poems by James B Nicola



Movement swells to decadence;

Popularity takes tolls,

Drains a flood of reverence:

In his grave the Founder rolls.


Scripture sanctions sin and stress

Where the Great Religions go;

Rights of Man turn Brutishness,

Renaissance turns Rococo.


Revolution bangs her drum

Beating movements left and right.

Till a Restoration come,

O, beware the acolyte!




When I Sit, When I Lie


When I sit my tush

quite happily

keeps me on the ground;


when I stand,

the cushions

of my feet.


And when I lie,

my front or back

or sides


buffer my mass

to save me from being

swallowed by lonely Soil,


so nostalgic

for my inexorable



But when I sleep

my skull

can’t hold my dreams.


Tushless, footless,

sans sides or back or front,

buttressed by mere weeds,


sleep cannot sit;

dreams don’t stand still:

both swirl in fitful starts


then sizzle a magic path

in an instant to the antipodes

like a drill-nosed mole


or soar to the moon

the stars

or even You.




I didn’t look up


I didn’t look up

to see the cloud

that’s not there



and now I

never will—

I never



But one brand new

is apt to brew





The Poem about a Flower


I never said I

wouldn’t write

another flower

poem, but

that I would try



since you said you thought

it wasn’t right.



too late.


to do?

Where to go?

Right’s a thankless virtue,




go ahead and remonstrate,

go round me, or go on

if you’re really


and it’s a going


of hour.

Who but me is really going

to mind?

But is it really



since the thing is really

about us?


Or if there’s nothing really

to discuss,

don’t speak

and I’ll be gone

in a week

or two

like a flower

as you know. . .


or in an hour,

like you.




Just Too Much


you’re just

too much

that’s what

you are

and now

that I

know what

you are

you know

I know

what you

are and

that’s just

too much

too much

too much

too much

poems by James B Nicola

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