Here, of course, is New York CIty,
soon enough, my innate 4000 year old
internalized migratory patterns signal,
remind, now be time need to flee to mine
own Walden Pond, no pond, but a wide
bay upon a small river that feeds the
Great Atlantic, and silence & solitude
with assists from animals, the trees,
lovely breezes, the overlord, overloved
sun, will restoreth my soul, when I walk
beside green pastures and forests on country
unpaved rounds, and the poems hang from
the breezes, ripe for the love of a grasping~plucking:

A great reveal though, currently:

Though my soulful body be over 100 miles as the
crow flies from there, here, where I
was/born/bred/educated/nativized/citified/raised/lowered/ be buried/
and yet reside,
the mayhem vibrant+indigenous+unique
to Isle of Manhattan, where the streets cannot never be
clean enough, always, my eyes cloud over at the 10,000
acts of knindness, rudeness, unimagiable beauty, and sadly,
random violence on every street corner, surrounded by broad
ways, temples of arrogant prideful structures of Tower of Babel
ginormity, all pointing up at Him, asking pointlessly, patiently
for an answer that never comes, to
Why Here, Dearest God?

on this Algonquin island, with Indian trails *still extant,
trapped tween two diatomic, fast flowing rivers, do we masses
yearning to be free, live here, a man writes (see below) about
the walks he takes upon it paved banks for soul restoration
and new infusions and certification of the answers you've always, |already have known:

every walkabout
in its own way, is a
gray, grayed, concretized
green pasture unique,
topped off with a combinatory
poem and symphony,
that 90% restoreth my soul,
each art, conducted uniquely,
each in its
own particular,  
genetic birth sac,
nourished by the
atmospheric placenta

in the B.C. (Before Covid)
there was a joy at a city's
restoration, excitation,
after many decades of
wilful neglect; Covid
made many flee to
verified green pastures
hundreds of milkes away;
most have now returned,
like the Hudson and the East River,
their/these tides reverse, what goes North,
changes direction, naked to eye visible

So the population too, two way >flowing<
returnees and departees, always churning
the city's populace; here is a story of a man
who escapes but always returns, whose spirits
tidal wave flow from the sheltered sanctuary
to the madcap foment of a city in perpetuity,
revising its demeanor; from both flows do I
draw the water that feeds my words, and each
poem, differentiated, by the accent of my local

this is a city poem, born and bred, from my very
old head, which was birthed in a hospital by its
central park, and will see my ashes scattered within
its con~fines

(see notes for the story of another New Yorker who walks)

intrguing, this global web site,
when you post at your "odd" hours,
somewhere it is early morn, or the
dreading deading of night,
late afternoon, lunchtime, and the,
this poem slow falls to the bottom of
the front page, into a Found, but Lost,
maybe, some die almost, totally untouched,
some shockingly reveberate, some holy revered,
others, break & brate, forlornly, of unlimited loneliness

this mystery I have studied, and freely admit,
after 15 years, under-the-ladder-stand, and
wisdom goes from zero to less and lesser;
it is time for spring cleaning, amidst the chaos,
in/of a turmoiled world, soiled, cleansing the
palate this year, is harder than ever, and the more
I ponder our exploding litany, I swallow acceptance
whole, pre~forgive most sins, and submit to the burden
and know this:
of time and poetry, the poetry of time,
now, more than ever, is the time for poetry

and the time is:
5:44AM
Tue 22 2025
nyc, usa
and the poem is now!

~for S. Y.~

You, Sir,
are your own armed forces,

Your inner navy army air force
and coast guard,
that guard, defend
the outer boundaries of
your inner self from
the outward shock troops,
and the internal fifth column,
that will betray

You must,
mass personal personnel,
assemble all!

We
are the first
and the last
line of defense

Take Care!
so casually uttered, and yet the most profound command we give
and are given

Yes, we have allies, but we must recognize and admit
that threats exist,
both great and invisible,
minor and insidious,
and it is our own early warning systems,
that need constant recognition!

Yes, you,
take care,
first and foremost
your all eyes,
are your true allies
trust them,

Guard against letting your guard down,
Minor incursions no longer exist!
Every ache and pain is a probe,
and the night watch
must be ever vigilant

April 13,2025

a little

r,

that's all I have,
a hook upon to hang my spirits,
hoping these pre~sleep morbidiities
be by gravity,  
sleep drained, and my
heart restored to wholeness

<>

a tiny single letter separating,
us from them,
it is a handhold, a lifeline,
grasping something for all of us
to hold onto for balance,,
when thinking bout the
hurt we exert,
rendering me near inert:

what we do,
what we let happen,
permit, allow 
 the world to afflict our
children

gasp at the horrors, inflicted,
grasp the enormity of all of it,
curse my brain for this self inflicted pain,
the most vulnerable exposed
to our failures to protect
them from infections
inward and outward<
desirous of infecting

and you claim
"did your best"
with reddened gilded~guilt edged letters
a  illegitimized excuse.
knowing you cannot protect them from the
evils already contained
within,
and the without,
so well hidden,
the bullying torturers,
who are their parents
who go unpunished!

