You Gonna be Cursed, Ain't Nothing You Can Do...

Dedicated to those who understand
That if you look at life askew,
Then your head will likely be
******* on straight and your
Poetry will set you free
And help me too, stay that way
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


You are refrained, restrained,
Unconsciously, the wire inserted right thru
Your eyes when wide awake and
You sucker, oblivious, clueless are...

When older you'll blah blah blah,
Understand, realize,
Cause you will be accursed
With cautionary tales,
Wisdom from cowardly fools,
Familiar with the stupor of life,
a/k/a, experience,
Symptom but one, over-caution.

With the caution that comes from
Stubbing your toe, losing your job oh no,

Getting ****** the night before before,
The most important day of whatever more,

Marrying the wrong woman cause,
You can't find the one with secret sauce
Enlivening your boredom with a secret whoredom
To anything but her, you, a not-so-secret serf.

Go the safe school,
Or pretend you're a rebel with pink streaks,
But that's b.s. too, self deluding
Real rebels only come one way,
Demeanor modest, keep your eyes on the
Quiet ones who run around happy when raining.

Cockeyed, squint, then you'll see it straight,
***** you, experience,
You take so much more than you give,
But most of us ***** don't know it till is
Gad **** way too late.

Preaching cause I am the fool
Biggest, sacrificed 30 years of misery
Afraid to apple cart, slept alone for decades,
Till I found the right one who before you,
Here, have embraced, repeatedly.

So when read your heartbreak hotel songs,
So weary-laden, no future foreseen,
Think of this, the only pain,
This heart break of failed love
Y'all write of, so oft,
Is the chiefest exception to this curse.

Live and love are one and the sane,
Love lose pain love again, dangerously,
Do it over and over, unstintingly,
Get experienced,  but never cautious,
Fail, fail, never cease to be edgy.

**In this endless struggle stay involved,
No pause button, no recess,
For when the love accident happens,
There are no words I possess to
Adequate communicate,
The euphoria of having thrown caution
In the garbage can, next to its ******* cousin,
Experience.

Preamble: Compare and Contrast

compare and contrast,
the teacher asks us to
do this,
on a mid-term
exam and I am
                                  struck-up by a resonance combo, a commandment
                                  compare and contrast, somewhere an ineffable has
                                  ordered me to love poetry, in all/only honesty,
                                  in that uncertain way. without surcease.
                                    

                 ­                    functional verbs that a button pushed,
                                            a non-rhyme that sang out somehow
                                                “this is the writing life, this way, yours.”
                                    live and last.
  
with that single directive,
compare and contrast.
without surcease,
                   and your poem then,        has no The End.

~for Robert C Howard, inspired by his “From Many, One”

I know nothing of poetry…

or ballet or symphonic works; a ******,
a passerby, a glimpser of other’s artistry,
neither can I add, nor delete, just observe their
intersection, a triplication, and yet, a snowy
Saturday Sabbath is colored now by their story

a  story of many, a symphony playing a concert
of harmony, the notes are grunts and shoutouts,
the high notes of squealing tires screeches, the bass
of growling heaving hearts, engines-beating revving,
music growing louder, to a crescendo of resounding success

sudden silence is the fiercest applause, a reverbing
mark, echoing in a forested heartland, quietly absorbed
into the scarred bark of the witnessing trees, adding a minute moment to their long playing recordings, approving  an
endeavor of many unasked, self-tasked to help, many into one…

a merging of a singular memory

I will not fast.
I will not pray,
Alone or in the company of
Fellow poets and sinner-believers,
Like when I was an awed child,
A young father,
Or a middle aged confused one.

My sins, the kind,
Words don't blot up.

