A Short Poem About Poetry

Another poem about poetry I'm afraid.  How droll.  No one really wants to know or cares but in case there's someone out there who does.... 


 A Short Poem About Poetry


It's not so much
A matter of trochee
Or synedoche
Not that they're
Inconsequential

But I primarily
Care how a poem
Falls on the inner ear
Whether composed
While walking the dogs
Around the block
Or at home alone
With Artie Shaw
In the background

For me
Words unspoken
By the breath
Carry the purest
Possible sound
That I can only
Hear when I write
Them down

Short Rhyme for the Greatest Minds of this Generation

Here's a short rhyme I devised on my way home from the store tonight, it helped no doubt that I was swinging a bag of heavy groceries to get a good rhythm going.


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And why is it

We have seen some of

The greatest minds

Of this generation

End up wasting their

Time online first

On Facebook

And then Twitter

As if there's nothing that matters

That can’t be expressed

By instant messenger or

In 140 characters

Or less I mean

Poem Written in Reply to Greg

But time really

Can't be wasted
Since we don't own it
In the same way
It may be said
We own all our

Other assets 

Because time

By definition 
Is a wasting asset
Anything we really
Do with it

With full heart and mind
Can only enhance
Our abiding sense

Of what Nothing

Is more truly worth

Ode to Mister Apology (II)

That something
Could be so personal
And still anonymous
Was an important part
Of the discovery of
The undercover work
That you did

That Truth likes
To wear all sorts
Of disguises
More playful
And bashful
Than misleading
In intent
For how would
She otherwise ever
Feel comfortable
Displaying herself
In the broad light of day

Poem Written in a Coffee Shop on 29th Street

It might be

Right there

In front of you

Because some

Of the world’s

Greatest discoveries

Just happen by

Serendipity

Juan said to me

Sitting in a midtown

Coffee shop the other day

When he turned my way

And noticed my glazed

Distracted look

And then one of

Reality’s hidden dimensions

Began to cohere right there

On the page in front of me

Just like a pop up book

As I realized the clarity

Of a picture depends

Not only on the aperture

Of the lens’ setting

But also that of the heart

As it ranges from fear

In the extreme

To something more open

To the plenitude of light

A Grammatical Lapse or Two

Just recently

My mom tsk tsked

Me for a grammatical lapse

In an email I sent

When I wrote Me

Instead of I as any

Second grader

Should have  

Known better 

And I lamely replied

That having dispensed

With punctuation

In deference to style

I felt it my prerogative

To abandon grammar

As well if and when

I felt so inclined

That being part

Of the basic liberty

To which I subscribed

When I signed up as

A practitioner of the art

Of completely free verse

Not standing beholden

To any truth higher

Than the hope of

More pleasurably serving

My listeners’ ears

A Poem for Deflationary Times

There are no more
Or less than three sides
To a coin even in the most
Deflationary of times
Not failing to count
The perimeter

On the one hand
I just bought
A cup of coffee
For exactly
One dollar
In a gourmet shop
In midtown
For the first time
Going back
Beyond my recall

And on the other
It would taste
Much less bitter if
I had a good steady job
Instead of sipping
From the cup
So timidly 
Prolonged by the
Fear of coming
Adversity

But clearly there's no point
In waiting around on the outside
Chance something good is
Going to happen
Because the future depends
On nothing but the sweat
Of my own brow
As it drips and mixes
With the ink that's setting
On the pages of the
Very next volume 
Set to roll off
Roll Your Own Press
While also for display on any
Atavist  friendly device
And then out the door to address
Whatever hard money fate
Happens to await me

About the High-Line

The High-Line
Poses the question
As a microcosm
Of the city itself --
What has most shaped
The outcome of this
Encounter between
Nature
Industry and
Art

When all three
Have recombined
In such an intricate way
It's all but
Impossible
To sort
Things out

What nature
Reclaimed from
Industry with native weeds
Has been so well arranged
By the gardener's art
As to revive an abandoned
Right of way
So it carries
An ever more
Essential flow 
Of Euros and Yen
Straight to the City's
Beating heart

Wet Paint On Fence!

