The Pusillanimous Poet

There was once an American man,

A poet, a flash in the pan,

and when he feels sick,

He stops writing; he quits,

and it frustrates his grandiose plans.

Man from the Sticks

There once was a man from the sticks

Who got fed up with hayseeds and hicks,

So he eats his cheese stinky,

Drinks his tea with raised pinky,

and the opera's where he gets his kicks.

And What About the Ten Years In Between?

It is not quite shocking,

and more a pleasant sort of frisson

To learn about a band,

Of which I was a fan,

Entirely without knowing,

At least, when I was a teenager,

When I could not have known better,

While what I do not know now

Is whether I ought to be embarrassed

and making these excuses.

The Picture That Came in the Frame

You look so much like me.

You look so much like you did

When I saw you in Target

Ten thousand miles away.

You remind me of Target,

Which is close to other parts of my life

That were once more important.

You look so much like home,

Which only serves to highlight

That you do not belong here,

and I am offended just to look at you.

The Very Newest in Old Folk Wisdom

Bakers rise early. If pie's easy,

Then what are they doing?

How many shrinks you think it takes

To screw my loose screws in?

If suffering builds character,

What do characters build?

Unless your glass is in outer space,

It's totally filled.

If your aunt was your uncle,

She wouldn't be your aunt.

There are three kind of people:

Those who can count, and those who can't.

There are two kinds of jobs:

Experience required and experience preferred,

and always, always remember

Your patience will be rewarded–eventually.

Questions Unheard

I ask the gray-green jungles

As old as trees' grandfathers' grandfathers

As young as this last growing season

If I might learn to live among them,

But they so silly as to indulge adult cares,

Not silly enough to speak to

The stupid question of youth.

I ask the full-bearded mountain,

Each whisker a wasted labor to shave,

If I will find welcome in this new place,

But the mountain keeps the silence of wisdom.

Oh, the fool thinks this place is new?

I ask the living, teeming streets

If this welcome might last,

If these young friendships

Might grow old with me,

and they keep their unsilence.

They do not stop to listen.

Their din won't change in answer.

They simply talk amongst themselves

As they have always done.

Perhaps they're waiting for me

To do something different.

The Smiles of Newness

I am surely an old hand

At the smiles of newness.

I have seen these all before.

I have seen them change

Into something else,

Something new for oldness,

No more pretended welcome

Once I know the truth of it.

I am surely an old hand

At the smiles of newness.

I have seen these all before.

I have seen them change

Into something else,

Something new for oldness,

No more pretended welcome

Once I know the lie of it.

I am surely an old hand

At the smiles of newness;

Just as surely a new face

Among these new faces.