that the trending tags,
for but a single day,
banished the perennials,
all celebrated the occasion
with a rousing wake and
an indecent burial

out **** spots,
sad, pain, heartbreak and depression,
in the closet, once a year, annual,
as for death,
it's ugly head,
cutoff, spiked and disliked,
in the tower displayed

for twenty four, de minimus,
on a day mutual selected,
we compose only
of the beauty, and the kindness
in each and all of us

happened upon an extravaganza of spring’s hallmark,
the cherry blossoms outing their munificence of color,
I happened to position myself direct below a tree,
the thicket
of blossoms so, well, thick, that sky was obliterated ‘cept
for pointillistic spots of blue sun, yellow sky that poked
through the
few de minimus interstitial spaces permitted, and was
struck silent, by-for-before shimmering eyes that uttered the
requisite oohs and ahhs,

and

words came to me weeks later,
when the memory, now fully decanted,
reappears
courtesy of a giant tech company’s code tinkering,
merging and splurging the combined images in the
photographic memory
of my devices,
as if to say:
your life is
points of light and color and scent
as you write now
amidst the hubbub of jackhammers, raucous horns a blaring,
the homeless screaming on the street at god,
the fatalistic headlines of hate and
the pallor of a low level haze of perp~gray
between you and your true elfin self,
and you are not surprised,
but sadly, but not entirely,
bemused
that the photo’s true utility was to
remind weeks later
that all that my eyes utter
is not just
woe, double trouble and toil, toil,
but to Hey Jude and George,
step out and see the park on a Sunday
in its entirety and to glory in
your being
by being
a point in that tapestry spectacular
of ingestion, digestion and final comprehension and
a happy
exhalation

For Steve Yocum
~~~

an old marine called me the other night
a poet from the left coast,
a correspondent and a first responder
to my messy essays

we both, vintners of men,
compared notes on our progeny's
full bodied temperament,
and our own full body's aches and miscreants

bemoaning our losses,
of earnest poets,
of friends, even foes,
and favored football teams,
and ne'er forgetting to tally up
our occasional victories

he authors books,
he authors life,
with grainy portraits,
that try to be peepholes
to clarity

me, a periodic poetist,
more confessional blogger shootist,
than artful-words-to-please dodger,
in a vainglorious futile insanely repeating attempts
to better separate
life's wheat from the chafe of its chaff

perhaps,
we shall someday meet,
a twosome of codgers,
walk the saddened-today, blood-reddened Oregon soil,
armed with each other's comforting wisdom,
tasting grapes,
acknowledging
but for the grace of god,
we go

together, to gather,
each other closer,
walk the vineyards and the cellars
to clarify
the wine from the sediment,
getting uproariously drunk
on friendship

is this craft that chose you, not defined by machine millimeters,
precision absolute, curvatures, so eye-pleasing,
they demonstrate no tolerance for tolerance of the
ordinary?

*the skill of words, too, cut so fine,
find the  extraordinary within, refine, refine, refine,
shave away the trite, the reused, discard the instant recognition,
unusable

~

*a secret-possessor, a poetess of riddles,

informs, but my senses don't conform,

claiming that in my possess,

a gift ensconced, a soulfulness harbored,

purportedly outing me as "one gifted soul"

~

this "gift" of cobbled together phrases, on the back of
paper napkins,

words impermanent, undeserving of the firmamen
of cottoned cloth,

they shall not be mourned, when forever lost,

for like my soul, but a fleeting glimpsed visitor,

a 100 year comet, naturally self-destructing,

intended to be witnessed but once in a lifetime

~

wincing at this dear praise, yet it serves me well,

as the sweetest reminder, that we shall all yet meet,

all on that day, all in that place,

from where souls are gifted and returned,

however shopworn

or even disgraced

~

all welcomed upon our inevitable return, no proof of purchase needed,

where, living forever, in such good company is a

certain surety,

knowing this, that we are all certainly possessed with this relief,

easy then, in agreement, every each, born in fluid from the belly of belief,

each of us

"a gifted soul"

Kinda fainted Friday nite,
De doctor, he come, he say,
"Son you done
give us a genuine affright."

De doctor, he come, he say,
"Son, it's the end o' day,
Get your **** in bed straightaway"

"Here's what you be needing:
twelve tablets of hourly salting, no halting
eight hours bed rest, no dreaming,
four gallons o' tap water, drinking,
no stopping,  
"and for god's sakery,
cease and desist from
this writing,
poetry nonsense fakery."

Weakly, I protested,

"My poems are the waste products,
the excretions of salt water tears,
a thousand years in the making,
dreams foretelling and retelling events disturbing.

If not removed, disinterred by their inscribing,
these poisonous emotions,
shall surely cause once more
my fainting and falling demotion."

He frowned, de doctor, he was perturbed,
his medical thinking cap was for sure disturbed!

With sighs that made my heart to be a stirring ,
De doctor, he come, he say,
held forth as following, quiet murmuring:

"Here is my prescription:
if you musting,
but with strict limitations it be enforcing:

No more than four po-ems
De doctor permit to be writ

*per hour."

all prayers are answered,
even if
they appear not to be

all prayers are answered,
even if
the answer is not to our liking

all prayers are answered,
even if,
tho not to our liking,
the answer is correct and
understood
(or not)

all prayers are answered,
even if,
even if our questions rarely get
a satisfactory response

in the answer
should it come,
will nervy never be
a fulfilling completeness,
a real understanding

for all prayers and all questions,
never give the,
cannot give
credibility to the posing,
of
why me?
why them?

which is why we pray,
and why we question
every day for the rest of our lives,
till it is someone else's turn,
to bear the burden of the
both the question
and the answer*

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/729876/timothys-prayer/

