I've posted poems for a long time but am now trying to get a novel published, which, I hope, will lead to a deal publishing my poems. Boy oh boy, does the American Dream live on or what?

Think of a sky blue day
in early summer.
No school.

Now murder the sun
with Number Ten Crayola.
Black as a witch's cat.
Then smudge the storm
across both pages.

Call it yesterday.

Today
just prick the cloud
a dime's worth
in the lower left-hand corner.
Yellow's good.
A firefly lights a rowboat
packed with refugees.
The rain like knives.
Our compass wedged in mud
a thousand fathoms deep.

Tomorrow?

Mulberry trees
to stain more purple
than Aboodazzi's robes.
And gorge ourselves
past satisfaction.
Worms and all.

Time for bed now.

Color us golden.
One big nugget.

Too often we think of poems as going on and on, but some of the best are short -- or we only remember parts of them. I always liked these lines from a poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay.

My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah my friends, and oh my foes
It gives a lovely light.

Here are three very short poems for your consideration.

1. NEW BABY

May your fields be abundant,
your seasons mild:
beautiful mother,
fortunate child.

2. GOODBYE

Even together
we're worlds apart:
too hard on the nerves,
too hard on the heart.

3. OBITUARY

A spider died today here.
He left no next of kin.
Remains are on display here
in this paper, page A-10.

If enough of us come up with short poems for special occasions, maybe we can lift the level of writing on greeting cards,no?

The organism ages and expires,
and what we thought a grant
becomes another loan:

a hundred fifty pounds
of flesh come due -- my own.

Biology measures worth by progeny.
Failure dogs my days.

An only son on Iwo Jima dead
at seventeen. Who pays?

But nature grants no special
dispensation to the young
and minds no prayer.

Death wallows in promise.

I despair.

True science is detective work.
We let psychology handle grief.

Man the flower wilts to humus.
Who will save that last fine leaf?

Cancel the gold box
lined in lead:

no heaven evolves
from artificial terms.

Lay me naked in a hole.

I wrote a paper once
on worms.

You follow a road that looked gold from the start
past my lawn where your puppy-dog conscience leaves holes
that no stained-glass rainbow pretends to un-shadow.

In time your trained cyclone will whirl you back home;
still, how many dreams can a girl ride this far?
Fly how many roads that drop straight from the sun?

You appreciate tin men who suffer no slight,
stale scarecrows who flame to your coolest word.
A well-crafted rainbow blends color to order,

paints munchkins from midgets, a castle from air,
sketches drab spineless lions that turn purple when teased,
while you skip down a road laid with washed yellow bricks

where a dog-napping witch must be melted to steam --
though a shiver of wickedness keeps you aglow
till a pale patchwork rainbow lets evening seep through.

So remember, should Kansas prove less than the heartland,
real magic begins when the wizards turn fake --
when your ruby shoes clog in this unpaved walk
and the mud breathes up rainbows that glitter all night.