When we meet next,
We, across the table,
Assuming You got a set,
A Sense of Justice or,
just Humor,
We will discuss
Comparative literature,
Comparative sinning,
I will let You know
What Your punishment will be,
Caused You have already
Informed me, of mine.

just past midnight, in bed with you
together, yet I alone, listen, awake,
shuffling in a Pandora world,
Iz's ukulele invites me over the rainbow,
unaware and unbeknownst to him,
I am there, already
awaiting for his too soon,
untimely arrival.

the weekend war, culture vs. football,
resolved, peace negotiations concluded,
orzo and grilled chicken repast served,
après le bon deluge,
love the treaty signing dinners.

just past midnight,
caress thy hand with solitary thumb,
whispering you are my woman now.
you groggily answer interrogatorily,
"what?"
and I suppress the infectious,
giggling way too loud.

these are the unsummoned moments,
these are the thee-free moments,
this the summary of a man's boon,
their disparate pleasures collectively,
a unity deserving the honorific,
Untitled Moments.

*Why is my vision blurred, my cheeks wet?

the truest love: ask me about too perfect*

this I believe:

that part of we humans
that intersects emotion
& memory retains a video

not frequently reviewed,
placed deep in an unlocked,
unlabeled chest of drawer

surrounded by keepsakes, hidden
letters, scribbled napkins and
a less-than-handful of stills,
plain poems of raw delicacy

infrequent summoned, preceded
by a stray, strong thot asking
no one but you, why now? what
was the trigger synapse?

the love, the being, blessed, cursed,
known by its call letters:
TOO PERFECT…

Waiting for you,
Yes you!
To toss me a stanza,
Feed me your lines,
Give a starter, an appetizer,
An antipasti,
A few morso's please,
To complete a meal.

So we make this connection
Permanent and when we break
Such being the course of all
Uncoiled, unoiled machines,

We will look back and say,
It was the best poetry of my life,
For two made three
The most fantastic words...
Unto one, into one, one.

So send me your pregnant,
half born, song with no lyrical end,
That won't complete themselves.

Titles in search of body,
Touch me in places,
That only you can provide
A path, a travelogue,
So I visit, and show you places,
You missed!

Send me those lost bereft ones,
Yearning not for freedom,
But creation itself!

Let us collaborate,
And make a marker's mark,
That cannot be auto corrected,
Since the morrow's daylight will
Bring its inception,
A new name, a new poem,
That will be added to the global
Dictionary.

I don't dedicate poems

nope.

the dedication is in the
composition.

In the composition is:
the ceremonial fire

the ribbon drawn tight
ready for cutting

the struggle, heavy breathing,
the ****** of completion

the satisfaction of having
torn off a piece of you,
and in doing so, you
are even more whole
than before

when it is done
I don't dedicate to you

I surrender it, grant and give it,
push it away, can't even
remember it days later,
cause it ain't mine,
ain't mine no more
from the second
I push that
black n white
Save Poem
button.

someday I am gonna plagiarize myself,
and then laugh and laugh all the way
home.

Cut and paste unto your browser

http://www.playbill.com/multimedia/video/5723/EXTENDED-LOOK-Jeremy-Jordan-Darren-Criss-and-America-Ferrera-Perf­orm-Opening-Doors-in-New-HBO-Documentary-Six-By-Sondheim

Sondhei­m's only autobiographical song.

From Six by Sondheim. If u have HBO, find it, watch it.
Also whether-permitting see
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/lessons-of-us-what-is-your-target-market/

What I learned yesterday...

The curator, surrounded by object d'art,
Told me a story, how he had to re-learn to see.

Da Vici said,
Paint what was visible and what is invisible.

Fancy and fantasy, same Latin root.
We are all subject to the tyranny of
Form and function, unable to find the time
For seeing beauty in places easy-dismissed
As pretty but pointless.

Today, they preach against gold, delicacy,
Beauty for beauty's sake,
Want clean lines of steel and gray.
Dismiss the objects that are glorious
For the patient skill needed to create,
But have no purpose obvious.

What I learned yesterday?

The next and the next time
I visit an art museum,
Will walk the corridors
Aimlessly but purposed.

Will stop before a single creation,
Matters not the period,
Sculpture, painting, statuary, jewelry.
That would have been prior ignored,
As dated, just another...pretentious piece,
Among the twenty like it on the wall or in the case.

Before that objet I will sit,
For hours, till I have understood
Each pore, inflection of what
Inspired a man to labor over it.

