After a Lecture on “The Insouciant Lark of Flarf”

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flarfing

Almost a decade after its creation, the experimental poetry movement Flarf—in which poets prowl the Internet using random word searches, e-mail the bizarre results to one another, then distill the newly found phrases into poems that are often as disturbing as they are hilarious—is showing signs of having cleared a spot among the ranks of legitimate art forms. Shell Fischer in Poets and Writers

Cool reviews
are seldom gratifying;
ask Caesar. If he were here
to answer he would say
they will bury you.

Imitation
is not always the greatest
flattery.  Sometimes it’s plagiarism.
Is there any word that’s not been used
before?

Even infants’
ads are strained.  Seams are fraying.
It’s more than recycled paper
though I’m all for saving trees.
We need an eco system

 for the infrastructure
of literature; less politics
and more philanthropy
(not to be confused
with philandering.)

The pen
is a mighty sword.  Sometimes
the mind is a mighty wasteland.
Flarf if you must, but please
be discreet.

This is not really a Flarf, but a modified Flarf. It seems every form can be corrupted, even Flarf.  I simply gathered phrases that struck my fancy and spilled them onto the page in what I dub a Flubbed Flarf.

Weather Report

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report, weather

Judging by the wind
it must be a wicked storm;
shadows dance with trees bending low
to kiss the ground
or in deference to the missing sun,
I do not know.

A light flittered by the window,
perhaps a broken star,
the storm might be really mild
where we are and raging
worse in heaven.
I do not know.

Five warm days in a row
in January; that is gift
enough. I’ve seen colder days
in April, but now tonight
there might be snow.
I do not know.

A Voice for Small Victories

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peace

If I write only what I know
I’ll save my ink for autumn,
No longer am I summer’s child,

Spring,  I welcome it,
but only as a spectator,
I watch it and smile fondly
for I have been there.

Winter is a concept
I’m not yet ready
to embrace.

September through November
is my intimacy, Early on
the flowers still in bloom,
and at the end, snowflakes are falling.

Bless these things
 that call my pen to action,
but what about this hunger
to make peace more
than mere abstraction?

Is it poverty of language
or fault of culture that leaves me
 searching for the perfect elocution
of my dreams?

 Look past these words and imagine
beyond the fields of blood,
past all occluded vision
past the generals’ perverted missions

and see the peace
that can exist, that must exist,
first in the minds of poets
then flowing from their pens.

Imagine the constancy of water
changing rock  and celebrate quietly
these small and deathless victories
that lead to peace.

A Warm Day in January

In a slow game of hide and seek,
The wind, turned gentle breeze,
peeks its head into every crevice,
whispers along the river bank
and ruffles the boughs of pines
like a grandfather’s hand
ruffling his grandson’s hair.

Here, there, then gone so quietly
it is hard to believe it’s not a dream,
That playful wind must be part imp,
Warm as the noonday sun, it touches
the skin in a laughing caress,
then skitters along the garden hedge,
edging the boxwood with rippled stems,

and I, feeling wild as a new spring colt,
try to chase it down, but alas, I can
only see where it’s been
and by the time I get there it is gone.
As if making sure I won’t lose track,
it circles back and whispers,
“Catch me if you can.”

For the poets who ply their pen for peace

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peace, peace poets

Gentle poet, purveyor of peace,
what sorrows slip unnoticed
by crass crowds; what thirst
thrives unquenched within your soul?
What dreams lie quietly but
will not die? Your page is dressed
with tranquil metaphor, with grandeur
of the bards of old,
while I, mere mortal with a love of word
drink of your wine as warrior
takes to sword, like seedling set
where soon a flower grows,
or a single drop of dew
seeks out its rose.

Moonbeams on Snow

No witness
to this waltzing with the moon.
The stars in heaven are quiet tonight,
sleep spangled in their eyes.

Snow swept the fields
with a natural rhythm
             not yet named,

just a gentle perfection
humming in God’s head
                 like Creation
    before He made man.

Briefly

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the day after Christmas

Moonbeams linger on the ledge,
The music’s sweet, the fire is warm,
Christmas is done.

The house is restored to order
though the tree is a little worse
for wear, 

Here and there
a bit of tinsel hangs haphazardly
from somewhere it doesn’t belong.

Soon  New Year’s Eve
will usher in
a new beginning. 

Fleet footed Father Time
allows us
these moments of bliss.

The Girl Made of Clay

For too many years, her life was a room,
no windows to see through, just a door
that was barred, and the flowers were dreams
and the fields were all barren ’til she learned
that the key was hidden within.

Then she opened the door, but no sunlight
was there, just one great big circle
back to where she had been, She learned
that the flowers could not grow without sun,
That brief taste of freedom was only a game.

She sat in the corner, the key cast aside,
Slow silver tears fell from her eyes,
and her heart would have shattered
from sorrow and pain, but for the door
that she locked tight again.

Unmeasured

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blank verse, formal verse, free verse

Whether the lines be long
or short
             and no matter if they measure
metrically
          give me good words
          straight from the heart
        that I a clearer vision see

A picture better shared unskewed
wears lines that discipline concludes,
Even geese understand the vee
moves them aerodynamically,
but do not dismiss the pigeons
that swirl at will, filling the sky randomly,
line them up at risk of losing their identity,
There are a million shades of green.

   L   o   n   g
or short
                 measured metrically or not
show me the dish that I might taste it
differently. If the flavor doesn’t suit
I can always spit it out.

Merry Christmas

to You and Yours

May the coming New Year bring you many blessings!