Who Would Do That?

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Who would do that?

Put a dead pigeon in yr rubbish bin?

If it was good enough

To put in my bin

Why wasn’t it good enough

To put in theirs?

O the stink,

The weight of it!

I shovelled it out of the bin

And tossed it,

Neck all crumpled,

Into the far right hand corner of the garden

Where it could decay

In dignity

Among the cluster of leaves.

The only good thing is

It’s given me something rancorous

To write about.

 

have you had any incidents with neighbors or strangers re your rubbish bins?

Cauldron of Creation

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I don’t know whether you noticed but when I write a poem I slam it down on the page still white –hot from the cauldron of creation. Only when it cools do I see its cracks and imperfections. This may take minutes, more often hours, sometimes days. One poem took me nine years to write. There’s still a few I’m working on from twenty years back.

Those of you who see the still molten post will be surprised when you see the reworked version solidifying into its present state. Yes, you should edit. The trick is not to edit out the primal energy which birthed the poem.

On Cannibalism

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Montaigne wrote an essay on Cannibalism

But he was not thinking of the literary kind.

Lately, having been ravaged by an uncontrollable

Hunger for poems to post, I have begun feasting

On a number of my haiku, being both salubrious

& delicious, not to mention efficacious. No one else’s

poems were hurt during the making of this poem.

The proof, they say, is in the pudding, which

I will set out before you to decide whether

Such a practice should occasionally be condoned.

 

 

Hold Like an Apple

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Whenever I feel a poem ‘coming on’

The images flickering before me like dragonflies

In sunlight, the sentences skittering off

In the distance, I feel like Cezanne bawling out

Vollard who kept falling asleep during a pose,

“Wretch! Stay still! You’re ruining everything.

You  must hold your pose like an apple.”

Off the Rails

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when I go off the rails

I’ll eat strawberry flan and chocolate cheese cake

wear my slippers to the shopping mall

my pj’s to the mail box

play my beethoven string quartets real loud like I did

my elvis records when I was fifteen

when I go off the rails I won’t be nice to mr fydler

just because he’s a senior

nor put the tv down when my kids ask me to

nor empty the dishwasher when

I don’t eat home at night

when I go off the rails

I’ll leave my newspapers just where I’ve read them

blare my horn all morning just to let my neighbors know

I’ve got one too

say what I really get up to when I “ go for a walk “

change my pass word on the internet so my brother-in-law

can’t sneak on

and when I go off the rails

like tootle the train engine

chasing butterflies

in the meadow

I hope no one puts me

back on track

too soon

 

The Lady in the Glove Box

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When I wait for her to do a spot of shopping

I wait in the car.

When she’s getting ready to go out,

I wait in the driveway, the sun

like a lamp. with my stash of magazines

between the seats:

my New Yorkers, National Geographics

and that lady in the glove box,

Olive Kitteridge.

It is my loo, my library, my study,

My five-seated reading room,

My Chapman’s Homer.

My car really takes me places.

 

 

Hands Up!

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I caught an intruder in my kitchen just now. He was trying to break into the wine bottle. Anybody who knows me knows this is an intolerable act. I pulled out my gun and immediately ordered him to put his hands up. Thankfully as this photo demonstrates he was compliant. Henceforth I will keep my wine under lock and key.

Snap

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A jagged lump

of

Anthracite?

 

A crab carcass

Pointy

with spikes

 

Black as soot.

No!

A 3-cornered

 

Jack just

Plucked from

My foot.