At the Art Show

Ego abounds.

Just look around

And see the sounds

Of me, me, me, me, me.           

           On the Sea

  I used to think it all was me

the world revolved around,

until one day, from north wind blown,

mv ship was run aground.

  It came so fast, that humbling breeze,

and tore through every sail.

She left the Ego standing there,

just masts amid the gale.

  Then the storm withdrew, though clouds still hung,

and I saw how the Ego sat,

I tried, in vain, with all my crew, to row it off that flat.

  Through seven days of trembling lip

and successive reappraisal,

I watched the ship sink deeper yet,

all curse to no avail.

  But then on Wednesday, the following week,

beneath a graying sky,

a hundred friendly smiles appeared,

selling humble pie.

  “We can lift your Ego out,”

in unison they sang.

“We’ve done it ere a time or two,”

their voice in chorus rang.

  And so to task at heart they set,

and not one muscle strained.

At once my ship was free the bar,

her sails repaired again.

  The wind was up. We begged our thanks

and watched them gently fly.

The crew and I, as captain, then

Sat down and ate our pie.

  From there we sail all seven now,

with yet some trepidation,

and more concern for weather news,

Rigid Disciplinarian

I seem to be paralyzed

between my two ears,

though that won’t deter

my one mouth on its way.

I can still render aimless

any thought that comes in,

and subjugate reason

with no strain at all.

If any clear voice,

with ideas to match,

happens to enter one ear,

I can still help it out of the other.

And all of my being

is geared to react when

affronted with sanity

in any disguise.

So, give me my pop,

and my butts,

and TV,

and let me get back to really living.

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  Permit us, Narcissus,

To interview

The beauty

You contend is

There in your pool.  

  Is that a he or a she

Blissfully ignoring

The deeper reflections

In your pond?

    Is your crippling

A result of

Your inertia at poolside,

Or

Did the world

Break both your legs?  

The Thinker

I Philosophize on mediocre life.

For ranting and raving over nothing significant, and for teeming insight into innocuous coffee-break-minutes, I am Socrates reincarnate.

Ask me anything about the depths to which thought plunges behind the supermarket counter, and I’ll give you possibly the least studied dissertation you’ve heard.

And if that’s not enough, allow me to demonstrate my extraordinary retentive prowess with my vast knowledge of all the characters on your favorite TV show.

Reflections in the Cesspool

  I’m really Narcissus

in no other guise,

I never have trouble

with capital I’s.

   I’m ever enamored

with glass oh so clearly

reflecting the image

that holds Me most nearly.

  My lines are cut cleanly,

My teeth straight and white,

My hair’s never mussed,

I’m a sculptor’s delight.

  And suitable pictures

for framing are Mine,

that is. those of Me,

with smiles asinine?

  Just give Me a subject

to talk on at length,

I’ll change it to Me

and all of My strength.

  I’ll tell you how I’m

at a loss to explain

the mystery of beauty,

My own, oh, the pain.

  I’d love to go on,

I want you to know,

but now you’re asleep,

so I’ll let you go

with this one last thought:

   even passed gas

My own doesn’t smell,

except as in roses,

My noses can tell.      

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Take him away

From the pencil

Egocentered on

his single-engine sailplane.

He fails to realize that

The motor was not stolen.