The coffee cup is empty
The carafe that supplied it yawning
And neither is the only thing that has gone dry
Dark fluid spent to some useful end
Not yet brought to an end

No matter how many times
I fill and brew and pour again
There is always call for more
Even when so much has passed that
I am left shaking
Hearing voices speak from lips not there
I have to find more of it to spill
Again
Not only from cup and carafe

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I very nearly forgot
I was supposed to do this
I am supposed to do this
And I am sorry to do it this way
But it’s better that I do it this way
Than that it not be done at all
As some schools of thought have it
Noting that
Some is better than none
Sometimes framed as
Shots not taken
Or somesuch thing

But then
There are the many
And many I have heard
Many whose voices I heed
Who urge that I
Do it right
Or not at all
So I have to wonder if
A shot from the hip is good enough
This time
As it has been before
And the evidence of having struck a target thus
Is greatly beloved
Or if it would have been better
To hold my fire this time
As I so rarely hold my tongue

There is this
Too:
What poem is
Ever
Good enough or
Done
?

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They say
Who still say such things–
A shrinking population as
Mom and Dad buy the farm
And some corporation buys the farm–
Make hay while the sun shines
And I am glad
For now
At least
The sky is clear and bright
And the green is swelling
But some rainfall would be welcome

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I look around from where I sit and write,
Consider what emerges in my sight,
And shudder in disgust that covers fright.
I know that more and worse is yet to come
Of what parades in an uneven pace,
Swallows up the music, fills the space
With clamor, posts an ugly painted face
On every wall, leaves truth-speaking dumb.
The numbers swell that join the thronging crowd,
And each new member makes the din more loud
That trumpets peril, is of evil proud,
And strives towards zero for its final sum.
I say what I can say. To what avail
I do not know; I doubt I can prevail.

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They say
You have to fill your own cup
Before you can pour for another
But I
Am already full
Too full
And what my cup holds
Nobody should drink

No
I seek always
To be less full
To be more empty
So I can accept
What others must pour out
Because
If it hits the ground
Sinks into the water table
It will poison all the wells
And the waters are already bitter enough

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My heart is hot within me now as I
But look about and see how matters lie,
But look about and see lifted on high
What should be low, see how they it exult
Who, gleeful, join the Stupid God’s foul cult,
And see with no great insight the result
That must proceed from out their worship’s course.
I scream into the wind until I, hoarse,
Am blown away by all the gathered force
That thronging fools all rushing in exert,
Not at all caring that they themselves hurt
So long as they inflict their held desert
On those they have been told that they should hate.
To fend them off…it is now far too late.

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She does not often deal in verse
Says she finds it indulgent and obtuse
As must who write it write it
So when she wrote a poem for our girl
Three iambic tetrameter couplets
I marked it

She said
The Muse spoke to her
Even if her ears were clogged with wax
But I think she was worried
That I might too ineptly handle
A fresh cotton swab

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As this old month comes to its end,
And we’re encouraged not to spend,
I wonder who will buck the trend
And throw their paychecks away.

I can well guess at who’ll do so,
Can guess well where their cash will go;
It takes no genius such to know.
Might as well throw us away.

An echo of an older voice
Truer in the hearing again than in the first speaking
Called out once again
Asking for help
Just a few words of praise
To help find fulfillment
And such safety as the world offers anymore
But not where she is
Not where I am

How could I say no?
I never did before
Even when the voice doing the asking
Was not the voice that truly was
And should not the greater honesty
Now find the greater reward?

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