~~~

dislocation/punk'd


hey baby,
put one forward,
faking baby steps.

life is hard in different ways,
for so many of us, the days say,
each year of us, walks a unique maze,
hands on the wall, unavoidable tripping on
speed bumps that make one crazed
and that you even see

coming

but inevitable is the red,
swelling, bruises, cutting,
the side effects of what gets said,
the falling-downs of words that are

dislocating

things get said, and you get paid
in eerie and weary,
and the loss of balance,
as if you are just the warm water,
water that slips over the side,
not the body inside,
and when you slip up,
that wet, warm beat-up,
That empty feeling of being is

displacing

you know, well advanced,
that parts of you,
moving around inside,
sources of internal dizziness,
the curve ***** thrown in slow mo
that so mesmerize you
into watching but not swinging,
accepting that the arc,
provides burns skinning,
and you go down 'n out

striking

what ya gonna do?

dust off and upstanding accept,
that some pitches are just **** ******* us,
we the swingers, often miss the ball,
wide of the mark,
sometimes we just stand, mouth agape,
watching the ball coming right at us,
even foreseeing the incoming

paining

what hurts,
is not those rosy red ridge reminders,
the after party of being hit,
but that when getting punk'd,
chewed up, spit out,
you get used to it, and to survive,
to keep your wits,
you spend time convincing yourself,
that you don't even care,
but you find your thinking is all about

rhyming

so when poetry get complicated,
ya get back to where ya
once before where,
keeping it simple,
roses red, violets blue,
what ya gonna do,
but your sense of smell
shot to hell,
what the hell,
thinking just another wet plunking
thinking no big dealing
this one mo' punking,
there will be more

but wonder why
you can no longer make your
simple, confused words to be reduced
by right

rhyming

you don't hear from hear from him for
years
turns out he has been living two little blocks away

a strange lawyer calls Sunday morning,
your presence, requested, suggested at the arraignment court,
as soon as possible, to get him
released from overnight lockup on his own recognizance

sure enough, the Judge asks is the father present
and I stand and he sees me and says set him free
into the custody of that old ghost in the last row

a month later
we sit in my car,
at 11:00pm
engine running,
our mobile phones, side by side
charging from the same source,
waiting for his lawyer to call

somewhere in your huge file of poems
entitled but as of yet unwritten is one called,
the words rational and children are rarely used in a single sentence
together

oh yeah, Leonard's  reminder?

some hallelujahs
come cold and broken
~
5/31/17
500am

Below is the first of two poems inspired by this piece of music, this one from a few years ago, in the midst of my divorce. The second, the better of the two,  is:

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/pachelbels-canon/

The music:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kllZlF6mB2s&feature;=youtubegdataplayer
~~~~

Bereft of words,
one more time,
concussed by the hammering of
cacophonous silences
disabling my thought processes

In vanity,  
for when denied,
Le Poet-Poseur angrily asks:

Did not Mary  
have her cherries  
by command?^

But when the trees bow to me,
the collective of leaves mockingly
whisper sweet nadas, baby.
each leaf wraps my tongue,
in a sushi compote of sand,  
"hush-a-bye, baby boy poet"

June chilled.
But not chilling

Today, on a  overcast Saturday,
forces have mogged^^ me on,
transmogrified into a
Seventh Day Non-Inventist,
the creativity disrupters

Sadly,
Amazon doesn't sell,
original poems for redistribution

Pilings of papers,
variant demanders re my  
labors past and future,  
**** work-product of
teams of lawyers & harlots

Four years on, demanding now,
300 files subpoenaed,
need I say, they want me to re-tour my life my cuntry,
once more

Dummies!
these esquires ****** for hire,
my greatest invention,
my poetry,
they'll n'ere posses
cause I give it away,
domain denied

In need of a ****** shot,
drink repeatedly from the
Kanon by Pachelbel,
cannons of human-law
surmounted by the one divine

This note,  
the work product of
Pachelbel & Lipstadt,
harmony restoration,
a shared refuge,
a shared refute

Welcome friend to
a place that cannot be
bought, seized, sold

Pleasure thyself with each
note, scale repeated

Though the reign of the heavens  
doth suffer violence, and  
violent men do take it by force,^^^
peace and pardon,
earnest reward of  
poets who lived gently,
giving gentle, freely away

the elegance of truthful simplicity,
the sweet truths of elegant brevity,
the insides of insight
|||


~
Please Read

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2246391/gratitude/

for it should be the Poem of the Day

for Maria*

if you have lived with me for more than a day,
you know I hero worship each individual word
in my birthed American English language

as is my style, I oft honor it with a poem,
but begin indubitably with a definition

Base
is such a word that deserves a recitation

for complex it is, a multiplicity of uses,
a word of many characters,
a word so unusual,
to the French I defer,
un mot plein de mystère

see its complexity,
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/base

a base is:

your bedrock, your cornerstone,
on firm footing your base must exist
t'is a groundwork word,
a keystone cop,
a root underpinning,
your warp,
your woof

Your children

so when taken,
when the spiritual
is crushingly wrong


sometimes I feel like a motherless child,

tense all wrong,
all wrong perversed,
the words reversed

You understand the nuance of words
so much better, and you
engage it
for now the word, just
enrages

Base


my new base
is
bad, black, evil, foul, immoral, iniquitous,
wrong and cruel

my new base-full state now,
my new base-less state now


this is my base now,
now that my organs,
cut from my body,
cannot be restored

Base is my life

A reflection on birthdays, friends departing this world, and surveying ones life
~~~

this one poem is not lurking,(1)
turmoiled bursting,
shaking, quaking,
release aching

write it in droplets,
my chest speak squeaks,
each thought, a stanza,
each moment, a bonanza
of  the doled, muddled mix
of tremblings on this my extravaganza,
renaissance day of birth
upon this earth

sixty five calendars,
this space,
so gulf and so narrow, (2)
for what profit this man
for himself, others?

a Judgement Day of sorts,
where the man~poet is efficiently
prosecutor, defender,
judge and jury,
as is he not,
his one true
peer?

let his biases be betrayed,
his fault lines be paraded,
let his deeds be the unlawful legal coda
by which he is remanded

if found guilty of a ledger imbalanced,
more sins than glory,
only one sentence permitted,
life imprisonment

even the NYC weather
clued in and deity cooperative,
wakes me up to this advisory:

Overcast.
Slight chance of a rain shower.
High near 65F.

High near 65.

what portent this oracle,
a warning guide to this morass
of a contradictory, crevassed man
full of mea culpa poetic messes,
his old is his high...
or are these just winking,
birthday instructions from
an observer on high?

this space of years, this life,
so gulf and so narrow,
engulfed, yet so sparse is his barrow,
his first minutes of the day
a lean inventory taking,
for better or worse
as he overcasts a full review,
plus a bonus (!)
a forward progress prognosis

there is a fresh formed
Cain mileage marker upon his brow,
a check-mark scar,
resultant of his self-checkup
upon the tree rings of his tiring body

weeping only because a mistrial is declared
and no verdict returned
and he rises for coffee,
promising himself someday an honest resolution
before...

these the acts of
sixty five calendars,
of this, his-space,
so gulf and so narrow,
subjected to a now daily interrogatory:

for what profit this man,
his actions, his loved words,
for himself, to others,
to this world?