If I am disciplined,
Might get ten or twelve done in a year.

But now understand, that there will be greater value,
In taking ten randomly, living with them
Body and soul, and treasuring their nuances.

When I return home,
My art to write, seeing new in a new way,
Perhaps I will set aside the urge to fast complete,
Instead, craft and care, labor over each sound, syllable,
Kiln bake, hand paint, each letter.

First Poem of the Day: Pillows vs. Poetry

Ample
Array
Four
Five
Even six,
Pillows,
Rest
My
Head.
One
Or
All
Nightly
Available.

No matter combo or organized, a good nights sleep
Elusive
So poetry is my default rest position,
My screen savior.

Tho my pillows fail me, they are still the best friends I've ever had.
They are my plumped-up critics, those with style, lend me a word now and then. But best of all, they take my tears always, the tears that always come no matter what, most of all when I'm sad satisfied that I wrote something just good enough to share (true),

till my woman wakes, reads them and then by way of thanks,
Makes the bed,
and lovingly rearranges
my pillow friends,
so I can do this,
this poetry thing again,
And that is true love.

So to my woman, who has given me something that I guess I can say is the best years of my life, I give this gift, this first poem of the day,

Hey Pillows, gad ******, get over here, I'm weeping again.

June 9, 2013
5:12am

How much do I love you?

When you are asleep in our bed,
Takes ten minutes for me to
Slide inside, you to undisturb, you would,
Laugh at my pantomime, my Charlie Chaplin ballet,
If you were to accidentally awake.

When your dreams disturbing,
Groans and shrieks, moans and mumbles,
I greet you when your eyes final-fix upon me,
With no questions, only kisses for both,
And a new poem for you on top of our coverlet.

I love you resting me, when you, beside me do rest,
Then, together, we are always at our best.
I, your soldier, woodpeckers, deer, sent on their way,
Today, five geese invaders, ahonking, dispatched,
Lest my woman's dreams become enmeshed.

How many compositions have I written,
Rhythm and rhymed to your contented breathing?

Amazing grace that every day when we are on
Our island redoubt, there is no doubt.

There is us, always us, and for each restful breath,
Encased is a new and different way,
To answer this question that I pose to myself.

Tho first of many interrogatories that will pass from my heart,
Yet, when mine eyes open to see the sun of your blonde hair.
I have only answers, no questions, no doubts.

September 1st, 2013

Trending Tags
#love #life
#sad  #pain
#depression
#death #you
#sadness #heart
#hurt

this is my concession speech

having dabbled in the above black arts,
what needs saying, been said
and pun pardon,
not too alive,
like fav jeans,
pretty much worn to holey death,
put aside for a well needed rest

I am losing,
a real loss,
not candor, not inspiration,
but finding new ways to say new things,
well aware that Balanchine said
"there are only new combinations"

nature, I have dabbled,
but ready, easy to concede
this is Harlon's
River, his wilderness territory

he without peer,
unequaled in essaying on
this planet's essentials

as for the magic of daily grinding,
nothing could be finer,
than to see the family and the daily bread
made, fed, and put to bed,
than by the hands of
betterdays,
while
Pradip
makes me laugh,
with his wifely wisdom and jokes
and the humanity of his insights
and prods deeper,
make me a
weeper-profusely,
keeping us all
real and unplugged,
and
Bala's
journal's mysteries illuminate and spice
the places hidden,
by me, from myself

the
r
man who has got his shoes impudently railing,
cap'n never complains or whines,
but in precious few,
he rivets you to the earth,
fixing rooting you to a rooted place,
he intoxicates with
southern simple and pithy,
and makes the title poet,
a worthy one

could I go on naming names?

sure,
Mother
Maria
said, "chile, it ain't necessarily so,"
Kelly
adds beautiful,
and I agree with her rose
that grows even in her rugged soul's clime,
Simrik,
a child who writes
old wisdom from where acquired unknown,
and
Oliviaputs the
O
on my mouth smiling


anyway can't,
write so good no more (see),
finding
SJR's
voices now
in my head,
saying
careful boy,
you already wrote that
in a single consorting chorus voice

been authorized to dribble drivel,
but that don't cut for prideful fools
like yours true and truly,
tho looking at this,
what lies above,
would be doing
an inaccurate accurate,
calling this worthwhile,
feels like
a phony smile

so what to pursue?

