Biography of edward serof
Sound, well-written, meaningful poetry makes every word count. There can be no waste, for the world of literature, published and amateur, abounds with much froth and little substance. Really good poetry, I feel! It is visceral and scant and so damned elusive, yet so soulishly refreshing, and even redeeming. My most sublime intimate encounters (which our present culture is decadently drowning in) , somehow pale next to a finished work that stands in excellent regard. My mind and heart are best freed with the penning of well-put wordings, again, precious and rare. If I can but now and then capture this realm, plain and simple, but no less powerful and endearing, then my craft inches forward, and, so, satisfied, smile a sigh ;) My deepest regards to the poetic community! Yippy Skippily Yours ;))) E. Serof
edward serof Poems
*Irish archaic: eager to taste or enjoy A wood most wild, Deep,
My Haiku, Or Maiku, Part 1
to the power of seventeen syllables Wonderful words surge through my ink, across my page,
Imagine an aged bitch,
Floating through space in the very same place At a thousand miles an hour, Wanting her touch, don’t come as much As I did when things weren’t so dour.
Two Hurricanes And Twelve Haiku
Africa sires these perfect spirals-hurricanes, next to nothing pains.
The chickens outrun the boys on bikes down here on Doc McDuffie. Every single-wide, yard, and rusted truck come across kindly scruffy.
On Being Eyed
Katrina's unerring glare Tore a swath, most unaware And eyed our homes as none would dare;
From my bus mirror I catch him glance Girls 'cross the aisle doing the hair-do dance. Combing and pulling and twisting their braids, Getting their groove on for school-house charades.
Gone Too Far, Thus
to her Holy Rosary and Unruly Hosiery Her dark morning shuddered forever when Sorrow's kiss shared his emptiness
Right On Time
to all school bus drivers So much depends upon
to becoming wired, less Surge the reigning politic with disemboweled rancor that keeps the daily man ground
to the many wee morning hours when... Brown pelicans waft palmetto fronds, each wing flap knicking bay ripples. Sleek mullet lurch at harbored lunch, pulsing silvery missiles
Just Before Crying
To the bloody ravages of a most bloody war They fell hard, clumps of shattered earth embraced their wretching pains;
Her greatest thrill's in tokin' Pell Mell while her lab is takin' a shit. Greasy blond strands droop, wisping her face she knows deep down this ain't it.
to becoming wired, less
Surge the reigning politic with disemboweled rancor
that keeps the daily man ground
churning for wages scant-
holed up where shame boils and 3rd Street Mission furniture is the best yet;
the charred ledges of a wobbly table for two
where cigarettes perched between hard wheezing and dispairing sighs,
are reconciled to feckless living just shy of squalor