October 1, 2015
~~~
(1)
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1417203/there-is-a-poem-lurking/
~~~
(2)
but I can't stop
for each hour of the last 72
has witnessed a new poem
in-between
minute one and minute sixty five
written for you,
writing for life,
writing of this moment,
this space so gulf and so narrow
in and between
the unity of
us

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1413760/for-ernesto-l-gonzales-aka-the-dedpoet-the-in-between/
~~~

El reloj es tranquilo, metódico, incluso cuando corre mi mano fuera de control, empujando palabras que se escapan de la ***** de mis cinco dedos de lápiz.

El poema se levanta en el este y se pone en el oeste, los conspiradores están de acuerdo.
La carrera debe seguir este curso.

<•>


The clock is calm, methodical, even as it races my out-of-control hand, pushing words leaking from the lead within my five pencil fingers.

The poem rises in the East and sets in the West, the conspirators agree.  
The race must follow this course.

12:34am

“You are so kind.  
Thank you with all the
resolve
in my heart.”
J.V.

<>

A thank you note,
for a simple shining-of-light,
stuns me into inspiration,
deep chested thrombosis consternations and calculations,
palpitations of the boom-boom variety,
signaling the onset of  intracranial contractions
of a new birth~poem
aborning…

who of us these days,
speaks of the resolve in our hearts?
who of us free confesses deep natured thanks,
it is almost too old fashioned.

it is powerful.
it is a thanks that
powers the wattage sufficiency
to light up a city entire,

and even though inward focused,
it yet is shedding Moses-like
light beams
heavenward,
I wrack my heart to even comprehend,
that simplest of actions reciprocal:

1/Thank You

can it, (it can!)
steel the heart,
give its truthfulness a special
power, and more than resolve,
even solves
our equation solution

so elegantly is the endless searching for the
right way to give thanks, to receive thanks,
it is a mutual gifting, for our mutuality is of
two hearts, echoing the words of
all legislative bodies:

”Be it Resolved”

what is this resolution then?

the consummate of English words
with such a variety of shadings,
requiring a declarative,
not a narrative,
consummation

be it resolved,
that two resolute hearts
shall not depart this Earth
before their arms interlocute an
embrace,

the shadows of their eyes interlock,
casting away
interfering long distances,

a single atmosphere shall
be tasted, inhaled,
by their
combinatory sensories

then and only then:
their resolve tested
and surpassed
will their poem

commencé et terminé,
begun and completed

The Emotion is Carried




<<>>
“*The gender-neutral name Jamadhi comes
from Arabic origins, meaning “beauty.”
When thinking about all the beautiful
things in the world, your little one, with
their kind demeanor and bright smile,
no doubt springs to mind! But a name
simply meaning “beauty” doesn’t only
refer to their appearance. This name
is a reflection of their beautiful little
soul, too, on a journey through this world.
Baby Jamadhi could be a gentle soul
or the fiercest of little childon the playground,
but no matter what, a name meaning
“beauty” will always ring true.”

For Ilion: Sleep, Return to It*

young man of Manhattan
sleep, return to it,
we must stop meeting on the corner of 125th & Broadway at 3am

young father - thy life thy future thy child -
depend on it

as do I -depend upon thy poetry*

for you are the lion of youth,
I, the graybeard of past paths,
no need of sleep in my dwindling days,
but time bids you welcome,

- thy life thy future thy child -
all ask me, let him come to us
refreshed


7/7/17 4:49am
Manhattan

Seven New Poems for Seven Days #2: Hover^*

My Children:

Ancestral homes oft possess,
a unique scent, product of an atomizer, a memorizer

Musty time, the odor of
faded and shadow,
hollow, yet hallowed.

Somewhere along the road,
a residence transforms from home to
shrine-storage unit-hospital room-tomb-records depository.

Dust, expired perfumes,
the sweet odor of crumbling, yellowing books, disinfectant,
stale medicine chests, years of furniture polish, sabbath candles.

It is my smell -
the parfumerie of my history, a customized blend,
a commissioned work in 1964, entitled, more accurately, emitted,
"Her-Story."

Photographs, memories, and paper scraps
my very own Preservation Hall Jazz Band.
Yet the most potent firing pin for historical retrieval,
the molecules of scent.

Soon all will be dismantled, discarded,
just plain dis'ed.

Confused and disenchanted,
my departure orderly but, in a disordered fashion.
unable to seed one last kiss upon your forehead,
nonetheless, surreptitiously enter your neurons
though my entity, away, across the miles-wide Hudson River.

For three days, I will hover invisible,
implanting myself once more,
slapping your mucous membranes,
transversing this pathway, an additive to your cells, nuclei,
where my markers always reside.

Adding one more ingredient to your inner vision,
strengthening the formless structure, my altered state.
