Four Poems
by
Mel Thompson
The Ancient Masters
The ancient masters were mysterious,
profound beyond comprehension.
This is because they were bluffing.
The ancient masters were remote,
misunderstood, silent, cautious.
They lied through their teeth...
The sages of old were impartial,
deferential, detached, yielding.
This is how they avoided paying rent.
The sages of old saw the great cycles,
followed the flow of the universe.
This is how they gained tax-exempt status.
The ancient masters attained mahasamadhi,
a tricky word they made up
to explain why they were always smiling.
Armchair Cartographer
Later and later
each night, the maps
are studiously unrolled,
travel guides skimmed.
Little-known provinces
and obscure capitals
are methodically tracked.
Consulates called
and train schedules verified.
Atlases are spread open
and highlighted in pink
at industrial centers
and major shipping ports...
There are no reservations,
nor plane tickets,
no funds to procure them.
The only vacationing
is done with an index finger
following highways in red
intersecting lines
as they inch their way
across borders of ink.
Call For Submissions
I read the shy poets
who never appear in public
and blush around journal editors.
I read the unwanted poets
who try, but cannot climb
the social ladder of academia.
I read the poor poets
who cannot buy referrals
by bribing workshop leaders.
I read the rejected poets,
untimely old failures with aging
computers and weird cover letters.
This is one of my highest missions:
to listen to the loud and ill-mannered,
the sentimental and self-indulgent..
The Poet Laureate needs no more
admirers, in spit of flawless manners,
stellar craftsmanship and perfect inflection.
Those with stipends and symbolic posts
have more than enough love and adulation.
They can live without my patronage.
My calling is to tend to the lost.
Someone must hear the unknown oracles.
Not every priest can work in Rome.
The missing tablets were not lost.
They came to my P.O. box.
I am binding them by hand.
There are whole careers
based on an audience of three.
We must stand in their defense.
Come ye discredited poets
and receive your pittance.
At least someone read your book.
Upon Closer Inspection
There is genius
in your face.
Slender brown eyes
move opposite ways.
You green chameleon,
alluring and absurd.
What is politics
to thee, salamander?
My silly crusades
cannot enlighten you.
You surpass my trigonometry
with waving appendages.
There is calculus
in your anatomy...
Fortunes to make
promoting your eyebrows..
What is love?
Two mallards landing.
Sunken Lines
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