A Ten-Poem Day

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Today, as most Tuesdays, I conducted “Title Tuesday,” wherein I supply five poem titles for the Facebook group Poets All Call, and anyone who wishes may take a title and run with it.

The deresolutioned drawing above is of the originator of Poets All Call. I sent her an instant message asking her if it would be OK to post the drawing but I have not heard from her. If she says Yes, I’ll put the resolved image next to the deresolutioned one. If she says No–but that is moot. She said Yes.

She is a leader in the best possible sense. The group is full of encouragement and camaraderie, and we all feel free to post challenges. That’s how “Title Tuesday” got started, in the eons.com based percursor to PAC, which was called Callling All Poets. (The three ells in Callling–that’s not a typo. Long story.)

In addition to posting titles, I invite group members to post titles of their own. Two did, five each. Before the afternoon was over I wrote poem #10.

I close with the poems I wrote. Thanks deeply to Socorro, group leader, and Genevieve and Denise (yes, that Denise) for the titles.The titles are in boldface.

is it the same one


love came a knockin sunday last
and i ast
“is it the same one as ’71
to ’79 and then over&done?
is it a heart-stoppin reely big dealie one
or will its stripes change jus like a chameleon?”
i knew the answer but blowin off steam
helps tell the diffrence tween substance n dream.


love and a river are never the same.
no one is praisable. no one’s to blame.


“well, love,” i then said,
“so bare is my thread
that i cannot afford all the knee squats n lunges,
n concrete awaited who’ve taken the plunges,
so scuse me for turnin around on my heel.
there’s no room for argument, wheel nor deal.”


some love’s sound and some love’s fractured,
some love’s true, some manufactured.


that was sunday. tuesday’s now.
there’s a heartache, i avow.


the love arrives unbidden
the love leaves traces deep
some scars are seen some hidden
some fantasies won’t keep
but we are not contriving
when sweethearts win our love
with waking-so-aliving
and feeling like a dove.




[quiescent hum]

the windswept waltz

let us Dance to the Tune of the Amber-waved Breeze
let the Rustle of Wheat make us Weak in the Knees
let the Shiver of Wavelets make Ripples of Hope
and let Two windward Spirits join Souls and eLope.


the Waltz it is Windswept from Hither to Yon
and all Love and all Kindness is Windborne of Dawn.

if our Burdens are Many and Riches eLude
and the Path we must Take has turned Rutted and Rude
we will Face what will Come though our Cloak-cloth is Thinned
and look Forward to Respite on Welcoming Wind.

(chorus thrice)

Morning Star

A sliverous shard of near-New Moon
Tops the predawn horizon. It is a bow
With invisible pulled string and launchable arrow
Aimed by an invisible archer, Diana, huntress.
She aims

Not at the Morning Star, her recurrent companion,
But at consuming Sol whose blaze might engulf them both.

Might becomes Does.
The Morning Star, defeated by superior candlepower,
Disappears against a blue-becoming sky.

the crumbling criterion

it’s a bird
it’s a plane
it’s . . .

well, it’s what appears to be a human being
white male six four one ninety
wearing spandex in primary colors
with a symbol on chest and cape
and airborne with no visible means of support

and he was conceived by a boy and a boy
jerry for jerome and joe for joseph

the criterion was “super”
so first they made his skin hard his legs strong
and the rest of him strong as well
later “super” extended to everything from flight readiness
to gusty freezing breath

“super” may be short for “building superintendent”
or a prefix meaning “big” or “above” or “greater than”

had it not been for friedrich nietzsche
and then adolf hitler
two jewish kids from cleveland may never have given us superman
and such is the power of psychic alchemy
for hitler’s criterion “super” crumbled
and jerry’s and joe’s grew
truth justice and the american way


salt the spring
then pepper summer
allspice takes a fall
the winter frosting sugar spun
as fabled revels have begun
unto a sprigged unlumbered wall
zing- &


slice & saw & splice & sew
that’s a brand new knee you know

laptop tablet kindle nook
pulplessly transcend the book

online order flowers
click on st john’s wort–ship
who needs drugstore hours
who needs old school courtship

boots on ground make blood and bones
send in clowns and add the drones
what’d you say? they’re headed here?
nice knowing you. [they disappear.]

One Too Many

Battles of wills do
Make losers and winners
Wars head for hills too
That spark over dinners
Tempests may toss one
From teapot to street
Dustup and loss one
Admits in defeat
Heavy the heart is
Yet beats in despite
Lesson in part is
To win, do not fight.

inky fingers

as a reef is coraled
so a finger’s whorled.

as a soap is sobby
if it is your hobby
to mix ink with brayers
better say your prayers
sure as zings the slinky
fingers will get inky.

as a topping’s fudgy
paper will get smudgy.

as a playboy’s flirty
you will feel so dirty.

like pacquiao after drubbing
you will need envigored scrubbing.

hard to get hands squeaky clean.
don’t you panic. this will mean
no one’s perfect. you may borrow
inky pads for fun tomorrow!

The Colors of Possibility

Sienna and Umber raw or burnt promise
A communion with the earth.
Pthalocyanine blue delivers wintry chill.
The oxides may take you to a lumberjack camp,
So make sure alizarine crimson goes with you as well
For shirts and spillage.

Sky pilots seek the cerulean.
The lead-white-faction risks all for the creamy clouds
That titanium white fails to deliver.

And yellows are tricky. The possibilities
Often elude. Cadmium
Seems to necessarily include
Adulterants. Get your Naples and Lemon on,
And no matter what your painting teacher told you,
The possibilities are not endless
Without Black.

May Be Nothing

That little roughness off the shoulder
The pinching sensation when flexing forward
The premonition the distant wail
That undeliverable mail

A stain that won’t come off a plate
Scratching at 3:28
Dizziness when walking slowly
Dumpster odor full unholy

May be nothing may be little
May be supple may be brittle
May be stumbles may be slips

May be the Apocalypse

  1. kwetsoshadrach said:


      • kwetsoshadrach said:

        You are welcome.

  2. Nicely done. You know how to have fun with words. I especially enjoyed “The Colors of Possibility” … “The possibilities are not endless/Without Black.” … in life as in art.

    Poem on …

    • You too, Jamie. I have enjoyed your poetry as well! Thanks for the encouragement.

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