This odor, keep close, fresh, no becoming musty too, my scent,
the last of your senses knowing me, a true keepsake.

Hold me close and hold me fast.
This one last magic spell I cast.
This one last magic smell I set fast.
You cannot hold it, but it will cradle you.
You cannot see or touch it, but when contact comes,
You will see me, hold me, as in the days of your youth,
When you loved me best,
And I, you.

from the beckoning nookery
a firework sign comes,
a warning bow shot
of summer commencing,
the ever present
natural elemental companions
sun, sky, water, earth and wind
in unison,
their voices commanding,
calling out

write!

poet has painted this vista~poem
so so many times,
all is as before,
yet nature's sirening,
   a compulsed fierce fire catcall
poet once more,
endeavor,

write!

poet resists
for all seems a priori,
impossible to change his older visionaries,
defending himself to them

"all is before"
(except for the poet)

the Nookery is
the poet's corner,
self-proclaimed,
in soul warfare taken,
oasis of composition,
truthfully, a
confessional
seclusion salvation place,
within it heard only
the voices of
twinning earth and water,
sun and sky
striking poet's fomenting
heart~throat beating chest

other poets have been invited here,
for their solacing arrival
this poet attends,
perhaps only  together he thinks,
two poets with luck,
in contra-unison can devise
new ways of capture of  the
unceasing harmonies,
unnaturally eternal
ripened to perfection,
a constancy of hope,
in the unchanging, island setting

river and bay breeze,
sun-warmed waters
bring to him once again as in the past,
Shaker Melodies of West Side Stories,
Air adagio's of rock and roll anthems,
Pachelbel's Canon

this, nature's subtle way
of edging him on,
beseeching the poet

sit, rest,
one more time
upon the Adirondack wood worn throne,
pluck poems from us,
about us

write!

the environmentals,
so persistent -
refuseniks of the tyranny
of the past shout

lay us down to sleep
on coverlets of refreshed verse,
ours to keep,
when to the must of the city,
you
must

the poet,
contented
with the written word of
what has long ago
been removed from him,
fears plumbing yet again
the unoriginal error of repetition,
a sin of cardinals and small minds

the unrepentant wind whips
insistent,
seering sun shines
consistent,
water waves lap speak
one continuous shushing sound
persistent,
all together
demanding, non-stopping,
new homages and sacrifice
deny past connectivity

all is not as before
maintaining, complaining
(even the poet)

poet sees
the elements,
sees that all appear similar
in last year's' form,
and the year's before,
lacking the comprehension
of subtle modifications

eyes uncircumcised
see harder, look closer,
perceive
new combinations of
varicose veined blue shadings
in the waterways and the
fresh waving-hello colored whitecaps,
updated saluting salutations
quite like those of
friends past, rewelcoming him,
more real
than the error of self-delusion of
unchained unchanged
all, nothing
is as before

these waters molecules
have never been here before,
newly flowing nouvelles arrivées
from the South Seas and Antartica,
the Yangtze and the Amazon

today's temperate breeze
so adamant,
boasts of having come here first time
from cold Canada,
or balmy Bombay,
melting as immigrants to his sheltered island

all speak now in
new tongues, new accents,
all a collective
here,
come to me,
all the same quest

write!

the sun same,
yet newly born daily
burnished with a forever glory
send fresh light
to the poet's eyes,
each ray politely suggesting,
this summer's novice poet,
pay them
poetic obeisance dues,
and

write!

all is as surface as before,
but all have changed,
new summer, new elements,
decay wiped away,
man~poet must now speak too,
using uncovered new verbal molecules,,
recreating the ineffable solace
of a new summer
brought to him in the guise only of
familiar friends

all of us
have changed,
though seemingly minimally surficially,
Poet,
self-taught,
acknowledges, he too
evolves

it is this tale then,
the poet proffers
as his first serving of
summer-only fruits,
owning up now,
though man and nature
revolve in planetary unison,
all things change,
even the poet,
when in nature's nookery,
his compulsion
is sun blood heated,
and
skin breathes differently
in the nookery,
his natural old time, revival tent

happily now, he weeps
in tenderest of embraces,
when old, familiar
changelings
charge him

write!

Shelter Island
May 2015

These are the words and the actuality
that in conjunction,
drive mothers of young children
to depression and distraction

Poets to look inwards yet once more,
for sources of olden inspiration,
finding only
been there, done that

Warmongers to chop lick lips
in eager anticipation of
past and future smokey glories,
gun batteries sparking and
other men's children dying

Overcast and cast out is loveliness,
only words of ancient, somber lineage,
populate, pursue and expectorate,
sunny notions and love poetry none,
dried up, to fallen leave piles dispatched

For on this day of rest, the foggy sky