silence not an option,
for the brain inferno'd
and the devils pitchfork
pinpricking with stabs of
visionary guilty judgements

so of what to write?

the answering simple uncomplexity,
Shauuna,
so here are the things I tell myself

forget the me in we and write
of thee, let that be my solitary
tag,
pray god don't make a hash of it,
write of new poets uncovered,
play thru ego and play hard to
recover thyself
by focusing on
uncovering
thee,
the new poets who
will lead the way,
bring this old dog~man,
way back from astray

The Compact


Some of us are given to,
upon our person to secret
instrumentation to adjust
the patina of our ****** tones,
lest the glare of man made light
lend a shine undesired and worse,
uncovered windowed pores allow
revelations undesirable into our souls.

In other words, a compact and its constituents:
puff, powder and mirror.

Observed a compact in use
between Act I and Act II,
the deft use of the mirror,
angled, moved back and forth
to provide perspective,
close-up and/or total.

The Gods of Metaphor,
Deities of Derision
force my unwilling reveal
thru the holy confessional screen:
I too have a compact.

My compact, a deal, a treaty accord
between the white rigors of life daily,
and spasms of black lies
to make appearances tolerable.
My compact is what I cover up
with powder and puffery.

Aged sixty two years, life nonsensical,
perversely inversely, the dependence upon
these cracked hands grows,
dying cells dividing like newborns,
worrisome weariness make the lies
come faster and more frequent,
which is why my compact has a mirror.

No matter what perspective enamored,
In the mirror, my reality check,
No powder upon my eyes,
the brutality and the joy,
of life is undisguised.

Nonetheless, I have more,
Morethanless, the balance
is favorable, the outlook positive.
My compact with you is to
remind us all, through
music, dance, words and love,
This is the only compact
with the power of human law.

On a bunch of poems 2~3 years old.   Very different style.   Hohoho Merry Chanukah to me,   Most very long, will fire at will;  long so not suitable for the 10W crowd....sigh. Oh yeah, one more thing, I wrote them on my cell phone, usually in the bathtub, yes, I went thru a lot of  corporate phones...

der Spegel: A Commissioned Poem

commissioned by Megan Spegel


Spegel
- a mirror; a smooth reflecting surface
- something flat and smooth, resembling a mirror (e.g. the surface of a lake)
- a (moral) guideline, used for correcting errors, similar to a mirror

Busted.
You.
Busted.
96 poems.
19 years young.
That's about 5 poems per year.
What's gonna happen when you chill,
Turn
A ripe old
Twenty?

Will you grace us with 365 individual
First Thoughts of My Day?

I suppose falling in and out of love weekly,
Steamy teen kisses
Will inebriate you plenty,
Into writing more plenty.

Truth is I am jealous-angry.

My clocks can't fall back
Because I've fallen for you
And the simplicity of your loving
Poetry

In two lines, you get done
What takes me half a dozen
Long winded poems.

I love the brevity pure
Of your youthful loving view.
For when I look on the
mirror of poetry,
I see, not me,
But the rising tide of the younger ones, poets,
Rising up faster,
Surpassing us,
Correcting our errors,
Who say so much with
So few words.


P.S.  **"Good morning dear
I hope the sunrise found you well."

don't be so formal!
I put my pants on every day,
over my head,
just like everybody else,
just like a {you,man}

it helps me see better,
two pants legs,
one for each eye

it narrows the focus,
makes you care
where you tread,
where you t-read,
so when you write poetry,
you write
more slowly,
put one foot
or one eye,
before the next,
so you don't post
***** like this

If journeys did not have crossroads,
They would have no starting point,
Or natural ending.

When I read the works of other here,
Dumb struck that I ever dare,
To offer up words and ask for your
Love and affection.

