Rick Lupert
    Rick Lupert’s poetry—like the poet himself—is smart and sly, worldly and twisted, hilarious and restrained. His roots lie in the Jewish-American culture of the San Fernando Valley, but his appeal transcends the boundaries of any particular ethnicity or region. He is an avid and prolific chronicler of humankind’s foibles; nothing he sees goes unremarked on in his writing, whether it be the funny behavior of a few workmen on the street, or the omnivorous greed of the ants at his feet at lunchtime. If no one’s writing looks less labored than Rick’s, this is because he does not labor; rather, the words flow out of him easy and pure as spring water. His persona, his voice, his musings seem in some strange way to connect with a little mischievous Rick that we all harbor inside us: somewhere, somehow, we’ve seen Rick before: across the aisle in eighth grade class or on TV or at our uncle’s dinner table. We don’t know where or how, but he’s always been there in one form or another—and he always will be there—to tickle us, yes, but also to provide us with that sense of well-being and even joy that every great wit is capable of stirring up.

Covent Garden August

The women of London
all in summer dresses
spaghetti strap strings
every one of them
It is amazing
it is wonderful
it is stupendous
It is orchards of still life
under cloud-free sky
It is hourglass curves
accentuated with
new millennia fashion
It is standing outside
The Covent Garden Tube Station
Giving Athena the forty P. she needs
for the ride home

Letter From Stonehenge

Dear Reader
I write to you from Stonehenge
Salisbury Plane
Where five thousand years ago
pre-historics moved stones
heavier than a lions ego
to this circle to tell the months
or chart the universe
or slaughter the living
never dreaming of
or even England
They don’t let you touch the stones any more
modern humans chipping off souvenirs
like it’s the Berlin Wall.
I have the Berlin Wall
re-assembled in horseshoe circle
in my back yard
put together from bits
I’ve chiseled off of historic sites
around the world
Every night I dress in secret clothes
and run from one side to the other
I’m free
I’m free
I’m five thousand years old
I’m English field full of oblivious sheep
I’m driving the A303 to London
I’m a spinach pie
I’m layers of clothing
I’m black woman with yellow jacket
I’m heavy rock
lying down
on holiday
married to history
I’m free
Twenty minutes to the next bus
Swords in the forest
Umbrella larger than life
Second floor transportation
I am Ringo
I am Charles
I am writing you from Stonehenge
Kiss all the babies
write back
see you soon


I have two roommates
one is a Christian
one is a Muslim
and I am a Jew.
Our apartment is the old city,
Hanging in the Christian’s room is a crucifix,
In the Muslim’s room is a poster of people praying in Mecca,
and in my room, there is an Israeli flag,
and sometimes a giant gefilte fish.
Sometimes the Christian comes into my room
and accuses me of killing his messiah,
only in this case, it’s Ella Fitzgerald.
Although everyone knows that Ella Fitzgerald died of old age,
her death remains a source of awkwardness between us.
Once I threatened to annex the Muslim’s bedroom
unless he withdrew
the garbage from the kitchen.
He responded by blowing up my bathroom.
No-one was injured except for my cat
whose whiskers where a little singed.
I declared an apartment-wide day of remembrance
for my cat’s heroic deeds.
Why not?
I have so many holidays,
What’s one more?
Amidst all the turbulence,
we still manage to pay rent and share resources,
Water . . . food . . . cable.
We’re catching up with the west
and our apartment exists as a paradigm for world peace.

*this poem originally appeared in Beyond the Valley of the Contemporary Poets anthology

2010 Rick Lupert
Rick Lupert was a Featured Poet who read his poetry at the December 2010 Second Sunday Poetry Series