grants no permission slips to draft
smiley faces and upbeat tempos,
comforts foods perhaps, but nary a
comfort word to make us cheery

Enslaved to nature this day too,
my exteriors reflect inward and my
mirror'd observatory of starry images
no longer available on any
of my two thousand TV channels

I have checked each one in a
be-quiet-you're-too-noisy dismay groaning,
as well as my ordinary, toujours,
quiet desperation

The sun tantrum tantalizes for I see
it's bodacious attacks repelled
by cloud banks rich with deposits of gloom

Slip into a mystery, an old novella
of Stephen Kings, an homage to the
drama of the four seasons, but this old friend
is elementary ancient, for its tales
are deep sad, writ upon weary worn pages
and tho apropos, grant no comfort

The sailors all to bed have gone,
plowing pillows instead of waves

The squirrels and other homeowners,
in view of the absence human,
are cheek to chop, jowls acorn full,
doing "Storage Wars" of winter prep,
in HD, in broad daylight arrogance,
mocking the summer man, adding their
sauciness to his moody blues
meal of melancholia

Am I such a creature of nature,
that I am captive no matter
what the sky color be,
is there a moody madness the
psychiatrists have labelled
that best describes a nature slave
most unnaturally?

I repair to the couch and chips,
reruns to pretend distraction and
poetry to record my inaction

The weather lady, a fresh faced blonde,
smiles white and exclaims that
the work week commencing tomorrow
all sunny all unseasonable warm,
and my groans so loud,
I am banished to parts bedroom foreign,
where I am ordered to write
perfunctory odes to gloom,
in silenced doom

1431
poems in ye old inbox,
genteel knocking,
whispering thru stolid front door
love me a little lot,
little lot, love me?

this is not mere work product,
collegial-laid upon me for gentle shared, for pre-review,
Nottingham Forest arrowed, bow shaped
pithy comments,

these are the holy-of-the-holies
attention-me-crystal-cries,
prayers, wry observations, nature collations,
me and thee adorations, heart rendering
screams of need,
these are the moments in your life
raw-roughened gifted or threaded smooth cursed,
but tendered unto my caring.

(an aside:
perhaps you understand better now
why woman-in-the-moon imagery,
red bowed, grapefruit tasting hearts,
all the lovelies, word shape shifts a/k/a
Imagery
language delights!
but time-using, confusingly confuses,
and has been erased from my own poetry frame)

gnawing doubt me routs,
god gave me humans,
and gave them speech,
to bring me
closer to him
thru them.

somewhere in those 1431 essays of labor,
dashed off, handcrafted, pithy or poor,
just might be the one
justification for my opening my eyes
this poetry someday Sunday sun-day.

put the cofe on
(saving letters, saving time,
deleting unnecessary e's
from my life till when I am dying on
all-on-that desperate
e-n-ee-dy day).

loaded my shotgun heart with
loves and likes,
yellow thunderbolt bullets firing,
and considered yourself
notified
I'm a-coming over,
shoes on the cofe table,
breaking taboo's
gonna read 1431
and when dining done,

gonna pay attention to my muse,
my woman, cause she is the
original e,
that provides the raw materials,
in ye old nat-box,
that lets me love ever one of them,
she is the e
in me

and me will be in you,
starting now.

~ for spygrandson ~

with deep affection


https://hellopoetry.com/spysgrandson/


<>

I am en~titled
by him,
commissioned by his exacting wording
of this poem’s titular naming,
all my previous attempts are failures,
over designed, too artistic
for his modest self~reckoning &
bearded demeanor,
they demanded
denial with
request for
simplicity of an unflowery
reckoning,
a clean shave,
so to speak…



a potholder of simple design,
a modest picture self-drawn,
but his stories are
sorties tall,
he draws you in, worthy draftsman sketches
of words, tales short, poems complete,
tales so sweet, of characters uniquely complete,
and you think,
can they not be fictional?

and you know they’re no such thing,
ok, maybe,
some taller and a few perhaps dreamed,
the big characters of those
giants of simple men,
whose deeds were not mythical,
ok, almost mythical…

but truth of the humans of the hammered and nailed tough skin,
who built homesteads in the
plain, in mountains, by rivers that snaked,
unmapped,
except on their hearts and feet

the humans,
that made up
the raw & naked bond holders of
these United States:
bonded by character to the soil and
its curvaceous dancing topography
from
& of the center of our country,
but with eyes keen enough
to stretch from
coast to coast,
to see to shining seas

yes, true,
the grandson be he
to/of an almost mythical man,
and so took thus
his penned name,
the grandfather, a real person
of whom stories are yet told,
for no one can be sure
that & of what deeds
this spy did,
on hostile, unfamiliar,
continents,
but the photographic proofs,
I have seen…

His blood thickened by many infusions,
a cross cultural experiment,
happily not unique,
just **** rare

