Poetry

Three evocative poems filled with fresh and eye-opening imagery, from the accomplished poet.

An award-winning poet's playful ruminations on our perilous times

A young poet offers balletic verse on his semimidlife crisis

Baked Sweet Potatoes... not quite a recipe, but a delicious and clever serving of poetry, perfect for winter

There are so many ways to hurt someone without meaning to.

A little bit of light verse, in case you're feeling peckish

Delighted to present three new prose poems by the celebrated author.

A rollicking, impressionistic fugue of morning London commute from a two-time nominee for the Pushcart prize

Workplace pulse comes from whose bilge-pump heart, / whose office consumes my thoughts. Listen carefully:

I was sleeping when a poem crept onto my pillow / and whispered in my ear, “Write me...”

The sun spoons into dark soil. / The sun, eclipsed behind a terrified cloud.

The prickle of winter on my skin / followed by the clatter of snow shovels, / quick inhales of pointy air

Round things roll, houses tumble like dice... fathers, and then mothers, die.

Would you prefer a universe with an end?

A gentle parody from a gentle poet of increasing renown.

A new poem from the celebrated author of The Lowercase Jew, Nympholepsy, Terra Infirma, and The Jew in the Lotus.

I gave him the idea; he made it loverly.

A first attempt at the impossible task of coping with the death of one's mother.

God, but you'll love this poem!

A hay-scent scarecrow reverie from the American Midwest

Who says the Horsemen of the Apocalypse won't be riding in SUVs?

In-transit Interstate poems from the author of Devil's Highway.

After my father died above her porch / in a hammock strung up between two trees, / his lover wrote to say / I am very Asian about promises.

see how the cathouse shutters flip open / and closed like bank teller's windows

Colours entered into the earth by crawling / Changing rocks into the earth

On the nature of divinity...

The Moocat is pleased to curl up and gaze as poet David Grayson wafts around the antechamber of Kabbalistic Judaism.

Incredibly delighted to be able to present two poems from the mysterious, allusive, uniquely voiced work of this highly acclaimed poet.

In the dark, a child might ask, What is the world?

The acclaimed poet and writer (The Missing Jew, The Jew in the Lotus, Seeing into the Life of Things et al.) on coming to terms with our poetic fathers.

Four Haiku by the author of Discovering Fire, a collection of haiku and essays.

On the seemingly ephemeral essence of the art of Haiku, by a widely published practicioner.

Open cigarette / boxes discarded on streets / .... From the author of the Fallopian Chronicles and other classic moocat.net pieces.

everyone is forty years old today with auburn-dyed hair,

An old, short poem about an old, short-lived relationship.

An early poem about that same relationship that I was so wrong about.

As teenage conversations ran, ...

In the moment before you / arrive, a hummingbird lands.

I’ll light the candles for him and we’ll sing. / He’ll listen, so we don’t skip any words,

Meanwhile, outside, a hapless orphan flees / her large malevolent uncle, come to drag her / back to boarding school despite her pleas.

He had to shave his head for the act... he felt he had no longer any appeal for the fair sex. —Moe Howard, on the death of his youngest brother, Jerome (a.k.a. "Curly")

(and what-not)

My father hands me his teeth to wash. / They clack in my palms—warm water on ice.

With fond apologies to both James Wright and to the Poetry Society of Fu Jen University in Taiwan

With fond apologies to W.C. Williams

I loves subj.-vb. disagrmt cause it’s wrong like me,

(From the Pool Hall on Shirlington Road)