Archetypical Beauty

From where did your beauty come

before it was your own?

It must be archetypical

such beauty could not arise alone,

born on just any face.

Perhaps it was the same beauty

that did cast a thousand ships,

or maybe it was the beauty

some sought to contain in ancient crypts.

It could be the beauty

of an Eden far, far away,

set to life by angels

trumpeting its blessing, your birthday.

This could be the beauty

that made the first man blush,

that first primal beauty

the beat to which all winds rush.

Perhaps it is the bauty

which to the gods did solely belong,

until stolen by your innocence

while they sat passively, enchanted by your song.

Much I know not

but I do know this beauty was not before,

rising not from earthly mud

but made of timeless bud, pure to the core.

Vanity Fair

The image

our

Toys R US

I, this ever ready

Trojan man

my Calvin inclined

to just do it

Nikes on

say.

Our man he’s

Wired

No Gap

The real thing

A land rover

In Between Meaning

I did as

Alfred sung

Marks and Spencerian

to Move and Pick

is Paramount

American Express

yourself

Visaed

sWatch

and

Xerox

Planet Hollywood.

CBS?

On Quality

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A mediocre writer:

He thinks everything he writes is gold.

A great writer:

He thinks everything he writes is gold.

Harvest

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Love! What a harvest

this peasant boy reaps

Each night he watches

your golden yield sleep.

Bounty and abundance

swells the field called a heart

Each hour he eats

the ripe fruits falling off your cart.

Love, if only

the frost that gathers

had other claim.

O! then us

swollen, shining tin gods

would never wain

and we could harvest

all and every day,

on a vast unending golden plain.

A day in the life of …..

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Jan. 20th

Wiping the

stickly sweat

from my handsome brow,

I kicked the cat

across the room

and took a sup of tea.

I sat down

and planned my weekly

abortion schedule

then sent a check

for my new lambskin gloves

to Stanley

who runs my growing

funeral parlour.

I called my neighbor

with the fridge full

of body parts

and asked him to

send me the

so I could sign the movie deal.

I kicked the cat again,

started a bath,

poured a cocktail

and waited

for something to happen.

Food for thought

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Uncle Jacob

Forty years kneading dough

After the war,

Told me he had found only

Two ways of making bread;

The slow bake of philosophy

the luxury of the rich or high minded,

for the rest, the quick snatch of wonder

between the long steady strokes of the whip.

Then sternly, his strong hand on my shoulder

He said,

“Son, always be on the other end of the whip,

for there they eat not bread but cake.

Living is an affair for those who turn on the ovens.

Re: Creation

The poem is a dream

but a dream

we know why.

O! If only

we could climb

so high!

See the dream

as it was lent

meant to be,

there and then free

our being a poem

drunk like leaves left

in a cup of tea.

Why

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“My love”, I said

“A poem for you.”

She looked at it

then continued anew

the filing of her nails.

This I will always

love of you

and why I will

set it in human stone,

why I will forever kiss

the failing that you drag,

love you straight through

the holes in my socks.

It is that you refuse

to glance sideward.

Beauty, your prophetic chin

pointed ahead into that heaven

where you are above it all.

My poetry but the sound

of coins falling into tin cups,

useful in this world

but not where you tread

far beyond this beggar’s roar

the capabilities of my love,

up high, into a next made without hope

hope, this world, this poet cannot evade

always looking sideways, never just to be

always writing poems while you file your nails.

Crisis

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You are like the news

I hear every day.

A broken record,

not even a good one.

An honorous criminal,

not even a bad one.

I mock you

as a bird would a road kill.

I mock you

as wind would an umbrella.

I mock you

for I cannot mock myself.

You are like a new idea,

inspiring but empty.

A fountain run dry,

not even a beautiful one.

An approachable medusa,

not even an ugly one.

So go, obey the wand.

Disappear, be gone.

You be the zero,

Ill be the one.

I have had enough of Chinese philosophy.

I do not believe in dangerous opportunities.

Poetry 101

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She said it was

stupid meaningless empty

this poem.

That it did nothing for her —

no thing depends upon

a red wheel

barrow

glazed with rain

water.

Yet, she aspired to greatness.

cracking shells with her dull pen.

She looked for the elusive pearl

to string around her slender neck.

She aspired to greatness

with an ungreat full mind.

And I two rows back

struck dumb

by her thick, reaching thighs

and the

vain pounding of her hard head

tried to

overlook her inconsistencies

thinking I might

see eternity in a grain of sand

that I might

jump down from my high and firy cross.

But I could not,

the farmer in my gree soul

knowing

that so much does depend upon

a red wheel

barrow

glazed with rain

water.

That so much does depend upon

empty beauty

full

filled with in

significance.