who cares
whose the guit moreover,
all needy for a No, no, No!
the visiuons implanted in my brain,
beg sleep to banish them
from under my drooping eyelids,
but the lightning screams overheard,
infect my eyes,
and the sleep slowed
from
my hopeless prayers of remorse, restitution,
laying bed flat, supplicating
anyone who hears this total body cri,
and no one answers
for the guilt is widespread, broadly shared,
anyone who is parenting,
knows,
the answer will not be forthcoming
and forgiveness will not be granted
by yourself
to yourself
from yourself
for forgiveness
for this
one on the list of multicipity of sins
committed,
is not attainable...

and to sleep,
bit by an asp.
who delivers a certain kind of respite,
perchance, not to dream,
is my only hope...

Saturday,
2/19/25
10:00PM

when the time is best described as
"the morning muddled middle"

for it is the middle of the night,
and yet,
we have crossed over the midnight divide,
the new day is well commenced,  
but the prevailing dark sky says,
not quite yet!

this journey,
from the bed to the head,
is an abbreviated 20 steps,
you fall out of one,
unable to recall,
hours of vivid dreams,
now only scraps of script,
visions, whipped into the void
of the current blanket of a
night cosseting silence

in return for this
adventure travelogue,
you are granted free access to the top of your skull,
where apparently,
a new set, a fresh combo,
has been delivered, not by Amazon
not by messenger, not by the USPS,
but by your own,
fermenting, fermenting, formidable,
yawning
brain cells
and a poem appears,
wholly holy complete
space, typed and neat,
and falls from your lips,
filtered by your eyes
with no hesitation,
"and not a trace of farewell

and this miracle,
is no miracle at all,
for it is routinized,
a daily occurrence,
the mystery of it
long gone,
The How,
dissipated, disappeared,
and delivered unto
You

your obligation, your need,
your urgent pungent
purging,
is strifeless,
and you owe
but you have no idea
to whom or what
to thank for this
bestowing

is this poem a stowaway?
or did it pay for its passage,
in cash, by credit card,
or barter ?

if by barter,
what did I surrender?
what item or thing of great value did I trade
for this permissive missive
that was created
for the soul purpose,
of being shared?

it's birth was painless,
the cutting of the cord,
was never felt!

and within minutes,
it went from birth to babe,
child to adolescent,
young adult to middle aged,
to now,
a senior senile senatorial
presents itself fully formed,
weaned wise and wizened
and served to you
on white porcelain dishes,
with black cutlery

so fresh, so hot, so new,
that you are the first
or perhaps the last,
even the only
to ever taste it…

I ask for your forgiveness,
though invited
on this journey to this meal
and it's many courses
and its mirrored ball of
disco discourses,
it is signaling,
like a wise fool frantically waving,
enough!
telling you that you
have arrived
at an ending,
that we each name,
Our Destination


so be it
so be it
so it be

now a shared property

<>
            

  NML


April 15, 2025

labor commenced
at 2:27 AM
and the poem~baby
with all its limbs, all its senses,
was delivered to you,
its adaptive & adoptive
parents
at 3:22 AM

so good night, good day
and good luck!

Ah, Pradip,
once more, like a 1000 times before,
you submit title, demanding a poem,
daring me to author it's entire body & cell structure,
give it a native language birthmark, and a history unique,
even a name

Un fair!

Is it only me that you burden so, I doubt it.

Each of us has the right to the small tinys, things we see,
the embellishments of our lives,
filling our hives with pure honey,
and letting the other others peek
over our shoulders, as we write to each other,
always one more time until there is no more time

Do words have any boundaries?

How is it that words can cross the seas, the mountains, all the while,
interjecting the fullness of their import?

What time is it you ask?
Here, not yet 5 AM, and once more, here again, roused from sleep after vivid dreams, and finger pointing of my poetic life responsibility to complete this task, you gave me unasked, but know me too well, for well they rang like a bell in the brain,
a burr in the bed,
a gun to the head
Each
and all commanding,
fulfill me!

Do words require a passport to cross oceans? Do words have citizenship?
Why does entry into a different country require each time, a new poem?

yes, the house is dark,
I am alone, but not really…

The words that are conscripted to be issued, in this missive, fall so easily from my lips, that it is as if they were already there,
MRE's
?
pre-prepared, "meals – ready – to eat, "
for voyaging to the Indian continent, not caring if they came alone, or with my body in their person possessed

How is the little granddaughter?
Does she command you to write poetry too?
Does she write poetry too?
Does she learn English as well as her native tongue?
How do you tell her that you love her, celebrate her,
and that her fame and escapades are unkempt  
by real geographical boundaries,
and travel around the world?

