Brilliant Writing

Setting Goals

I wanted to be a famous writer
so I penned

stiletto and pomegranate urn
radiant blowtorch
of kitten wrath

thinking it would become
an ur text
of dystopian anxiety
at the accelerating pace
of population growth
scientific advance
and societal upheaval.

Then

marijuana in mahogany orbs
dainty clavichords
lactose intolerant seafaring maidens
trapped in Ben & Jerry’s
with nothing but a spork

again believing
it would become a rallying cry
against consumerism
at the expense of personal growth

and it all came to pass.
I am rich and famous
and the world is revolting.

The Spark

Erato

My poems arise from a chair.
At least I’m always sitting in one
when verse springs from my fingers.

I circle the plush recliner
three times before resting
in her embrace, like a dog
about to lie down for the night.
I burn incense
and perform oblations,
daily rituals of reverence
for her inscrutable knowledge
of what to whisper
into my waiting heart.

When my poems are badly written
I flog myself for having offended
the worn, upholstered repository
of beauty, for I have heard amiss,
dishonored my oracle
by inattention.

Or maybe flaccid stanzas
punish my lack of vigor
in challenging my wife’s mutterings
about throwing her out.

I shall defend
my sweet muse
in this slow war
of attrition.

One Shot Wednesday again

Hermetic

A glide down
from prairie
into creek valley
watching cars
ascend the other side.
No fluttering burst
as quail rise
from corn stubble.

I want to wander
on foot,
explore
the distant tree line,
sit beneath
an ancient oak,
build a cabin,
live by my wits
and read at night
by firelight.

Traffic light ahead
turns green.
I shift from dream
to drive.