Bedside_CommodeNo Worries in the Sky

As I walked the streets of my town last night
stretching my legs and mind
Saturn and Venus peaked out winking at me
as they swallowed the colors of the trees and homes.

These celestial clowns laughed at my silly worries,
as my pavement steps echoed against lonely walls,
of well-lit, deceptively still houses
where TVs numbed the frustrations and loneliness of others.

I then passed a huge mansion, empty and dark
but there was trash — including and old bedside commode.
And I wondered if the sad soul who used that commode
now giggled amongst the sparkling stars befriending the planets.

— by Sabio Lantz, June 2015


Prompt: Open Link night at d’Verse Poets and Björn wonders if we like adding photos to our poems, so I did. These are thoughts from my stroll last night.

Pain and Harm

Pain and Harm

Ten years ago an unrepentant alcoholic mother
emotionally deserted her three daughters.
Two years ago, she physically lost one of those girls
to a train which was unable to stop
after the daughter’s sudden sacrificial lunge
— leaving life to flee her pains.

Today that mother decided to end her life in the same way
but failed, and was dragged a bloody mile
to end up in a local cold ICU.  Where now
her remaining children and nieces must decide
if they really care or just hate her more.

— by Sabio Lantz, May 2015


Prompt: Bryan Ens, at d’Verse Poets, asked us to:

Write a poem in any form that you choose (and yes, I will accept free verse as a form) – but after your poem, include a brief note on your form, and why you chose that form for your piece. How does meter and rhyme (or lack thereof) affect the meaning of your piece? If you used alliteration, onomatopoeia, or some other poetic device, why?


Answer to Prompt: I love using forms in poetry — here is an index to such poems of mine. I use form to help inspire ideas and poetry from my mind when it is dry. But when I have something very concrete to say, I like free verse. And in particular, a very narrative sort of free verse. What makes narrative free verse different than a flash essay, not much — seeking to define poetry at the edges of the familiar is a doomed undertaking. See my post on “Poetry is”.

But when I compose narrative free verse, I read my lines over and over. I listen to the prosody — constantly adjusting and changing.

My diagram to the right shows, “prosody” is very important in language — especially in poetry. Rhyme and rhythm, for me, would have distracted from the story in my poem and a short essay would have lacked in feeling. Thus my choice.

I wrote this poem last week. It is a true story that happened to one of my work colleagues that day.

A Grateful Insignificant Synesthete

On my morning ride to work
the hills follows my breath
larger, smaller, pushing the sky
which, in turn, hums like a rumbling train.

The line of cars rises off the road,
and the oncoming line of faces
expands to every city, every country
as I become happily no one.

This side of normal
over the years, I have enjoyed
being a broken synesthete
and savoring absorption in insignificance.

— by Sabio Lantz, May 2015


Prompt: Gabriella, at d’Verse Poets, ask us “to think of something that is part of your everyday life …. and weave it into a poem that makes us see what is unique for you about your routine.”

More Info:

  • “synesthete”: A person whose nervous system allows crossing of signals across different sensory or cognitive pathways – synesthesia. See the wiki article
  • See my the post on my idea blog entitled “The Glory of Insignificance” — this is a poetic version, allowing much broader interpretation.

Relatively Odd

Relatively Odd

Only three days and four liters of formaldehyde earlier,
I nervously chuckled at how vulnerable I was:

Shitting on a Starbucks toilet with only a thin door
between me and people audibly ordering their lavish caffeines,
while I hoped my splashes and farts could not be overheard
from my dirty ass — only a door knob away from public laughter.

Now, after the search for a cause, I lay here sliced and diced,
dressed far nicer than I’ve ever been, while forced tears fall.
And from my cheap casket I can somehow see my daughter
shamelessly hitting on one of the young limo drivers in the parking lot.

— by Sabio Lantz May 2014 (from draft March 2013)


Posted for Open Link Night @ d’Verse Poet Pub

Zam at 2am

Zam at 2am

Ahura Mazda gave us Zam
– a divine spark at 2am.
The quiet closing hour
for deities without power.
When those stumbling in defeat
wander beer soaked streets,
and Earth has no time to care,
for she has her own despair.

–by Sabio Lantz, March 2015


Prompt: from d’Verse Poets:  “There’s no specific topic, you just need to incorporate 2am into your poem.”



I was an unkosher Goy,
with exuberant chutzpah
kibitzing Guru-free karma
in the En-laden land of Wabi-sabi
when a typhoon trashed my Feng Shui
blowing my pajamas
down a wild jungle path.

— by Sabio Lantz, April 2015


Prompt: Anna, at the d’Verse Poets Pub, challenges us to “Try building a poem around your favorite word or collecting your vocabulary before writing your verses. Do all your choices add up to create a greater aesthetic whole?”

Notes:   So, following Anna’s prompt, my favorite word is “En” — it is the only word in the poem that is not an English word.  Yep, all the others are words from other languages imported into English — in the English dictionary.  So my favorite words are these words imported to English from languages other than main sources of Latin, Greek, French or German.

See my diagram here showing the history of languages imported into English — including “jungle”, “typhoon”, “pajamas” and the linked ones. And though I don’t expect many readers to click, I offer links to explain these words.

I coined the title word of the poem, of course, it is from Greek. Xeno = foreign, Logo = Word, Philia = love:  The Love of Foreign Words.

Simply Here: No Calling

Like you, I am called by the wind
called by the accident of birth
and called by those I love.

Some envision themselves
as dangling divine toys:
a special build of a sky-dwelling puppeteer.

Instead, I see myself simple,
like all other creatures:
no heavenly trajectory, no special purpose.

Just struggling to survive,
and per chance delighting in a few moments.
and per chance helping others find delight.

Few of us are fortunate enough to love our work,
while most of us slug along in unfulfilling labor,
leaving it to others to romanticize our suffering.
As Tagore did to his hawker, gardner and watchman.

Did he miss their pain, suffering and insecurity
and instead, sanitize their life with a vocation, a “calling”?

My calling is to remember the discipline of pleasure
— to nurture the diverse joys possible in life,
to acknowledge the ugliness and move on
knowing there is no plan.
We are simply here
like everything else.

— by Sabio Lantz, April 2015


Prompt: Gabrielle, at d’Verse Poets Pub, asks us “to write about your call”.  She quotes Tagore’s Poem “Vocation” as a sample.


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