Ah, You see
I have charged you now with responsibility!

Ah, the tables have turned, now boundaries must be crossed again with a passport issued from a foreign land (foreign to me anyway),
And I wonder and wander, when they arrive, how will I know,
commit them to memory, and love them with all my heart forever?

Praddip!
Go for one of your walks on quiet nearly empty roads, see the old people beside them, doing the things that old people do,

and memorialize these moments,
you do
so well, so fine, and let the other onlookers hear them spoke, in every language, so many love poems to life, we do not lack for any,
but always, always, always,
demand and require,
n e e d
(he howls)
one more!

Time: 5:1 2 AM
Eastern standard time
New York City
By the Atlantic Ocean
On an island surrounded by water,
That 1,000,000 or more every day pass by,
And here,
h e a r not the flow,
lost amidst
the blaring megaphone of silences
of
city noises, city words, cityscapes, human miracles, and tragedies, it cannot be.
that
I am
the only one so burdened!
And by well traveled poetry,
so un burdened

This semi private, totally public,
Love now,
Love note
is complete as of 5:16 a.m., and after a quick review, will be sent on to you, for submission of a unique-passport for
with its very own
valid entry stamp

nml

One lifts it it with one hand and issue an
"oof!"
it is
denser than you thought, guessing,
two hands gonna be needed:

to the light, hold, hoping for a peek inside,
inside hiding,
what's the weighty substance,
that provides the heft, intensifies the  
                                                           ­             volumuness

twist and turn, humming that tune, but sadly
no break, abcess, belly button hole to garner
an inner deeper peeker, to what's going on
                                                              ­                  downtown

been summoned to Wash D.C., assess the land's lay,
brought an ample supply of Hello's and Goodbye's
cause I walk & talk the-across-the-street talking
                                                                ­                  points

that's me, a puzzled neutrality, a Switzerland in America,
everyone whispers a profane preface,
course, you understand our
points of view and excuse our excesses of excited
                                                                ­                          language

suddenly realize this tension, this incremental sensation,
this mighty manual, is me
adjudged,  writhing striving strife, rife with rancor,
is my life
living in the mid, everyone expecting my honest
                                                                ­                        critiquing

and my total agreement, to the most egregious, either extreme
is the mean, what is, that they desire, spoke in not shouting tones,
givimg the appearance of agreement, without any admission of same

for what's it worth, no need to be words encompassing the truth,
that's why, it is so heavy, tho the center is an aerated hollow, heavy
is the faked heated air escaping, taking with it, freedom to run
                                                                ­                                         away, away

(~for Stella Marie, a newly arrived poet here at HP"
who asks, "when does a poem truly end?"~)

She's off,
to a fancy, long gown, dinner dance, with her dancing partner,
a relationship that predates my arrival, my tired song reminder,
"but don't forget who's taking you home" has aged out from repetition,
and now she slips in beside me 'round midnight, and more often than not
so smooth, so silently, I wake up to early morn poetry writing time
and there she is, a Britbox ****** mystery dissolving on the tv screen,
earpoded and still miraculously,
deeply asleep

before she departs, poses for a final inspection,
demonstrating my wonderful
ability to adorn her gorgeous jewlery,
and sardonically modest, critique her with, an
"as expected,
you looking gorgeous"
which evokes her soft smile, at my soft edged compliment

but earlier, whine like a grown man on a diet (so pathetic).
there is nothing
sweet to eat for my apres dinner just(ice) dessert,
and leaving me chicken soup salty and
aggravated...she in a neutral tone,
a child practiced tone,
"go check the fresh fruit drawer, there is fresh fruit aplenty,"
and I, mentally comparing my desire for a raisin scone,
or vanilla butterscotch swirl,
to the taste bud reaction unfufilled,
find the clear plastic box of fresh blackberries,
like Leornard's tea,
that comes all  the way from Mexique,
and inelegantly stuff my face...

been writin poetry since early morn, pre~sunrise, through first daylight,
and now eventide, she's off, the apartment gone quiet, as I munch on twelve blackberries I have extracted to ease my sweetness lacking

but blackberries are ****, ******, that won't quell my inner needs,
of course, the notion of twelve blackberries, says, mmmm, could
be a poem in there somewhere, and the muses whisper asides, clues,
hints and apparitions of trite not quite ripe  lines and verses that might
be apropos to a poem so ilked and milked (sorry), AND that word hits me
tween and behind my blue gray eyes,  

