Dreamt Last Night

Victoria

Bad men write good novels,

But Victoria does not.

With a streak of pettiness

She sketches out a plot.

Although she confuses

Infamy with fame,

She pimps her bossy butt off

To do something with her name.

She claims with casual conceit

To “scribble poetry”.

She got rid of Jill,

And Jill got rid of me.

Her books are trash. Her poetry

I will have to say

Is really almost just as good

As what they write today.

4-5-14

Dreamt Last Night

Divvy up the metal.

Throw away the tin.

If this is the ending,

Where did I begin?

I dreamed that little stanza,

Then gratefully awoke

And wrote it down as simply

As if it had been spoke.

It's not especially pretty,

With artificial scenes.

I can't even tell you

Exactly what it means.

4-5-14

 

A Dream Poem

Nights full of dreams

And heady sleep -

As they're enchanted

So let them be deep.

A beautiful fragment -

I kept it though

It's bound to a structure

I found in Poe.

A tidy idea

The dreamer unkempt

Fished from the ocean

Of sleep, and dreamt.

Oft through the darkness

Where phantoms creep,

The loveliest poems

Are born asleep.

4-5-14

 

Grandma

Grandma, that passive-

Aggressive old bat!

Supposing she hadn't

Collapsed in her flat.

She might have lived

To a hundred and eight

With only the tube

And its soaps for a mate.

They thought her naïve.

She knew perfectly well

What people do

For a sojourn in hell.

4-5-14

Grandma

Born with a silver spoon in her mouth,

She bit the handle off,

From Kentucky, very south,

Reared aloof to scoff.

Very fat and very vain,

She died at 96.

A spectrum of bigotry and disdain

Crossed the River Styx.

5-30-13