Should You Cease to Signal Virtue
If you could only let it drop
we would not need to bear it:
that holy hoity-toity
illiberal burden you announce
from where you wear it.
Would you then be able to live
with your fellow citizens:
fellow toilers in rhyme
buying gluten-free time
at Whole Foods
US; your citizen-neighbors
online cloud of witnesses
Looking at used Subarus
and paying our dues
with you
at the dealership.
Could you only see
through deplorable eyes
and love with a deplorable heart
you would appreciate the art
of the real deal,
loose the seal
of your own apocalypse;
let love reveal
landscapes your pride
has kept hidden for too long.
If you could let your hatred drop
Slough off the smug and the sneer
If you could stop
signaling to your own
long enough to know REAL diversity, and live
perhaps you’d give
a thought to your own fallibility
lost in a forest of woulds, failing to see
Your neighbor’s Tree of Life. . .
But you are busy perfecting strife,
Screaming Timber!
before the axe has even been laid
at the root of your poetry.
If you knew, as the rest of us
how often you have shouted thus
you could understand why
we tend to ignore your warning cry.
Perhaps it could be feasible
to stop blaming
that orange source of all unreasonable
derangement, cease from naming
your neurotic projections
as they are unscrewed
to reveal another inside:
crazed conspiratorial Russian doll
of your own
discredited obsessive offended perpetual alarm.

PROMPT #6: write a poem that emphasizes the power of “if,”
of the woulds and coulds and shoulds of the world.
Testimonial Slam: Dorothy
One More Art Form
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
and 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.
PROMPT #5: write a poem that incorporates at least one of the following:
(1) the villanelle form,
(2) lines taken from an outside text, and/or
(3) phrases that oppose each other in some way.


