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.

...It always seems...
            that we come to
               beginning at the end…


I disagree
              we are at a table.

Technically at a table
      but more al fresco
                              than inside...

I do not  agree  
                      with your
                                   misuse  of metaphor.

What a surprise...
                       To  understand inside
                                                       on must understand outside...


No you miss-understand!
          Please stop drinking
          you are a waterfall in reverse
pouring liqueur down
          the pettiness of your throat.
Oh! you spilled again…..

… Gin...i think its more
           likely libation
than your crocodile tears
           splashing like thorns on our salty dinner table...

You treat our wedlock
like pinata
and keep on swinging  

<lifting a glass of sherry>
...the mermaids are singing
the crickets are  chirping
can i  join in the luminous tunes
under moonscape & street lamps...
  i  am not sure if the
narrator or the voice
  of our disconnect,
is just a  ***** or an effaced  harpy ...

Monologuing  are we?

    That was always your problem….

No i was hoping for a liqueur
& well-lit soliloquy
unfortunately
you hearing is
too good & your plates is
too clean.
Never trust a skinny noun
for a lover...

                                              Your using the wrong fork….

No fears,
           as my empty
            overturned glasses
                               tremble around us
                               like our nonexistent children.
          Impossibilities
                 that  haunt the spaces of our words
                 like overcooked spaghetti  
...here too our invisible similes
at our
        evening repast...

                                        No worries
                                                        I was written that way
                                                                                         and you are a miserable lush.

indeed….
not on the menu
but our relationship
is a taco
with not enough lettuce…



I would say there are
                              losts of green words
                              missing  between us
                                                 and echo of your ego
                                                  swims in the whiskey.

the beauty of a glass  
             is its final emptiness;
the difference between          
lust and lush is just  one letter.
              you my dear  
             never lets the letters
            of your alphabets
free to flap

to the porch lights
                  
              except for a price...


It   might  just be the
                             spaces between
                                                   stars and ignorance of moths.
Your ignorance
                        always steals the narrative
                                                                  in my fortune cookie.


  no desert tonight i guess.
i hate this  mistaken table …..

Misspoken...you mean
miserable table!!!

your reflection my dear
will always reflect
            in waxy wood rings….
           returning to where
we first met
making one
            want to drink
            deeply the forgetful draught
                                          from the Styx
                                          my cold little-sphinx.

first you
            must imagine
                                  a shiny poem
           new born
           printed
like moses  between
          two-pages
          of bulrushes.

Somewhere in a chapbook,
peruse the scattered leaves
in some independent book seller.
Where they treated their books like
prospero’s books at the end of The Tempest.

You will find –
only the young
buy from amazon
the old
    long addicted
           to poetry’s  
   chimera-hallucinogenic-elements
          of ink and paper
must touch the chapbook;
        Run down the isles
        with their finds
careful not to make the gaze
        of all the unread
                                  poetry books.



How dreadful
       the unspoken wail of unread poetry
they snort like chained dragons
       speaking fiery sonnets.

If you  should  go that route
       be careful never gaze directly
into their  burning  orbs
        of controlling  metaphors.
Then the poet
        in you will turn to stone
like the gaze  of basilisk.

Claim you treason-treasure
wrap it in your burlap bag
and juggle it home
not stopping
at a kansas city fountain
to  eat a couple pages--
how crisp is the book
in your messager bag.
for poetry is
a fix for   lotus-eaters
that graze between the stanzas
and  when you get home
you climb
into your bed
and take  that mysterious chapbook
and hold it  
tenderly as the moon arises
in the window
of your apartment
and  read deep
as all your candles
recede toward their bases
                           descending
           as the flickering of flame
                            and wax
                        begin to pool on   candle stands.
still you read
as metaphors  kiss you
like boundless winds
for the poem unfolds
                      before you  all
                                    its tropes
                                    sing-like sparrows
                       and  then its images  
                       build new stairs
                                                  in your inward mind
                                                                ­                    as lines proceed  
                                                       ­                                                   up the  sky-stained                          sky of infinity…
..and still the words speak
                                       and you must obey
                                                            ­        and follow
                                                          ­             until
                                                           the last page turns
     and luminous  ink letters
         emerge
                                     from all your
pores.

poems
should not have
bullet points.
• why not?
• because textbooks
say so…

• Just because
• the herd needs
• a period
• not to test
• the great
• expanse
• of blank page
• --below --
• The hooves of their conformity

so do

• i not
• require
• the use
• of bullets
• between symbols
• and words
• that i
• drip
• sound though .

to splash…
for poets
often
delude
themselves
in their
poems.