The Poet Presents himself as a Riddle

it reads:
When I told them of my craft
They nearly laughed;
She doth reel and tip
Of rhymes is made my ship.



it reads:
A chill which has spread
Through the rafters and walls here
Marks the sun's retreat.


A Little Bird Told Me

it reads:
I read it one day, appearing
Upon my glowing box
It was hardly to be endearing
In fact it was a pox;

'A little bird just told me'...
They were all a-twitter with
Any one may scold me
For lack of wit and pith;

But once when I was sitting
(Trying to concentrate)
There was a note someone was hitting
Their pitch in fact was great;

It was warbling a sonata
This bird upon my deck
The unusual cantata
Had me craning about my neck

Perched as I was that moment
Upon a high, hard stool
I was intensely silent
It was hard to keep my cool!

All have heard birds singing
About the trees and brush
And has known them bringing
In the dawn and dusk;

An unusual song, believe it
My ears thought it quite unique
I saw no one to receive it
As it passed to air from beak!

But it held a secret speaking
Unknown to the ears
Of the heart's true breaking
Of his traceless years;

Beauty held in common things
Surprises in the dirt
The thrill of having working wings
The danger of being hurt;

The place we were received it
Like a poured out cup;
As soon as I believed it
The bird was flitting up.

Even as its song was small
It had me standing long
For though it had given all
It still was full of song.

The chirping, humming box that stands
And serves with eager grace
Even if one day it understands
Will never sing its days.
a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:
twitter little bird told me



it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
Far among the things cluttered
About this room, it is uttered
That there lies if not much less
A solitary bit of solace.

I was told this by a little bird
Who perched, and spoke a word
While at my window seeing
The blank faces of the city's being.

I have searched then deeply
And who would not - so cheaply
Is peace bought through clutter?
This secret I dare utter.


The Heart Speaks of Its Days

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
When I am young
They will accuse me
Saying, "What tender shoot
From earth breaks
And mere grass speaks
As though it were a man?"

And when I am young
What shall I say
In my defense, or
Against those who bring
Bitter words to rest
On my tongue's end?

When I am ripe
As men of this age
See their glass
From our loftiness
I shall watch it run
Out the bottom

And when I am wiser
Will I stooped, see
The bottom of my
Glass brimming with
Spent days bright
Like gold and ash;

When I am wiser
I will forget
My ignorance,
And remember
The bright thunder
Of my first joy:

But when I am old
Finally at last my
Glass will be full
Of years and I
Shall drink deeply
Of my days and die.


To Dry Autumn

it reads:
In these days if it does not rain
If the wind blows not the clouds
It will be but cold and gray again
A shade, a pall of funeral shrouds.


Mrs. Macbeth

it is addressed thusly:
To my adolescent pretensions.
it reads:
My Hegelian dialectic
Was once regarded 'hectic'
My Marxist overtones
Could chill to the bones
I had Utopian thinking
That was more than just an inkling
A revolutionary pen
Rated nine out of ten.

Now I've gone and forgot
My progressive polyglot
Where once hot to trot
Most decidedly now 'not':

I spend my days considering
The parties and their splintering
The ruin of man's vision
His deplorable decision
And how from the start
All could see the wart
Which would become the host
Sea to sea and coast to coast.

Engels, Marx and Lennon
Are in their graves a'spinnin
On account of once white linen
That has now a nasty spot.



it reads:
That poor parasite of man's nature
Robber of remorse and contrition
Paints a cynic's dark picture
- an evil romantic's fiction.
No noir is his story now told
It is a road without friction
No perfect flaw, no hot or cold
Just steady, downward conviction.
No mention need I for its stature
It is quite base, below the fold
Despair is not humble, just old
And unwisened but by mold
Is the regrettable host -
The creature.


The Poet's Complaint

it is addressed thusly:
A lament.
it reads:
That I am irrational
When I get the chance
Is not sufficient rationale
To dismiss my stance.

Leave some grains of sand unturned
Allow uncertainty
Humane things then remain unburned
Man is allowed to be.

I will not excuse my petty wrath
Or defend my own mistakes
Please criticize my wrongful path
So that my soul awakes.

But gardens are not kept aright
By removing rock and wall
For underneath them may alight
Spider, worm and all!


To The Wind on Baltimore Street

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
Need I say how I forgot
Of the autumn's wind
Summer's noisome, long and hot
Eager for her end.

Then one day I'm stepping out
Of my motor car
Suddenly the air's in rout
From just my door ajar:

Where is it all now rushing to
Across these concrete piers
It rushes to, it rushes fro
It rushes in my ears.

I cannot hear the man upon
The end other of the phone
Until this wind is come and gone
I must walk alone.

Autumn I love the most of all:
Winter's bright interlude
But sharply now I must recall:
Best enjoyed in solitude.