but enough of this;
read him,
let his
tongue take you to
the unfamiliar,
a literary Ansel Adams,
who never saw the plain(s) men & women,
unworthy of being forgotten but
forever being
celebrated


ask him for a potpourri of his short stories
of war, the bonds that men forge in combat,
tween the dead that still live on and
the living,
who have unreadable dead spots within,
they carry their dying glances,
their dying wishes,
and who are honored by him
in his continuing recollections

with walking stick in hand,
even if going outside
to “just” measure the snowy depths,
he leave markers and trailers,
for us to recall how to weep,
from love and pain,
from following generations of his
beautiful blonde
children who are poster models for
the traditional all american imagery,
but thriving within,
with  his
wanderlust, his mixed fiery visions,
and acting, singing out dramas
befitting their inherited
visions…

<>
here
I cease,
here
I weep,
at the impoverished words
scrivened in haste,
through tears of pleasure
intended to give honor
to this man,
who cedes me the pleasure of his existence,
and enhances my world
when he asks me,
unwittingly commissions!
a poem,
about
the human character,
who see himself unusually!
“as a potholder with a simple design”
and as usual,

I fail miserable…
maybe,
nick the outer edge of a bullseye target,
because the important words that he deserves,
I have not yet mentioned:

honor, loving kindness and friend.

perhaps he is correct,
but doesn’t grasp
that without simple men like him
to hold the *** upright and firm,
we all would be lesser or
even lost.


maybe,
now I am one
with
done

My First Anniversary…
(August 3, 2024)

This title, this poem, a wholly unexpected,
never thinking this path,  
this particular tango existential
would/was needed,
to be added to
my dance card

an early exit, a poem unplanned,
second chance was not a poem in my long
list of titles awaiting a turn to be written

a year ago,
they sent me to the surgeon,
who had prepared, with no hesitancy declared,
informed that we needed to start
all over again,
my poor heart
was waxing and waning,
and I was currently stuck on
the dark side of the moon,
with no jitney making stops theron

by the way,
the accumulation of damage had attained
a level where heart was
nearly exhausted,
( I believe he mentioned 98%)
that attention must be made,
how about
tomorrow we asked,
he laughed no can do,
but the day after would be ok,
and was I an earlier riser,
a coveted 600am slot available,
my name could be penciled in…

One tear ago, 
 wheeled me in, cracking jokes,
thinking what’s the big deal,
laughing hardest
was me,
for my motto was always leave them
(oops, poor choice of words) laughing…
fear was not in my lexicon, nor in my heart,
nor was
a ferry cross the
Rubicon

so many changes, so many poems 365 days later,
the life marked by many a Cain scar,
the big one, a pencil thin ****  hesty reminder,
plus assorted scars scattershot all over, where the “borrowed” veins and arteries, like pieces of twine, mighty fine,
(no, I never slashed a wrist, though it looks like it)
moved to different places,
repurposed, for I was now a used car
but with an extended warranty…

do not think on it much, but as markers come and go,
you think:

oh! I’ll never forget this trip, event, celebration,
and a week later your mind has nearly deleted it from the
critical events memory synapses, just another
day in the blah blah blasphemy
of a insignificant man’s unremarkable life…

but when I shower, the scars rise to the surface,
all over my body’s map, they come out shouting,
“look what I did for you,” from places weird,
they tingle, insuring my never ending surprise,
at that Olympic trial,
they raced, earning a piece & place
on my gold, overall medley team medaling,
or meddling
(when I tease them…)

so, let us bring this to a close, one man’s life,
ain’t making much a difference to most everybody else,
but the question that needyfor asking,
have you changed, how have you changed?

Less than you think, still write you poems with head and heart,
with humor and wit, sweet revelations, reverent with feeling, somehow a
bit original, leaving you laughing,
or maybe even better, smiling…

my mistakes all shared, and my burdens, some shared,
some too dark to be ever revealed, and I’m guessing I’m pretty
((much😉))
the same as I was before, older, not much wiser,

but these days, I surprise myself, for I sit outside
overlooking the wide waters surrounding,
embrace the sun at its earliest morn appearance,
love me the whipping snap of the
sound of great continuous wind gusts,
all the while surveying the world,
while winds are flowing all over me
like vibrant caresses, excavating my creases,
the ancient and recent
lineage
upon my face,
and sit in utter peace
thinking about everything,
and never tire,
staying for longer than a man has a right to do nothing
but to
reassess,
evaluate,
judge,
convey…
and
always
refresh
and confront
today’s
tally…

For Helen
who wrote it first,
who wrote it better,
and in doing so,
makes me see more clearly
the why

