The poetry in Poetry

Wicked, I know, but who could resist?

Oh, this must be a poem,
from the lick-backed wobble
of word-induced glimmer,

from the near-likely brood
of dimple-starred crows,
these broad gallops of

weedy wings.

Like the grand chausee
or the midge-grained wire alike.

Oh, this must be a poem,
sits like a wimple
across my greedy brow;

yet the still carcass
– a mantis dream –
occurs relentless into the
sun-darkened corner.

Oh, this must be a poem.

Rhyme, this time

I know you might say
Upon glancing my way,
“If you’re such a poet,
Why don’t you show it?
There’s not a rhyme anywhere
In your usual fare,”
And for this I extend my apology.

I offer this sop
To prove I’m no fop
In the hope you’ll accept
That at rhyme I’m adept.
To ensure that you’ll like it,
With humor I’ll spike it,
And fill it with gosh and oh, golly, gee.

Burma Shave

That time I thought of poetry

1965, nickel bag, down from Chicago,
Alert, ready to flush at a moment’s notice,
When the truth was, we could have smoked it
In the front pew of the Church of Jesus Christ
The Bleeding Savior, for all anyone knew of it
Back then, back when everything dark was nameless.

And I was rambling aimlessly,
Words following words, broad and blunt,
The way a sailor rips his lines, the way
A soldier blindly fires.
And someone said,

“What’s he ranting about?”
And Hugh, my immortal vanished Hugh, said
“Dylan Thomas came down
And wrote a poem in his head.”

And, by God, he had.