But then reminded,
Each one, each poem a crossroads,
Sends me on a new direction,
And I must leave some crumbs of me
If, my unseen home, I shall ever see,
Or ever return to, when I am voyager
No longer.

my questioning,
directed at myself
and the answer simp,
not necessarily simpatico,
cause the answer is either
today, or never,
could be
both or n-either

yeah,
of that age,
when I awake
first two words are
*******, again?

and
if I hurry,
one piecework,
one mo’ poem,
hurried,
may yet be
vented,
scurried,
aired out
or for
quick disposal
sad dispatch

one mo’
disgorged poem
within and withouted,
either side
of midnight

been gorging
on letters ever since
They fed me
sugared letters
& lemons
for breakfast

and the last twenty
sending them you
in a disembodied
softly softly
voice
no matter how
far your imaginary
ears are from me
Sunday AM 9:52 2/19/25
🥲

Life, be not arrogant, though some have called thee
Terrifying and delighting, thou art so; sowing random confusion,
Overthrowing mortals with unequal puzzles of both extremes,
Humans, condemned, to collect travails, improvident provisions,
Live, Life! But only through us, for thy are slave to imprecisions, conflated constant reversible, the free choice of souls' decisions,
Random and inopportune, thy bedeviling choice of hurdles,
Our swelled heads so vulnerable to robbers and roadblocks,
But cannot thou onfess, rare is thy victory, oft thy defeat.
Until we meet thy comrade in arms, our paths irregular coursing,
Of our own choice, so acknowledge thou makest our path to veer,
Impotent prince, 'tis always our hands, arms upon the tiller to steer.

Past the green copper bell-ed,
Thru the the single trees, un-felled.

Do you see that solitary-sentinel chair,
Empty? No, not.
Can you not see the sweep,
The vista, the poems hanging about,
Ripe for the plucking from the quiet,
Nestled in the soil, on the wings of gulls,
Who do not fly, but let the wind keep them
And their cargo, standing-still, in place,
Awaiting my attention, my need.

You read less and less,
The more and more I write.
It's ok, I understand that.
Blessed to have found the spot,
Where the poems make a crowd,
And the giving is good and healing, easy.

A long as there be ten righteous,
The Lord acceded to Abraham's plea,
***** would not be destroyed.
I am less demanding,
For I am just human.

As long as but five,
Acknowledge the caring,
Lick my wounded words like vanilla,
Is that too much to ask?

If but one finger points and marks it
Read, is that not sufficient to let this
Battle be ended, tween ego and truth,
Pride of craft, and, weak craving for attention-no-deficit?

If it be, that only the sea grasses, rooted deep, sway,
On the beach, a few feet from where, the chair spends its days,
Clap their hands silently to
Acknowledging the harvesting of the words,
That too will be noise enough to satisfy
The Lord who tendered them, all this, to me
For safe keeping, and giving me no choice but to write,
If but to honor all words, and their creators,
Each and every one.

A true fantasy...

Darling,
Two, if by day.
Football this afternoon,
One, if by night,
Pink Martini concerto, ce soir.

The morning, this morning,
The future yet unwrit,
How shall I thee please?

Sweet by night, sweeter by morn,
If you wish me to please,
Let the New York Giants win today!
For if this pleaseth you,
This pleasures me even more!

*Darling Dearest,
There are things in this world not even
God can do....

gray grey, the athletic color,
of this uniformed tunic,
you'd know instantly,
no matter how one spells it

the navy lettering fading nicely,
time delayed capsules of soap,
eroding it,
as per schedule

the collar,
if I may permission granted
to describe the aperture hole
for there the head thinks to emerge,
separating, the seam having suffered
the slings and arrows of intercontinental
washing devices who knew not tenderness
in the dry and rumble tumble cycle of life

having taking to the graveyard a
pale blue Gap thin one, stained with red badges,
courageous Heinz ketchup bloodied medals of repasts glorious,
that resisted my entreaties
and numerous stain stick applications,

I concede to her entreaties
and mark it upright,
consigned to be ferried to the dump,
for a state funeral,
dead and buried,
silence, its last protesting verb

but not my Old Navy
matching beard color one,
the one in which I write this,
and so many other oeuvres

sentimental and memorizing
each little pockmarked hole,
so overcome of the notion of its dispatch,
stalk off to the crest overlooking
my beloved beach, and
the bunnies and the ants ask,
poet,what ails ya?

