it is as if
two different days are aborning;
To the west fog pervades, endures,
Sheets of condensation window adorning,
Make the fog in~penetrable

But to the east the peekaboo rays
Of an early rising yet hidden sun,
Kids us with hints of melliferous rays, shadows
and shades, what might yet be a glorious day

This debate will be one,
this debate will be WON,

Sipping lukewarm coffee, reheated  hot or cold, I watch the battle Royale, and care not which words
here are capitalized
and which words are minimized

It is a struggle for my voice and the voice recognition
of my phone, to sort out the important and the riffraff;
In fact, isn't that always a struggle, for all of us,
All of the time?

just as the sun,
inevitably, and inimitably,
will decide
To accept a decision by a
Higher authority

I r r e s p e c t i v e of my opinion

But I have an opinion,
And that is what matters

Sometimes In summer
When the weather smothers
I wonder whether the garden knows.
The shape of the hand that mothers
Or the fist that brings the hose.
Flowers wilt and bow in worship,
Begging palms to bring the rain.
Fruit given up in offering
To exchange and then obtain.

~for the inestimable and yet,
so oft underestimated,
Lori Jones McCaffery ~
*"That was beautiful and I lived it with you." ^


tell-me, tell-me,
he whispers so only he/she can hear:

is there anything more,
a simple poet could ask for,
but an admission of someone revealing that
your words,
inculcated, enwrapped, flowered within,
then carried them to you,
and you to them?

to sit beside me, on my unpillowed weathered throne,
and imagine them imagining through eyes that read, shared
your overflowing joyous insights of the outside domain,
your sadness glorious at the end of a summer
where you rediscovered, un~purposed,
a mindfulness,
from the early morning sun beams stinging you alive

that together ***** the air from lungs exhaling,
and this very breathe
is the synapse of an actual consummation,
transmigrating, transmuting, transforming
a kindred soul
to kin

how glorious!
no, there is nothing greater,
but to ask:

my dear,
can you feel, ******* salted tears, Lori,
as I kiss each of your hands for becoming/making/cresting & creating
a bond of us?

inspired by Ben Noah Suri
<>

come to us in twilight, and just before sunrise,

in the in~between times, when souls exit and enter.

through microscopic cosmic windows, and there

is nothing but you and the full emptiness of earth

and then!

fill our void with words as yet unborn,

and aid all our passages from nether to glory...

for you,

we, await...

for guidance inherited from

all your visions of greater-than-us metamorphosis

<>
upon first awakening and reaffirmation of life,
reading the first poem of the day
6:59am
Sabbath
Sep 13
2025

a birthday poem for S.

perhaps, this is the responsibility, the purposeful gentility,
that poetry engenders, that thwarts the impulse to anger,
guiding away, finding a way, to temper the temper, to out
and joust away our basest, our first, but never our foremost
nor finest, succinct instinct, yet terrible human nonetheless...

perhaps, this is where we hide, neath our carnival masque,
our-would-be better selves, and struggle in this, this intensity intentional,

the season's change is subtly blatant, not obvious 'cept to those
who have a front seat, a well worn Adirondack chair in the nook
where the airy breeze offers fruits of words so easy, pluck words
as easy as breathing, and the slight gradation change, in the light and
temperature, and yet, the suns cares not, for it still warms my body,
though lower and slower, nonetheless, when the heat invades my soul, confirming my, our, existence,

burning off the fog of our contradictory confusions,
and eliciting an unsolicited
"thank you god"
for my, our personal miracle of re~birthing
and better comprehending,
that other
miracle we can embrace
never enough

loving kindness

sun~mon
sep 14~15
twenty twenty five

Sit, stand up and walk straight
and don't you ever wait
or else be seen here late
for it's all now our fate
mankind's most evolved state
humanity's last gait.
____

"These days
I'll sit on corner stones
And count the time in quarter tones to ten, my friend
Don't confront me with my failures
I had not forgotten them"
Jackson Browne

<>

these days,
you can come by tween
the mostly soft warming cracking of Dawn,
and the early born-ing of
the first peek of a full grown
but yet
sleepy sunrise,

you'll find me siting on a
asshard dock,
two seagulls staring at the
human interloper,
alone with the threads in my
hardened head,
beating time in casual rhyme,
because that's what poets do,
to warm up their
tongues & toes,
clear their eyes
and
sniffling nose,
their partly opened,
party closed,
throats, eyes and
give up, sacrifice
the longest list of little lies,
that makes (forces) us to get up  in the undimming earlies,
when it's just me, the gulls,
& the minnows poking around,

the fluke,
smarter but not wiser,
further out in deep water,
waiting to be caught

and
the cool blood barely flows,
until the rising orb warms
our fragility,
and we review the stories old,
that make us cold at night promising ourselves that
today you'll do that thing(s)
you've been putting off for years,

"Don't confront me with my failures"
Jackson pleads, but I concede,
thinking tell me them
one
mo' time,
make me unrighteous,
make me whole,
then take me,
holy displayed fully,

and the
first poem of the day,
will be my
confession total,
without reservation
and yet muse on
honor
something I thought I knew,
but needing a
closer examination
it might've been
dishonor
that was what
I was truly
knew
<>
Sunrise
July 5
'25
sitting on the dock
by the bay,
would I
lay down with a lie?