Last night was
The first night
Of the new moon of
The Lunar New Year
And there was wet paint
On the fence according
To this sign I saw
Taped to the ground
When I went for a walk
Along the High-Line

The Essence of Chan

Just like
A seagull's call
Reality has
An iterative
Ring to it

That for me
Is the essence
Of Chan
How it starts
With a sudden
Reverence
For emptiness

But must be
Cultivated further
From there

A Poem About the Social Network Effect

Ah so now we are
Networking
Me and my old
College professor
On one of those
So called professional
Social networks
So what sort of
Extra benefits
Can I expect
To reap now


If my life generally
May be said
To be analogous
To a multi-level
Marketing scheme
Then I most definitely
Intend to pursue
A middling course
Steering far away
From the extremes

And of Sancho Panza
And the good Don
I remain perfectly
Comfortable
In either part
Depending
On whichever one
I first happen to land

What a Guy on the Ferry Said

The other day
I ran into this guy
On the Long Island Ferry
Who told me about
The Striped Bass
Along the North Shore
Who have made a home there
Year round in the warm waters
Spewed out by the power plant

And how similar to that
I have planted myself
Here in the intertidal zone
Along Weesuck Creek
In the warmth
Of a power plant of
Unknown devising

Where my kayak
Gently bobs up
And down on the
Incoming tide as
I proceed slowly
Almost without effort
On a slipstream of time
Gliding along with
A paddle in my hands
Both sides alternately
Stretching
Literally floating home
Into the corona
Of the last light
Of day
What more incredible
Perpetual motion effect
Than that can one
Ever hope to attain

Another Thing I Learned from Gus

Maybe Gus
Is onto something big
The way he crouches
Under the far side
Of the hydrangea

As it seems what
This one-eyed cat most
Particularly delights in
Is laying in wait
In a very simple
Predator state
Of mind
Honing his 
Craft

Sonnet Fifty Five

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Between the published

Self-published and not

And a baker’s dozen

Of other possibilities

The randomness of success

Defies all understanding

And the vagaries of

Popular taste bother

Me not in the least

But what I find extremely

Vexing about my

Present circumstances

Both as a person and a poet

Is the titillation provided

By the least sign of

The world’s interest in my work

And how the smallest increase

In page views per day transforms

Itself into a perceptible bounce

In my own sense of self-worth

For Sasha - My Almost Blind But Seeing Eye Dog

I’ve learned a lot

From Sasha

My nearly sightless bitch

By cataracts afflicted

And boon companion

For the last few years

When she heads

Out the front door

She hesitates not

The slightest bit

But onward she charges

To smell and bump

Into the world largely

Without regard

For all the terrible things

About to happen

And so too I should like to

Proceed about my business

With sight likewise occluded

Speaking not of the outer two

But solely of the inner eye

Through which vision is

But dim and intermittent

Yet not to be deterred

In the least from continuing

To bump and grope

My way about

Stout of heart for as

Long as I’m able


*  *  *  *  *

The Puritans fancied

We are all like

An old blind dog

Lying underneath

The blacksmith’s table

Oblivious to damnation

Even amidst the sparks and clangs

From each anvil burst

I see the simile too

Walking down the street

With Sasha as she bangs

Along cranium first

Knocking into lamp-posts

Scaffolding poles and

Hefty sac garbage bags

Piled high by the curb

It’s just how

An old blind dog

Navigates through

Life’s many dangers

Finding her way

And giving us

A clear glimpse
Of our own future

*  *  *  *  *

And I can see her 

As she stood outside

On the front lawn

Just the other day

Her muzzle cocked

Her coat riffling

In the breeze still

With a pure delectation of spring

Coursing through her veins

Sasha at rest

A Few Verses in Praise of George Orwell

I wrote this poem after reading what struck me as an overly snide review written by Barry Gewen in this weekend's NYT's Book Review about George Orwell's recently published diaries.

A writer’s credibility rests upon

His or her ability with words

To impress upon readers

A love for truth unvarnished

So George Orwell towers

Above all others

Of the 20^th century

As a devotee 

By instinct abhorring

All cant

And please remember

Counting eggs is a

Time honored occupation

Among English empiricists
Down through the  centuries
Those who truly relished

The beautiful taste
Of what's been home laid

By a bird in the hand