I cannot lie to them,
my co-creators,
and co-inspirators

I have seen better days and better poets
come past, striding on the beach
with purpose and clairvoyant craft,
with no looking back,
glorious their facile winged tongues and feet

my garb, my skills, like my
Old Navy T shirt,
pockmarked and worn,
she wants to take it too,
but when I read my old work,
weep loudly but demi-privately,
for I am clearly spent,
yet I refuse her begging "requests"

the better best part of me, rent,
I fear they will soon come
for me and my declining residuals,
like they did for,
King Lear and Humpty Dumpty

me, in the T shirt,
no more

for all the King's Men,
and his sailors of the wordy seas,
will know I am beyond repair,
cannot be put back to where I once was,
so out to the bay,
taking me there to reside,
burial at sea,
nonetheless dis'd by an honorable death

for that is the only way,
they can final extinguish
all at once, all of
the last of these grayed embers,
that flicker bright before they
self extinguish
~~~~~~~~~~~
3:47pm Silver Beach,
June 29, 2014
after re-reading,
Evening-tide: Dementia, King Lear, Humpty Dumpty and Me

Seasonal confusion, upon this globe of poetry!

Fall here, leaves tumbling into places that amaze,
But you write of spring,
Others of summer,
Winter always, someplace,
Its retrograde reputation
Cannon fodder for the dark-ended, sad ones.

I know the science of orbit,
Axis tilting, angle shifting,
Yet confusion masters me,
For I did not know,
That seasons were present
Upon this globe of freedom poetry!

For me, here, it is always summer...
The season of relief,
In the sun of -
The rays of -
In the warmth of
The sun,
That bakes poems
Into my skin cells.

when I disclaim that
there be no poem today
I suggest you
put me in the dock,
hit the chess clock,
to time the length
tween my lies
sit me down in
the witness stand,
to better see
the holes in me,
from which word seepage,
grey matter leakage,
blackened white slush mush,
covers my face and hands,
and with fingers splayed
in the V
of a Spock like Cohenic blessing,
I make

my beginning and ending
Commencement Speech,
a recitation of incantations,
an eye on the pyramid inspiration  
of cockeyed cantorial hymnations

Like this:

there is only one Godhead
that the spirits that allow me
breathing space in this world
and the one yet to come,
demand of me, worship -
It would be at the altar
of momentary fears
that clarify the whole,
the unifying principle,
that my blinded eyes,
my Pharaoh hardened heart,
my closed and deafened ears
see, soften and hear and believe!

I am slave to the
Gods of Poetry,
their truth, my lies,
stirred in one ***,
and as I live and breathe
I am rewired
with a new poem every day,
an addict who cannot obey,
who cannot afford to pay
the judicial costs
of the cease and desist order
of his own common sense

Jan 2, 2011 10:05 AM

Watt's Woolgatherings



woolgathering ~indulgence in idle fancies and in daydreaming; absentmindedness


Watt? Watt you say?

these words of yours,
they are mine own,
but in uterine conceived by you,
yet, birthed canal'd in my mouth,
when spoken aloud

call them the shared
jubilatio of the alleluia,
drink them as gospel bittersweet,
cups of AM coffee,
after midnight dregs

you know that coffee, where

love lies quiet
within the mute caresses
of skin to skin embrace.
the smile of a satisfied lover
and the smell of coffee brewing

for me.

so many of us birth poems in their java,
but only you taste

hints at the totality,
experiencing, rarified, extracted,
dramatic, lofty, brief insights
of being born every morning

with first day's breath,
by dawn's first light hints are provided,
thereafter, homebound, o yeah, mine now,
anew, renewed, kept reheated inside me

Watt? Watt you say?

beware those
the warts, bruises,
pus filled excretions,
(the chamber music accompaniments)
of a complete life?

always the spoilt milk,
reminders of the condition human,
have you not me charged
be thy union
am I not good enough to be
at least this,
at least a confederate,
guardian of your magnificent solitude?

but you are not always alone,
sleep with Jesus, kick him out of bed,
early coffee for him,
he needs to be alert,
finding the next day's
Mary Magdelene...

There are times when you jump a gust flings you into weightlessness and you float in the moment, forgetting about the fall. We all live for those moments; yearn for weightlessness when our souls don’t feel the captured form of our brief, earthbound existence.

Everyone bounces, right?

I chose to jump.
Again.

Watt, please take my small hand,
I want to jump,
fall and rise up,
be resurrected by the holiness of your words,
that you cannot see, self-blinded,
only the-needy-for-saving can

Like children
every poem is unique
I don't choose favorites.

but I am a sinner,
another amputated elephant
forced to choose,
I choose my poets carefully,
particularly the visionaries
in sidewalk cafés, notebook scribblers

Why Watt, Watt you remind me why

I will never be as goodly a poet as you,
but I will try, my birth's condition,
a man needing your permission to be
Resurrected, reimagined, because,

God as ocean deep
takes all, gives all,
caresses the fevered forehead
of brand new earth.

God as dark distance between
holds the lamp in the doorway
providing hope of a return home

God as the fragrant fecund flower
waits in innocent attraction
giving pollen to all who would receive.

God as woman born
took care to adorn the alter in pleasing raiment
exposed enough of the hidden treats
Enticements for the restless wanderer
to stay awhile and tend the hearth
raising a blazing fire.

God as woman born
endured the fear, the pain, the eternal longing helpless wait
mercifully forgotten at the first suckling sound.

God as woman born
slew Cain not
nor the others ever after.

God as woman born
removed the fruit from the soil with a tenderness
that wrung a universal sob
from the heart of creation.

so if woman must be,
resurrected as son of a woman poet,
let it be so,
beside you, you shear
wooly words,
from and for us,
gathering, gathering

