This morning’s sky
Reminds me of
My uncle’s cigar
Many years ago
In Port Washington
Hanging there against
The backdrop of
His thin beard
The center glowed
Crimson almost winking
Surrounded by gray
Ash it hung
There then gone
Between his laughter
There then gone
Between the clouds
Soon to be
All but ash
As he stubbed
It out like
The sunrise does
To the dawn
Love is like fetch
With a new toy
Sometimes it’s even like
A note in a
Bottle written kidnapped and
Tossed hopefully into sea
Wishing that whomever finds
It will be tickled
But love’s really like
A falling coconut if
You’re not under the
Palm it’ll be missed
But if you’re under
Oh if you’re under
Then you’ll be under
Forever you will be
I don’t like critics
I never ever have
Critics are like drunken
Bullies or step fathers
Who feel they must
But never enjoyed the
Making of the child
That they now discipline
Critics wear chips on
Their shoulders like epaulettes
Angry and incapable of
Rising to the occasion
Impotent yet needing release
So they look to
Others like obese men
Sitting in their basements
Trousers around their ankles
Men and women writhing
On their computer screens
Forever wishing but always
Knowing that they’ll never
Such a frustrated life
These unfortunate critics have
I’m a sitting duck
Quacking on a pond
Minding my own business
Surrounded by blind hunters
Fully locked and loaded
And itching to fire
Zing one flies by
Boom and then another
Rat a tat tat
Goes the machine gun
Then silence except for
Quack
I’m a poet sitting
On a pond minding
My own business writing
Do not blame me
If you don’t understand
Or don’t like or
Prefer someone else’s writing
As someone yesterday so
Eloquently shot at me
I’m here to quack
And paddle about on
The pond called poetry
He meant everything
At least the
Everything I had
When I offered
He stayed awhile
Maybe too long
For sometimes our
Love like milk
Sours and curdles
Becoming anything but
Recognizable to anyone
