Nothing Like the Sun

“My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;”
– Willam Shakespeare, Sonnet 130


This storm is not a shriek-wife,
misery’s rain of love gone cold;

Spring is not thrown down the stairs
by Winter’s violation of restraining order;

The missing sunset is not a corpse,
buried beneath clouds too grey for dead;

Because here inside, under wraps,
your eyes beget a Summer’s promise;

Once again, restored, the sun.



For April Poem a Day (Metaphor)


Kafka, you underplayed your hand,
dealt your man Gregor a low,
below the beetle blow.

How much better
to have made him an Assassin Bug!
Or Robber Fly,
or Death’s Head Moth.
Sure, tough to take his humanity,
but at least he’d have his pride.

“One morning,
after a night of uneasy sleep,
Gregor Samsa woke to find
he’d been transformed
into a killer bee!
So great! His family
trembled before that quivering
abdomen of horror.
Puissant, glorious –
death from above.”

100 years is enough wallowing
in despair, Franz. Time for “closure,”
or moving on, or whatever.
At least make him a praying mantis,
all proudly greened and sticked and mandibled.
At least let him die
In his lover’s arms.

For April Poem a Day

Ars Vigia

First thing on waking –
note deterioration of eyesight.
Blurry vision – good!
Might be day for soft focus poem.
But forces contemplation of death.
Bummed out, but could be good too.

Mistakenly pick up dirty sock
instead of clean.
Sniff to confirm.
Lock in theme of disgust.

Race midget from ferry to bus.
Cardio for the day – done!

Work interfering horribly with poetry.
Sit in SBUX and scratch out ideas.
The muse found standing in line –
she’s beautiful, luminous,
but sexually frustrated. No, no. Delete.

Evening walk with dog by the river,
scanning the rocks for washed up body parts.
Light on the water, the city,
she’s beautiful, luminous.
Try to channel Wordsworth.
Wordsworth didn’t have to pick up dog poop
in little plastic bags.

Running out of time
to post April Poem-A-Day!
For inspiration,
watch insects fighting on YouTube.
Read Wikipedia about
Crimean War, again.
Mother Superior turns out the lights
in the living room
and goes to bed.
Sit in the dark,
time’s up.

Bitter my lament.



For DVerse MTB and April Poem a Day

New York Minute

Sprinters all, we’re ready, steady
at the yellow safety line
on the deck of the ferry,
waiting for our starting gun,
the bump against the pier –

Every day I race a midget (yes, a midget)
for the best seat on the bus.
No holds barred, that’s the deal,
as we bob and weave and elbow and bluff
our way up the ramp and three sets of doors –
my long legs indomitable in the stretch,
her tiny size a huge advantage
diving through gaps in the crowd.

This is Manhattan, and until you’ve
walked a New York Mile
in my Ferragamo’s
who are you to judge?



For DVerse Poetics and April Poem a Day


It isn’t the War of the Worlds,
Or even Godzilla vs. The Smog Monster,
It is the War of the Words:

Cerulean vs. Mighty Blue,
Dive Bomber Eyes vs. Fury,
Beryllium Veined vs. Mr. Freeze,
Alas Poor Yorick vs. The Joker,
Nietzsche vs. Super Man,
and not least
Buzzle* vs. rooting around in the yard somewhat, scuffing your toe in the dirt.

Our hearts are drenched,
yearning for The Poet’s
brief victory.



*Buzzle is a great new word coined by Jilly!

For April Poem a Day


I am paterfamilias
which I guess makes me the Latin Pope
of the living room
where I’m growling out these prayers

Crap! I just baptized
the armchair with spilled coffee,
frightening the dog and Mother Superior
with my vulgate benediction

When they were young
I would sell absolution
to the children
for the price of candy Easter eggs

If families are a religion
then we are catholic to the OED,
sermons of the word
blessed by constantly interrupting

Long ago shouted down from infallibility,
my mitre a fool’s cap –
they just tolerate my preaching,
pontificate meter on foolscap

For April Poem a Day


This bergamot,
looking so green
but tasting so orange,
hoax-nosed you
like a street juggler,
like dizzy lemon-lime
snout dancers and
whiffing you the rind,
this fruit
the biggest
slight-of-snoot trick
of all time



For April Poem a Day