Tagged: michael konik poet

Poem: The Tree Regarding Himself

If there is nothing so lovely as a tree, what, in idle moments,  Does a tree gaze upon for pleasure?  The bird, yellow and daft?  The squirrel, dancing from trunk to branch, a ballerina on the bark?   Modesty, Mommy Nature says, is our greatest virtue. Recognize how small and insignificant your roots and branches and...

Poem: On Being a Bolivian Monkey

Rain that slickens the sturdy palm,  fruits that aren’t yet ripe,  Harpy eagles intent on digging talons and razor beak into  simian livers — these are the concerns of a brown capucin, dancing in the canopy, high above the mud of Pachamama, who bequeathed the trees and  everything else  to those who dare to climb ...

Poem: Syllogism

If it is true what they say Then surely this must follow Like a trained dog lurking at the heel of his master. You, who take offense at the vagaries of language, the cracks and crevasses where imprecision allows victims of low self-esteem to imagine offenses that were never intended Nor existed — You, you...

Poem: Where I Went Wrong

Some people — OK, what I really mean is me, me, me. Me, who can’t ever pick the best line at the supermarket checkout. Me, who fumbles one love affair into another. Me, who doesn’t dress as well as he might, or get a proper haircut, or read the right books — me. Yes, I’m...

Poem: Doggerel

May your days be hairy, and bright. And may all your puppy dogs be white. I’m dreaming of a white puppy Just like the ones I used to pet Where the Labs are wagging And the hounds are dragging Their ears, blithely to the vet. I’m dreaming of a white puppy With every furry friend...

Poem: Toil

Staring at the back bumper of a finely assembled Japanese sedan, Rolling for miles (and many minutes) in the space that he will occupy Seconds later, when his finely assembled German sedan — The one with the special exhaust package and special wheels, All meant to connote “Special,” although one inherently mistrusts The specialness Of...

Poem: Endings

We were adults about the whole thing, saying the script learned well from years of practice and reading with spongy minds. It — the awful schism — was for the best as any self-help book, climbing up the bestseller list would have declaimed in tones of compassionate smugness.   Yet no one wanted to go...