T A R T
----------
with its mulivariable shades of meaning,
which amuse. and I love,
but also accuse me of possibly be distracted intowriting
bad poetry,

and wonder how the tongue disassembles our food,
separating their essence into the varieties of taste sensations,
sweet, sour, salty, bitter and savory

and reflect how wise these tiny tatse buds know
just how we humans sort people into categories that
mimic  
just how knowing, assess, categorize,
our fellows humans
along the same principles,

how can there not be a supreme intelligence,
that designed our bodies so similarly
and yet so differently,
and efficiently?

something if we thought about more,
might make us less inclined to blow each other up
with such genteel aplomb.

apologize for dragging you through this rambling essay,
but it came about when Stella Marie
asks, "when does a poem truly end?"

it ends here, when you captures the flows of the living currents
we surround ourselves with, reaching out to capture their
flowing parfume essences,
the sweet, the sour, the savory,
and connecting them to a larger envisioning,
which how we operate,
why we do not ignore spectacular sunrises, sunsets,
the "curve of a wrist"
how an ankle turns a leg into a finished sentence,
how tears confess true emotion and clarify,
even though they actually intefere with seeing,
and now its time to depart, end this long rhyme
about longing,
for something sweet
and the short answer is,
jumbling and humbling,
"you just know"
for she's back and read this poem,
and tartly replies directly,
and answers your question

                     nml

for she
<>
"I choose to love you in silence, for in silence I find no rejection.
I choose to love you in loneliness, for in loneliness no one owns you but me.
I choose to adore you from a distance, for distance will shield me from pain.
I chose to kiss you in the wind, for the wind is gentler than my lips.
I choose to hold you in my dreams, for in my dreams you have no end"

Rumi
<>

writ in a time, for when
there is never enough,
and yet,
always, waves of too much,
needy for
filling feeling fulfilling

We must learn,
be self taught to:

"Leave a tender moment alone
You got to leave a tender moment alone
Leave a tender moment alone
Leave a tender moment"

ah the tender time is nonetheless
rightly and wrongly
rightly now,

for I have stumbled,
overheated, sweaty, from the night bed,
at 4.30am into another darkened toom,
and I have smacked~stumbled into
Rumi
and her

our paths continuously intersect,
in the same but
in different cities, continents,
and yet,
diffident, differing,
we silently choose
never to close those lady~last few miles
and tie the knot of
eyes, skin, lips
the instruments
that transmit thousands of
neuronal explosions that
seal the deal

so we write in poetry,
in silence broken by the gentility
of fingertips soundlessly
and yet,
boundlessly rocking,
explosively soundings of
tap tap tapping

my music mocks me,
it is definitively god interfering,
advising, conspiring,
wiring into my brain
better lyrics,
idealized notions,
exactly appropriate
and appreciated

with the lyrics urging me on,
and that we must be
self taught to:

"Leave a tender moment alone
You got to leave a tender moment alone
Leave a tender moment alone
Leave a tender moment"

but my heart trembly refuses,
insightful informing
that now,
now! is
the moment to exchange
vows of words,
though un spoke,
they require
written completion
through
& though
apart, alone,
to finally out loud confess
what has always been known, only to each other,
to be
so real

and yet*,

we will never exchange
these sentiments
in out loud words

but though this be lacking,
it will never
diminish
their  ultimate
intimate
truthfulness

and I ask,
is this a poem?

surely
it is that, and
so much more,
an essay, a letter on
invisible NML stationary,
a heart carving in
an oaken barrelling of
ancient vintagery

and that interloper,
Him again,
eavesdropping
on this private communication,
insists that I draw deep
from her favorite
singer~songwriter,
words that say it better,
that for real seal the deal,
in the saddened perfection
of total, enwrapped,
silence:

"Hello darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence"

and
it is time
to finish this task,
it is exactly one hour,
no time at all,
to complete a love poem that
is/was complete,
even before its
composition
and yet,
is never to be be familiar with
the finality of
completion
<>

postscript:

I taste your private shed tears,
hear the howling sigh,
but most of all,
'tis the explosion of
a deep smiling creasing
your lips,
spreading in all directions
saying and stating:

at last, at last!
a lasting, a confessional to you god,
though,
a through and through
silent
jubilation
                                              ­             nml

April 8, 2025
530am
New  York  City

~ for the poet by the same name,
Melan,
a name derived from the Greek "melas"
meaning "black" or "dark"~
<>
oft have we warned you, be wary,
every phrase, a provication,
a cribbed script from a message,
a poem, even a pen name, says,
marke me man, the notion of the
Melancholoy of Innocence
a burr buried in my head's bed,
a sleep robber, a pseudo~scholar,
so intriguing this grand challenging
notion...
of the purity of melancholoy's essence

my oldest friend from an early age,
before I knew the word to grasp~capture it,
in my youthful tristesse grave,
what rendered my soul so vulnerable
to an emotion that had no direct visible cause,
but powered me with a puzzling
strange insight of keen visibilty,
that filtered a glow about all, about what
my eyes saw, my heart felt...