~~~~~~~~~

no poem should ever be untitled
every face needs a name
every poem needs just
one read for completion,
but more than that, it is
a orphan still, deserving of,
due the
entitlement to be titled,
a parenting of sorts

what was the thought that born it
what was the emotion that conceived it
what was the sight that demanded sharing

this is the age of summary and synthesis,
140 and not one more,
so give direction, enable me to make
snap judgements, with so much on my plate,
we must predigest your concepts,
my multi-tasking slowed to levels unacceptable,
so I can adjudge you,
you worker poet,
before or never reading
after all,
why read anything untitled

more than this however,
for the few who chew
each morseled vowel,
ken each constant consonant,
celebrate stanzas that halt the breathing
and then,
god bless the whole child,
flaws and all,
they more than anyone deserve
your consideration in return

for the title is the essence spark
of you
and all the more so
of what you have  chosen *to share
of your essentials

awas amidst
the bits and bobs of my pseudo-sleep,
check my watch oft habitually,
understand
that the precisive time is not
what I seek,

no,
what I desire is reassurance of
some sort, that time is present,
that it is
a measurable actuality in,

my about,
a breathable actuality
woven into my
Body’s  Constructional
Constitutional Cconsciousness


that time is there, here,
for it is rhe

wondrous of all wonder,
it is a
present of, from,
and,
is love itself,

love is time…
(think on it)

it is all and only
butpossibility,
the future in
slow mo
is both
realizable & visible ,
even some part knowable;
its somes & sums,
as we daily
practice realizing it,
as if
time is a
smuggler of snuggles,
comforting but not
for too long
like
a new lover’s
exploratory
beginning beguiling explanations
reforming our ardor
into
viability

or

a glove
asking us each:
slow s l i d e
your hand inside,
then,
newly commence
waving yours,
airy all about

conducting a new self
into your
precious moment of precarious
existence,
that we dare not waste!

so:
write and right
are no accident,
but purposed
equals,
friends,
brothers and sisters,
one and both
coexisting
at
in
the same time…

Unconsciously conscious,*
her skirt too short.
tugging it down pointlessly,
every second minute,
like a regular breathe,
all the eyes in the room
rode it up,
and rode the tugging
down too.

that she was pretty,
pleasure for the eyes,
was not the question.

no longer young pretty, but
fulsome, knowing, more,
knowledgable in her place,
secure in her thirties.

or so I thought.

an Anne Fontaine blouse,
silk and collar cut angled,
Italian leather skirt from Barney's,
and legs that were not
just shapely,
but pouted comely,
come love me, I am lovely.

or so I thought.

the skirt, a leather glisten,
seams so thin, almost invisible
to the eye,
like the lines nearest
her eyes,
but all lost,
because all
only saw,

the tugging.

I ponder it,
the meaning,
of the tugging,
consciously unconscious.

was she tugging herself
back inside older younger dreams,
back to where she once unconsciously belonged,
or forward to this moment where she was conscious,
a line crossed, and needy to be tugged back behind it.

my eyes did not depart from her thighs
for she was tugging me as well,
in two directions, into a place
where questions tugged at me,
and I too, consciously unconscious
that I no longer belonged where I belonged,

or so I thought.