Czech Limerick

There was a writer from the Czech Republic
who only got a few of his works published.
But for bleak, bureaucratic crimes
he was way ahead of his times —
who knew we’d soon see people wantonly punished?

POEM: A Voiceless Birdie Told Me

Notions whispered into my mind — unheard.
They’re just hot-injected scraps of feeling.
I seek a source in floor, wall, and ceiling,
but I know that can only be absurd.

This is no exchange by grammar or words —
nothing is concealed or needs concealing.
Notions whispered into my mind — unheard.
They’re just hot-injected scraps of feeling —

like the voiceless notes of a little bird,
received without a chirp or any squealing.
Wounds don’t need to hear they should start healing.
The feeling ‘s clear even when the meaning ‘s blurred.

Notions whispered into my mind, unheard.

POEM: The Emperor’s New Clothes

Source: Ivo Kruusamägi via Wikipedia

It wasn’t the Emperor’s nudity
that so offended me.
It wasn’t what I saw, but rather
that which I could not see —
a skeptic’s sense of what was not,
what was, and what might be.

Anyone who knew their ignorance
could never be so fooled.
He’d say, “I know that I know not;
of that I needn’t be schooled,
but that man is plainly marching
so completely butt-a$$ nude.

It’s they who say, “I must look good.”
who become ego-ruled.
And can’t see the Emperor is
so very, clearly nude.

Zen Garden Haiku

twisted and bent
to gnarled beauty

arched bridge
forms a wide eye
with water’s mirror

the garden
designed, aligned, and kempt —
nature, but not

by tranquil sights —
soul programmed

sitting on grass,
the rocky outcrop
turns island

POEM: Saved by the Breath [a Rondeau]

My mind curls up into a Breath
to wait out wild and weary thoughts
about who catches and who’s caught
and what is scarier than Death.

A toothless youth whacked-out on Meth —
all roads to hope come but to naught.
My mind curls up into a Breath
to wait out wild and weary thoughts
of men who went the way, Macbeth —
costly made, and yet cheaply bought —
iron-forged, but ambition wrought —
a shapeless agony of Death.

My mind curls up into a Breath.

POEM: Beauty

People prefer a face that can launch a thousand ships to one that can stop a clock. But did the clock-stopping face break the clockwork mechanism or halt the steady increase in entropy?

[Speaking of entropy, and it’s insistence on increase, a more disordered face reflects a more advanced state of progression, and yet that advancement isn’t honored.]

Back to the clock-stopping face. Breaking the brittle plastic gears of a mass-made clock is no great feat compared to ship-launching. But binding up the inexorable flow of the universe? That’s power.

POEM: Higher Dimensional Human Zoo

The doorless door was painted on
a vacant building’s wall.
It stood cartoonish and shabby,
crooked, and far too small.

I peered around the vacant room
behind that concrete wall:
nothing but dusty detritus —
of broken bottle brawls.

Later that night, after I’d binged,
I came back past that way.
The door was now thrown wide open.
And what was on display?

Into those higher dimensions,
I had a fateful view.
There was cage after cage of me
in an odd human zoo.

Cold Night Haiku

a winter moon
is seen clearly between
breath fog plumes


starry skies,
through the tent flap,
herald cold’s bite


cold slinks in
once sleep has taken hold,
settling in bone


winter midnight —
sunlight, a distant memory,
or so it feels


how bright the moon
in the mid-winter sky —
yet, no heat