nearly now, the better part of a century,
I recall the first days of exploration,
of a world, that
dished out equal portions of
ecstasy and misery,
and well taught me the value
of silence
of observation,
and how to record
a memory so that so many, so many decades later,
is crisp with its original fraglity
that overwhelmed way back when
I was but a toddler

a world that was cruel,
a lesson, that came very early,
but made me quiet but not surly,
observant of the human quirks and their potential,
the people surrounding acting in an up dated version
of a Bible Tale..

where guilt and innocence were precise and clear,
and there was no middling muddle,
to confuse, or be abused,
to obfuscate or obscure

lines of demarcation in black clearly drawn,
so it was soon gone, the innocence,
that was gifted to us all at birth,
and though I mourned its loss,
very quick came the silent thought of,
well, that's no surprise!

that melancholy matures, extends and distends,
now and then, even shocks,
by the newness of returning old sadness,
and the ceativity of its constant reintroduction,
accompanied by a startled,
well, that's no surprise!

and here the shocker though,
acts of human kindness are not so far and few between,
just perhaps, less well advertised,
so when spotted. self similar words emerge,
even happy shouted,
well, that's a surprise!

~an artwork beneath our feet, yet invisible to
our eyes, constantly changing ,interlocking
interlinking~

this poem has asked for composition
everytime, I walk upon and past the sculputure
beneath my feet on the Esplanade by The River

(Diatom Lace on the East River - Stacy Levy
www.stacylevy.com › projects › diatom-lace-on-the-east-river)  (1)

but as I daily hurry past (for years) and over this pattern form lifted from the
river's flowing,
a daily delaying,
for the words good enough to honor it, the invisible floating floral tentacles,
attaching each water molecule to the next,
do not arise of sufficient quality of wordsmithy,
the Whitman words do not float up from the waters rushing past,
and come to rest in my multi-tasking poetry conceptuals

many months, even years,
have gone by and after every water walk,
the sculpture stabs me guilty,
of procastination,
and an unwillingness to tackle it,
like the other tough stuff that haunts me

so this morning, when I drown in the file laughingly called
100 & One Drafts
a J'accuse (1) finger stabs my eyes and repeats the caveat of the sage
Hillel the Elder: (1)
If not now, when?

and even as I sit and compose,
the words refuse to surrender unto me
for easy transcription
and the chest tight with guilt, from all the
promises I've made and remain
unkempt & unkept,
that stunt and stun my spirit,
with inconsolable sadness

So
I distract myself,
check the sleeping woman<
take my morning meds,<
reheat my "The Gamblers Mug" (Cezanne)(1) of morning coffee,<
and alas, at last, once more surrender to my worst,
and issue an invitation to >you<
come visit me, come walk with me,
perhaps together, a greater good will emerge,
and we will feed each others tongues
with syllables and sounds,
that will trigger,
go figure!
a suitable poem
worthy of a great art work,
the lace of diatoms
in the water,
that our eyes cannot see,
but our hearts
can feel
and with better words,
be so honored,
by a poem
truly worthy
of this

miraculous
conception

"A yummy granola of uneven stanzas, metaphors and similes, meditations, and confessions."

<>

this is I’m told
the how of how
I script,
I like granola though not
necessarily my premieur choix,
unless I’m breakfast buffet’ing
in Switzerland

and the all white mountains urge me
to climb aboard

I do not quatrain or cinqtrain,
my plan of attack is
****** and parry, defeat the
white enemy of empty,
with love my soul delivers
that which is rapidly transiting,
decomposing in my lobes,
awaiting perhaps reassembly and
reanimating in a new combination

employ the employees of writing
with liberty for all and
allegiance to none,
and the wild child within calls the shot
and asks only one question:
what do I deserve,
more importantly,
what do I know and owe you?

The number of noise complaints in the City of New York exceeded 750,000.
<•>

that
does not
include the
shrieks and screams of the
unfriended,, unloved, overwhelmed sad l~onelys
that
have the courtesy
uncommon
to add
their cries of the heart
that are best stated, sung &
satiated & sated

s i l e n t ly

“Mariners should alter plans to avoid these hazardous conditions. Remain in port, seek safe harbor, alter course, and/or secure the vessel for hazardous conditions.“
<•>
these governmental agencies
a veritable,, gala of cords of words,
have an urgency that is an
unintended poetry capture


the hazards of life
and their associated cruelty
oft brings out
the very finest of the best of us,
lurking in the innerest depths
we studiously avoid
lest we be embarrassed or
tearfully fulfilled


Remain in port!
(venture forth to save a life,
even your own)

Seek safe harbor!
(secure your internal best)

Alter course!
(there isn’t a single path,
that doesn’t consist of
thousands of minute
course corrections)

