just a little note,

And that was all it took

To knock my world apart.

9-22-13

 

Untitled, Like Me

I won't die for a very long time.

This is my conclusion.

Although my verse will not improve.

Damnation and confusion!

She made it clear my poems are bad

With her egregious praise

Of something she believed was mine.

How partially to raise

A poet from an early grave,

There since he was three,

Then thrust him back into the ground,

Where he can hear the sea.

9-22-13

 

The Craigslist Poem

The barf they're calling poetry

That hasn't any talent,

Intelligence or rhythm,

Beloved of the poets,

Has imagination like a dream,

As little meaning,

Like skin that's dead and flaking

Off the bottom of a foot!

9-22-13