Lyric Destinies



Condemned with all who scrawl their thoughts online

Obsessing over words, revising verse,

This love of poetasting is a curse . . .

(no, waitI think I need to tweak that line).

Composing, thus, my useless universe,

Convinced that golden musings are divine,

I polish leaden verse to make it shine

So proving that bad poetry grows worse.

My muse may well disown me for my crimes,

Fly off and leave me searching for some word,

Abandon me to unpoetic times;

And yet my lyric soul is undeterred.

My own best lines may or may not show it;

Still, I’ll bear that shameful name of Poet.




Liberating April

She stirs in her cell, unaware she’s free

The keyboards start to click in joyous dread;

For you, O useless reader, hold the key

To rouse this sleeping prisoner from her bed.

Accustomed to her dull imprisoned state

Unused to warmth, she babbles in her cage

She fears, at first, the freedom to create;

Awakening, our muse begins to rage

Across the warming threshold into light,

She strides as verses blossom on the page

To chastise and put winter’s ghosts to flight.

The thawing wind! She shakes her golden hair

And lyric pollination seeds the air . . .

Spring Salvo

It’s time to fire up my blog
and add to the poetic smog.
Marching thus, to April’s drum
may cause my muse to pause, mid-strum
and harp on my poetic lack
of will toward permanent attack.
Didactic, though, I strive to be;
And write with pure sincerity.

I’ll do my best to rail, and preach
and by such arts, some poor soul reach
assuring them they are not mad
but yes, the world IS worse than bad.
I’m sorry that I lack the power
to versify upon a flower.
(Leave that for some other, later
blithe pathetic poetaster.)

Where’s my muse?
They must have maced her.


Adore bad Haiku?
Check back here during April
and you’ll get your fill

March of the Muses: NaPoWriMo 2018

Ἀπόλλων μουσηγέτης


Oh Poets and Muses, hear my prayer.
Let’s mix our metaphors and dare
as fragrant smoke ascends the sky,
offend some readers by and by.

Apollo—grant me rocket fuel
to launch into your stratosphere.
Athena—by your wisdom, rule
and whisper in my waiting ear.

Receive this bright poetic spark
And let the Nine, as one, inspire
transform this puddle, stagnant, dark,
from sludge to pure Promethean fire.

Thou Father of Olympus, bless
our paltry April offering:
a dubious cybernetic mess
composed of poets’ suffering.

I’ll sing of waters fair (and foul),
uncork my potions for your ears
while Dionysus‘ Maenads howl
banishing our noetic fears.

A radiant poetic flush
beams forth from every laureled face.
The springs of Babel: let them gush
and bathe our souls in lyric grace.

A product line in low demand,
the blogosphere: our public forum;
quorum one man short of damned
where verses vie with vague decorum.

Consult your muse—then let it flow;
a rain of primaveral dreams
whose rivulets descend below
and swell the tributary streams;

to flooding verses, transcendental
irrigating, bringing life
(though some are merely excremental;
foaming sewage…  ask my wife).