does everyone
know you
are a swine?
she sweetly asked.

no i oinked at her
keep my secret safe

my wings
confuse her
as
i flew
away
like a weightless
poem
with a simple ring
of humbleness
secured

on  the snout of my nose.

It hard to say
Giddy up
to a flying pig.

his snout
is never
within the pull of earth.

a thousand
feet in the sky
a pink snozzle in muddled clouds.

his oink
& corkscrew tail
the only thing;

except your
weightless imagination
keeping such a sight afloat up there.

I think that I shall never see
A sight as strange as a flying pig .

A winged pig that snout is sky-wised pushed
Against the earth’ fantastic slopping roundness

A winged pig who may fly all day,
And lifts whimsicality toward higher climes;

A pig that flutters in the icy air
A flap of wings and oinking there ;

Upon whose flight our imagination ascend
Our imitations in inward horizon up-sweeps logic .

Fall guys like me write poems,
But only metaphors like flying pigs

Can rise in ink stained skies and barnstorm
the very gates of eternity with winged couplets.

be careful
when you
invite new
metaphors
into your
fresh built
box of a poem.

a small
house is
perfect
or a poet
that has
few silver
words left  
in their
pocket.

lower case
               is  cheaper
                            than uppercase.

as you nail
penny-nails
with your
wobbling
flat head
hammer;
simpleness
into
all your
lines.

be careful
metaphors
can act
like
miniature
tigers.

some
of the  
metaphors
want to start
problems
to scratch  
at your
floorboard
& swing from
your curtains
with their
sharp
retractable claws
& climb
on  your
window panes
& leave
their nose-prints
impressed
on each
window
in each
of your
stanzas.

take the
broom
& chase
the  troublesome
ones out
past the door jams
of your poem.

keep the
few
metaphors
that  are
asleep
at the
hearth.


the similes
you scattered
as a homecoming
blessing
turn into
see-through
butterflies
& flap
their wings
in symmetry
of beats
up the
wainscot

the sparrow
of your
voice
awakes on
the swinging
perch of
your small simple
birdcage
          & begins
                     to chirp
& the
symbols
hiding in
the nooks
& crannies
come to your
table to steal
crumbs & slices
of green cheese
that you
have sliced
quietly
from
the moonrise
slowly
forming
like onion skin
in the
lightbulb
you keep
dutifully hidden
in your head.

symbols squeak
and the metaphors
dream
of goldfish
swimming
in the periods
the little bowls
you
place
in kindness
at the  ends
of your stanzas.

the city
filled in
the small
pond
in the middle
of my tiny
poem.

all the ducks
came to
my door
and complained
i am
simple
i agree
in the meekest
of language.

that they
have been
unhomed.

it is
my duty
they tell
me as a poet
to open
the  door
of my
small poem
and let
them swim
in my bathtub.

i agree
it is tough
to be unhomed
there should
be plenty of room
in my weensy poem
for such
a small flock
of fluffy ducks.

the  periods
are silent
because
they must know
something.


the ducks
fill up my
bathtub
as they quack
double sestina
to the pond
that has been
filled  by those
unfeeling humans!

it is
hard to work
in such cacophony
such repetitive
quacking repetition
words
like floating wood
float to the surface
of my eye-ear
in spades.

often i type
my meager haikus
on my typewriter
with missing
chrome keys:

typewriter  chrome keys flutter cure
clear water within  pond flows pure
ducks like ink letters rise into line.


no
says my
inward-sparrow:
“that is an englyn milwr
not   a haiku”


bless
you sparrow
i tried again:

typewriter keys clatter
rises like letters in moonlight
ducks swim on round poem.

Then the tiny bell
vibes
as my typewriter
comes to the margins
and quacking subsides.  

The ducks come
to my study
and complain
that my typing
is quite distracting
to their
swimming.

The periods
can only  chuckle
like crickets.

often
various punctuation,
leave their strange hats
in the small
humbleness
of my cloak room.

usually i have
a small
folding table
in the kitchen
set up for thirteen.

they each sit
& drink
from the
cuppletts of sound.

their plates
are heaped  with
the dumplings of symbols.

punctuation
always waits for
the final image
to come hot
from the oven.

Often the punctuation
coughs & complains
that the turkey
is too dry.

often poets
have their choice of images
turkey,
duck,
goose,
or chicken.

language is
cooking
each poem
has its own
smell

as the flavors
and sounds boil
reduce
into an incense.

people
are often
surprised
when they  visit
the i
at my poem desk.


why do
i wear an apron
and a chef’s hat ?

the pockets
you see
are  perfect to hold pens
and 3 by 5 cards  aplenty
and a  metal ladle
to stir
faithful
the sauce
of my compositions.