a thing so boring as a tree.

A tree to me, just standing there, is all you see,

arms raised to heaven, praying for rain or dog pee.

Admittedly a tree can be

quite beautiful when leaf-ed ful-ly.

But, like this poem of cursed rhyme,

a tree just stands there all the time.

Does nothing, does a tree – gives shade,

of course, with summer’s lemonade.

But shade doth fade as chill invades the glade,

dead leaves on pavement splayed.

So tell me not about its beauty, cutie.

I prefer a tree that works, is rather fruity.

Ah, here under the banana tree or apple,

with thoughts of gravity I grapple.

Ouch, what hit me on the head like lead?

‘Twas Joyce Kilmer, whom I thought dead.

Thus I promise as you snore:

Write again in rhyme? Nevermore!

(Published online in the April 2010 issue of Thick With Conviction)

Note:  Just another whimsical poem, written in rhyme to make fun of rhyme – really forcing words to rhyme, which is why the genre has nearly died out.  Never thought it would be published, but it got scooped up right away.  Go figure.

At the Old Poets Convention

This year we elected

A new Heroic Poet to lead us

Into the uncertain stanzas ahead.

It was close, Edgar Allan Poe

Edging our Allen Ginsberg,

Whose rants most of us thought

To be too tired, predictable.

Time to return to Nevermore,

The tintinnabulation of the belles,

None finer than Annabel Lee,

Or so quoth the Raven.

Oh, this next glorious year

Should be like the good old

Days, days, days, days,

Days, days, days.

I saw thee once, Edgar Allan -

Once only – years ago.

You’ve returned to the Haunted

Palace, old time entombed forever.

(Published onlie in 2008 in Slow Trains)

Note:  Can you tell I prefer Poe to Ginsberg?  Truly, I like all poets and never met a poem I didn’t like.  People who write poetry, good or not so good, are thinkers.  You have to think before you write a poem.  And, oh, it always helps if you have something of substance to say.  What am I saying in this poem?  Just a whimsical recalling of lines and words assembled as the Old Master, Edgar Allan, might have put them had the demons not gotten to him at so young an age.  A highlight of my life was visiting Poe’s dormitory room at the University of Virginia in Charlottesville.  What an experience and what a beautiful place.  I’m sure I saw his ghost, felt its presence anyway.  And heard vaguely, off in the distance, the admonition….Nevermore.

smack in the center of my driveway

and open “The Best American

Poetry 2004,” turn to page 36

and try for a third time to read

Charles Bernstein’s goofy long poem,

“Sign Under Test,” without any luck.

The poem, hopefully not like this one,

doesn’t make any sense, and maybe

that’s the way it was in that year,

2004, the entire collection chosen by

Lyn Hejinian (unknown to me) more

than a bit off-center, but that might

sound like sour grapes since not

one of my poems did she choose.

But I fail to get through the poem

yet again, this time because an elderly

lady pulls her car erratically into

my driveway, lets down her window

closest to me and yells, “Hey, guy,

where’s all the yard sale stuff you

advertised in this morning’s paper?”

I point to the hand-printed sign

square in the center of my neatly-

tended lawn which reads, YARD SALE,

large letters that even she can read.

I tell her, “The yard’s for sale – I’m tired

of caring for it.  Make me an offer.”

Zip, up goes her window, and she

leaves rubber on cement as she departs.

Crazy old ladies.  Why does an old man

like me try to figure them out?

Bernstein’s poem makes more sense.

(Published online in the September 2006 issue of Long Story Short)

Note:  This poem reminds me of my favorite syndicated cartoon, “Pickles,” starring Opal and Earl.  Am I Earl? Is Irene Opal?  Probably.  I think we all get a little zany, or zanier, with age.  But older women are difficult to figure out, so don’t even try.  Reminds me, I used to write gags for cartoonists, some of my favorites “The Flintstones” and “The Lockhorns,” as well as many others.  No money in it, and my own drawings were just a bit too perfect for mass consumption.  Glad I found poetry.  Singing, dancing, acting and sports were ruled out early – zero to little talent.  Hey, we do what we’re meant to do.