Secure the vessel!
(the first commandment,
your primary obligatory
to your first, the us, the rest)

for the most hazardous conditions
you’ll face,
are your own self-imposed
roadblocks and diversions,
overcome these is the hardest,
but success is freeing in a way
that makes you love this
ephemeral, always refining
de~fining yet obtainable potion
of
honest/to/goodness

true freedom

addendum
———-
discard, ignore
be wary of
those who fallback
on icebergs of curses
sandbag of ice Shoals
beneath the water surface
and when  they,
reduced to bile infected  
falling back on vulgarities and curses,
this the mist removal
line should never crook
or cross
Let them sink below the waterline for their talent is compromised, and they fail to understand and comprehend that poetry is intended to inspire
the commonality
that blends this potpourri of
im ourinternational collective who
value the collective spirit that informs our poetry

oh yeah
“**** my dck”
fouls this temperate commune
of politesse architecture here,
wounding us all

give us no more these

badwordsoffensive*
worse, tools of the
poorly pathetic thumb of the inarticulate,
in one so talented

~ for bulletcookie, who taught me a knew word~

you might guess the meaning,
no need to dictionate,
but by way of explique, what the hell,
may you always be,
Rebelent

~When the top of my head is taken off~


<>

“If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off,
I know that is poetry.” — Emily Dickinson

<~>
I know and recognize this moment, accompanied by rapid heartbeat, sky high blood pressure,
palpitating chest, shortness of breath,
and
the fire of creativity,
and the burning of beauty upon my brain and soul


I have read
I have listened,
I have spoken,
Beautous Words
I have written,
myself a few,
and even though,

The top of my head has been blown off,
It is only to permit the letters of the alphabet
that caused this commotion, to rise heaven~wards~them~words,
so they may float unto you, posthaste,
with all delivered snd deliberate speed,

Why,
that sound knocking you to the ground?
that's your white blood cells cheerily welcoming,
even engorging, absorbing now an original part of you,
until such time that it is your turn,
for your head to explode, and pass said letters,
words and alphabets onto
another

11am
10 Mars 25
n

AJean-Paul Sartre:
“If you’re lonely when you’re alone, you’re in bad company”

<>

stumbled upon while reading a movie review,
this almost a proverbial phrase provoking,
even stoking,

as we hold it up to the light,
twisting, turning the words,
as if it was a
kaleidoscope of diamonds,
looking at the fractured reflections,
for a better comprehension

we,
of two minds:
be-love and be-rued
this s l o w e d turning of our solitary solution
under the microscope ,
for critiquing
the two headed hydra
that has served us  well and poorly

you, dear reader, understand perfectly,
the utility and the inutility of aloneness,
the surge creativity that comes
from no distractions,
other than our internal attractions

which when
one interrupted by the company of,
insertion of a different catalogue
a holder of human foibles,
differentiating, threatening, upsetting,
and sometimes soothing,
always enervating,
unlike the soothe of solitude

either can overwhelm,
either can worse,
underwhelm
but
the crossover. when the contrast is
pointy and sharp,
raises an irritating questioning
like the cracking, dry skin, of
places where we do not put
moisturizing cream
for fear of feeling failure

each to their own,
the enjoy/unjoy of voices
claiming a  permanent correctness
of their viewpoint
  wringing in with
a legal pad of
pluses and minuses
listing side to dide,
but never adding up
to 💯

your
audience of holy
voyagers and voyeurs
(yeah,yeah; all’em ain’t that holy)

really,
exactly
whooo
read, reads
them reddish reeds
you wrote?

ok
now here this:
check each identifiable
in and out,
twice de minimumize

who and where
your paths crossed,
take their scripts
under your very first cheap kid microscope,
read them close,
find the warts, acne, their
true distended identity
(oops, natty)
dissect, bisect,
hell,
vivisect
their rhythms ruthlessly
with the greatest of gentility,
learn their think
smell their stink
assign them a color
and determine the height
of the footstool pedestal
they could be eligible
to be placed or trod upon

to the work,
go do the work,
assay the the intangible,
ascertaining the physical
and the mental
of the neuronal tissue dandelion
connectivity
to determine what is this
mutual attraction

and if they live thousands of miles away
start planning your journey right away!
they are your blood
they are your family
they are your rib
and they keep you company
in the garden of Eden
(Applelites only)

how likely they are a long lost sibling
you never knew you had

depending on your temperament,
offer to marry them
if they’re orphans, adopt them!
bring them e v e n
closer than an enemy

