That classic villanelle is hard to master;
alternate lines can drive me up the wall
(but avant-garde absurdity drives faster).

I could just dash off some Haiku disaster,
but that would never hold you in its thrall.
Authentic villanelle is hard to master.

To learn new forms, sometimes all we can muster
is try it out and write; obey our call
to follow, bleating, some poetic pastor

to greener lyric landscapes—or a vaster
universe of verse in which to scrawl.
Authentic villanelle is hard to master.

Breaking the lyric flask of alabaster,
like the Magdalene's perfume, we give our all,
disciples of true poetry, to our Master.

Keeping pace, the muse now urges: faster
I'm sweating now, and headed for a fall . . .
That classic villanelle is hard to master.
I hope to learn from Bishop—yet run past her.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

                                              Alfred Lord Tennyson

Grieve the fallen warriors of diversity.

A trumpet’s mournful sound now casts its pall . . .

Southern rumors: prophets of perversity

Non-profiting from Liberal wherewithal:

Poverty’s pimps. Their bold hypocrisy

Weinsteins loudly, colliding with our news;

Southern Law: poor as our democracy

Purporting to promote progressive views.

His name rang sweet in all progressive ears

But now the cypresses sigh out their song;

For scams must be exposed—though it wring tears

We hear the dirge; night’s shadows looming long.

Weep, oh armchair zealots of the cause

For Morris Dees, a victim of his laws.

I.

evolving, thunder-struck

amino eventualities

and bio-potentialities

in the muck

re-group, protoplasmic and joyful

singing in the proverbial soup

of circumstances

and random cosmic chances

a song of differentiation

loose ends / ragged strands / loose lines

of poetry: DNA spiral dances

Precambrian time, period of time extending from about 4.6 billion years ago (the point at which Earth began to form) to the beginning of the Cambrian Period, 541 million years ago. Precambrian time encompasses the Archean and Proterozoic eons, which are formal geologic intervals

II.

the wriggling one-celled poet decides

to become complex

takes its time:

geologic / astral eons

twitching and failing

into the fabled tadpole of adaptation

to a godless universe, diverse

in its variegated futility

this idea has been summarized in the mouthful, ‘ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny’, which means the development of the individual embryo repeats its alleged evolutionary history. The first thing to say about this dictum, is that ‘law’ it is not!

III.

our fish, now fowl,

proclaims its Archaeopteryx manifesto

standing on Precambrian banks

demanding a return on its investment

in sedimentary overlays:

Ernst Haeckel !  shrieks the avian jokester

The Imaginary Monera: the eating habit and reproductive cycle of an alleged Moneron to which he gave the scientific name, Protomyxa aurantiaca 73 pages of his speculations more important than facts and evidence.

IV.

into the long long corridors

of time’s bad poetry

sleeping off the tadpole nightmare

sprouting flippers, legs, digits, wings

deciding to fly, smashing antediluvian cedars with trilobite tail

upright biped sporting body-hair

you shall prevail

descending from trees in African dreams

misanthropologically *****

gracile / robust (that’s us)

Hey turn that **** up ! yells Piltdown Man

from his evolutionary window

He believed that the only major difference between man and the ape was that men could speak and apes could not. He therefore postulated a missing link which he called Pithecanthropus alalus (speechless apeman) a woman with long lank hair suckling a child.

V.

falling for the lies

of the Lord of the Flies

Zinjanthropus asks quizzically

How much more of this

are you prepared to take ?

misbegotten centuries glimmer:

light years of bad poetry

captive eons of incoherent free verse

as we wait

for the Bronze Age Myths

to begin

Poetry ought to do things right
and document reality—
but modern muses lose the fight
weaponizing identity.

Out-doing themselves, our leaders all
legitimize perversity.
Who gave them this satanic call
to demonize normality ?

In showing off their dubious worth,
the nation’s ignobility
transform to Babel all the earth
augmenting instability.

They can’t go One-World fast enough
suppressing Christianity.
Their matriarchy’s mom is tough,
enforcing femininity.

Milk of reptilian global beast:
postmodern animality
offers her withered poison breast
maintaining infantility.

They pour across. We help them in
supporting illegality;
our taxes fund their brand-new life
rewarding criminality.

(this festive traditional Central-Italian dish serves entire populations of citizens)

    INGREDIENTS:
     ♦  faith in God
if unavailable, any stable moral-ethical framework can be used

     ♦  esteem for traditional cultural values

     ♦  willingness to say what you think

     ♦  hatred of Political Correctness

1)   Wake up in the morning and breathe
rinse your mind and other ingredients well from previous day’s brain-washing

2)   Refuse to believe media propaganda
ask friends/family members to ignore mainstream media & close Facebook accounts

3)   Believe that God created Man and Woman in Genesis

4)   Refer to God as He
main ingredient, beware of fire if Feminists/Genderqueer activists are near stove

5)   Define family as 1 man + 1 woman joined in marriage producing children
let ingredients simmer. Add a pinch of absolute Biblical doctrine if desired

6)   Critique Cultural Marxism in ALL its overt & disguised manifestations

7)   Dissent from the One-World Techno-Narcissist mindset
algorithms and search-filters complement this dish, but feel free to serve it on its own

Persona Non Grata pairs well with a full-bodied Tuscan Chianti, or Montepulciano, but is especially enhanced by any vintage where the Grapes of Wrath are stored.

She stirs in her cell, unaware she’s free
The keyboards start to click in joyous dread;
For you, O useless reader, hold the key
To rouse this sleeping prisoner from her bed.
Accustomed to her dull imprisoned state
Unused to warmth, she babbles in her cage
She fears, at first, the freedom to create;
Awakening, the muse begins to rage
Across the warming threshold into light,
She strides as verses blossom on the page
To chastise and put winter’s ghosts to flight.
The thawing wind! She shakes her golden hair
And lyric pollination seeds the air . . .

Jussie walks ! Money talked—and talked loud
To the Trump-hating race-hustle crowd;
And they break forth in cheers
As star Smollett appears
For their drama-queen makes them so proud.


For a moment Fake News became tense:
Jussie's narrative made little sense.
There were lies told in spades,
But the incident fades;
Now it's on to more current events.