Abstract impressionists would choose
To paint the stroll and not the shoes.
An abst. impressive’s core belief:
Depict the wind and skip the leaf.
It’s hard to say what work might be it
Though you’ll know when you don’t see it.
Black nor white nor gray, but schism?
That’s abstract impressionism.
“Why,” my neighbor asked,
“Are you running in the rain?”
Because it’s raining.
When an anteater
Invites you to share a meal
Don’t bring your mom’s sibs
I don’t speak Echidna, so
I’m sorry you’re offended, though
That thing you think I meant, I didna.
(That means “didn’t” in Echidna.)
When I don’t work (e.g., this week)
My calendar begins to leak
And erstwhile “workdays” that I’d dread
In normal weeks are lost or shed.
I know it’s Tuesday now (I checked);
It’s over, though, when I’d expect
An endless, un-fun Monday first,
Not both at once, in one big burst
Of truancy. When Wednesday shows
Will I have time to gloat? Who knows?
At this accelerated rate
T.G.I.F will come too late–
Acronymize my Saturday.
Vacation’s just one week, though. Whew!
It’s fortunate I take so few.
My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
The sonnet’s recitation’s just begun
And forty rounds have flown; some friends are dead.
If hairs be wires— gunman fires still;
The students feel the first frisson of fright
As down the hall the bullets fly and kill–
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from each victim reeks
And music hath a far more pleasing sound
Than gilded lead that smacks the flesh it seeks.
My mistress drowns in blood upon the ground.
And yet, by heaven, mass shootings are rare;
To ban poor, blameless guns would not be fair.
How can there be drought
When a Harmon-muted horn
Brings the gods to tears?
Most of what I write I’ve done
A hundred times. Here’s one-oh-one.
It’s hazardous for me to wait
To write until it’s getting late.
I tell myself I’m stalling ’til
My Muse arrives; she surely will
Epiphanize my lazy brain,
I say, as if I hadn’t lain
Here like a worn-out metaphor
All evening, putting off the chore
Of cleverness facsimilation,
Dreaming of the celebration
When the big idea lands
And splashes on my waiting hands,
Which it never does, of course.
That creek was dammed above the source
By beavers who don’t care for rhyme,
So, once again, it’s haiku time!