legitimize the organize,
stick out a hand,
all the rest
will follow
naturally

~for Jonathan Larson (2)~
~~~~
where poets dare to tread
knowing the jeopardy to
themselves when their truths
are outed by the light shedding
come the morning’s birthing,
my ending unwritten,
the methodology unknown (1)
<•>
the tabulations final sum
identified by a =  
couplet doublet line
underlining, undermining,
tho the sign indeterminate,
pos or neg,
worse yet maybe,
zero sun-shiny outed,
well,
rue-sighing
must be one of but just
them three tri-bipolar optionalities

the script unwrit
the possibilities vast,
alone nursing home,
an empty dull
barely furnished,
studio apartment
an unnoticed blah, blah blah;
that’s ok

there will be no vast array,
conclave of family & friends,
his stateless status
formed by a choice reenforced by time,
a man chose a solitary tilt,
till it
was a deathly rigid reality factual,
free willed
~~
the irony sweetbitter,:
he who loved love
sometimes writing wrinkles
of only love poetry
but was
stumped
by its consequences continual
&
stumbled
in and out, deep or not at all ,
but only periodic,
alternating decades from
age ninteen

his leavings will be
minimal,
his trail,
dusted under,
and his sense of wonderment
at the atomic elemental
extant and yet undiscovered,
is where will live his
only wisps of his whispers,
heard  ‘pon the backs
of rushing to nowhere
guest gusts of
canyon winds
of his york;
city of naissance

do not protest
nor deviate with debate,
the future unpredictable
and yet curved hewn from,
made from straight block stone
of absolute clarity
of speckled Barre gray granite
~~
mistake this not
for bewailing,
catlike caterwauling,
ever even the bitters,
of short-lived
the in~between now
and resting place finale
indeterminate,
~~
but follow a path of words,
an Appalachian Trial
roving  through forest & civilization,
multiple states,
safe and dangerous
worldly, wormwood wordfuls
all jumble uttered simultaneous

<>
so we dare to ask out loud,
will I die in dignity,
the answer a stale prequel
question obvious answered
in his heritage-styled genes,
with another wink
of a question;

what is dignity?
~~
alone, surrounded by
no one,
matters not,
headstone irrelevant
for this good morning
of cherishing
words and tunes,
adding a line
here and there,
is dignity enough,
and this,
well known to him,
within his collapsing vein's depths,

so the answer
smooth planed and plain:

This,
this is dignity
one more time,
one more winding
spiraling downwards
uplifting
poem

and a
never ending~never the less
&
nevermore
forevermore
satisfactory
answer

Dearest Patty m.,

we admire, admit to raw nailed jealousy
when we read the works superior
with the greatest worn scruffy complementary compliment
a poet
can give to
another scribe

How I wish I had written that,
those very words!

confessing before the world
with our own humility
at the daily dawning of
realization that
morning brings freshness and
insights needy for release and
aborning and the trace of humiliation
that we’ve all  ready
been breached bested
by others,
once again…

BUT
we do not bow!
no courtly arm sweeping,
back bent, at best
a nod of a head
then

privately
we gasp, rent our clothes,
throw the body flat to the floor,

observing seven days of mourning
reserved
for when we morning moan,
daylight groan and loan out our
croissant moon mooing cries to
bemused muses
in the clouds supervising,
as tears of, an admixture of,
an elixir of joy, compassion
and thus refreshed by someone’s
new infant’d christening
we *****. we resurrect, gamble,
throwing ourselves complete like dice,
in to a roll of
stunned stupor of high inspiration
and then make out best work
ever yet

but never do we bow, scrape,
bend the knee, maybe the head,
we mourn our lesser failings
and smile as we flash words
from our eyes,
stored in our mindsets,
our, my best, will
always be yielded up
next
——
addendum
———
seven years ago
in a separate guise,
he ssid it differently
maybe better?
:<•>

epilogue

read my face
incapable of,
deprivation
but how now silent
bow my head to Will
for teaching the way of words
traced upon
a fool or a king's tongue,
two too human,
so that poet may ken
his senses keener,
all for the better,
for the betterment of all

(whimsy - playfully quaint or fanciful behavior or humor)


——
recent events, minor tumults, additive,
the summing up of wearing,
a slip and fall, financial reverses,
communiques misunderstood,
clanking pipes resounding against
a sonorous soundless soulful sleep, and
the
unrest of disinterest in essaying
thoughts into words into creativity

a far far cry from singing of the whimsy
in life that teases and delights, replaced
by a weariness from the whiners,
who craftily abuse, with deft badly
prosed propaganda propositions,
seeking solace in solitude + add-an-all-inability to forsee the goodness in people,
delimiting desire to inspire, why then
compose when so decidedly decomposing?

lay the ownership of pen-man-ship down
until dealt an inside straight, eyedrops
that open wide, dilate into a wider perspective, a kinder me, and the
patience of a patient awaiting a
healing vaccine against the flu
of whining. so awfully communicable,

will read Whitman, Frost, and those
revolutionary Persians who ken the
revivification of spirit, return from a
there as a refugee
to a refreshed refuge
of here
                            nml

Addendum
———
the chill in the body that’s so
invasive, resisting two sweaters,
a coat named “The De~icer,”
over heavy sweats,
the interior is
frostbitten

The courage to encourage
(‘tis no accident the overlapping
of these two words)
<•>
tilling the fields of beautifully
and freshly seeded words,
gift wrapped in the essays
of the experimenting,
carefully and carelessly toe dipping
in the tooling of shapes and paintings sourced from a mere handful of
twenty six water colors,

in fresh water streaming waterfalls of:
knew
new eyes
new words
newly hewn
combinations

all
upon the early morn bluey sketch,
against a noisy background of a new day’s
first blushing

when the rested brain is so, so
receptive to newness,
itself a word of a
délicieuse lovely phonic
mouth treat

at 6:35an
on an ordinary Thursday

and now an
extraordinary Thursday,
when my inbox of old eyes
is delighted
and crinkly smiling
at the enduring uncovering
of
daring,
earning while yearning,
poets eager to give us freely
the first fruits of
their  hybrid creations

makes an old man
weep new tears,
to accompany
him till the end
of the day,

each tear a diatom of lace upon
an endless river of,
well,
the everything,

a knitting of letters
flaring up with a robust,
Hey!

I am here,
I am aborning

so glad to make your acquaintance
    


                     nml

~my poet friends and friendly poets~

(written in anger, then sorrow,
tinged with regret, but in the end one
has no choice but to forgive and forget)

<•>

the ghood poet knows no boundaries,
lays down tracks of a New England
pond of nirvana,
or across Siberian froze wastelands,
another
salves the wounds of dying soldiers,
and gives away comfort to the dying
with the freeing oxygen of
comforting words

the world of self,
that thing we know best,
thus encouraged by the textbooks,
well,
to have at it, plays whacamole
with your  owned flirtatious emotions,
none too imperious or low down or
garbage dump *****, that yet
cannot be validated by exploratory
over-the-line words pithy

even the florid, tiresome nickel & dime ing
rhyming scheming crutches,
we so oft employ,
yields up stuff that ain’t half bad,
periodically,
though, the blunt of words well crafted
needs
no such delimiting amusing playthings
or imprisoning
I-am-amoebic-pen-tata-meter

take you inspiration from here and there,
the proverbial deep dark of the mind’s recessed corridors of
corrupted consciousness,
or, the
contrail whiffs of the steaming steaming of the contradictions of a
newborn first day’s contrast of-
the wet dew on toes cooling,
while the simultaneous sun warms all
the cheeks,
heats the blood with
a thanks-god-I’m-alive
overwhelmingly overall tickling,

or
not.

write with the tools you have, but keep
them well sharpened, with
insight and revelation,
exploring the rain’s windowed
navigable rivulets,
the musical tempos
of waves and their multi-mystical variations,
and the readers will come like
pilgrims to your  holy land,
wearied and yet so delightedly hopeful,
with tingling contrasting dictions,
to capture and release,
by shattering any
stale notions of adulation
will bring your
audience of holy voyagers and voyeurs
to imbibe so deeply your creativity for the quenching, and the
amen gasp escaping tween
their lips is just a simple holy,
gentling thank you

discard the bad words as ornery and
distracting, veiled in pomposity and
highfaluting, self-saluting, arrogance of
those deeming themselves critical thinkers,
who thrive in the low mud flats of
self-pretension and the reassurance
of a mirror’s reassurance

write straight from the heart,
fill our eyes with the
complexity of the simple
and
grant us the write to share,
in your humanity

craft the work
and
the work
will repay
so stealthily
by secretly
crafting you




                                   nml

early morn (5:00am) scanning, scrolling,
unrehearsed searching and the question
appears in a “loves that got away” column,

(why do all these descriptors start eith S,
I think I know!)

and off on another self-effacing, investigative determination, a mental biopsy of another hopeless cause,
that results in poems too long

though the body and mind are rested,
with six hours of uninterrupted sleep,
and volumes of dreams,
the quest bags a burr in the bed,
(yes, rhymes with head)
but n o t h i n g pops in with a grin,
and a bell ring, stating presumptuously,
why that’s me
and the fault failure fear
in me
engorges

this  really distresses,
with & in a deep sense of awful,
how can I not recall this momentous
illustrative precious precision
proof of why life is worth living,
and worser still,
don’t I get to choose,
isn't this an interrogatory,
suitable for a pre-provided
Multiple Choice Answer?

a pause to collect myself from a
falling into a hole of nefarious negativity spiraling,
suddenly
recalling so many
kind and gentle touching brushes
of your comments re my poetry,
which provoked warm tears

^and one more tine,
poetry has saved
a life^

5:37am Saturday 2-15-25