~~~~~~~~~~~

This poem is dedicated to, inspired by the compositions here of Harriet Tecumsah Watt
She is one of the best writer and poets on this site, vastly under-appreciated. I proudly accept the title of her follower.  Read her and be infatuated, angry, enthralled and challenged. The words in italics are excerpts from her poems and messages.

The truth is I never cottoned to that name, no sir, no how. Maybe it was a reference to the Dead Poets movie, which is now just an old teen movie.

Maybe it had to do with all the troubles you seen in your life, and that bad part was dead and over.  Ok that I understand.  But you can write about it, but if you really gonna claim you left it behind, which by the way! you have, the name keeps bring it up fresh and that is just plain sad and makes me madder than hell.  

Even still I always say oh look its the
Deed Poet
writing me about a a life and a world, I got no clue about in a way I could never do, don't got the  heart, the eyes to see the  way you do brother.  Yup.  You just misspelled it Ded and Not Deed, cause you write on a stupid smartphone in the dark and is that any way to write beautiful poetry, dummy?

But I don't like pretending though I do it plenty, but comes along a day, a thing, don't know what to call it any more, and I said to myself,
Deed Poet, that's like making his mistake permanent, and I don't like that.  

So I cast about for a new name for you, for what is a man and a friend for, but to make sure the world knows you for who your are...so with out further ado, addoo, adoo, I aint sure I know how you write that word, but what I am sure is from now on I am gonna address you sir as the
Unbreakable Poet.

don't like it? Too **** bad. That is what you are, and that is what you will be now and forever, *******! don't go arguing with me, cause I am close to blubbering as it is...tried to write some poem which half started ain't half bad, no, it is yo totally awful, so I quit it in the middle and instead I am gonna throw back at you your own words,
for none, bar none, coulda said it better...
so I don't give a good ****** if you change it or not, cause I already done the tinkering in my head to make it so...

Your wisdom is massive,
But I see your invisible signals,
And I know you fill the emptied heart.

I am Poet for you,
And the words will be eternal,
As you have stayed in all the hollow
Places of your children.

Live as an endless nebula,
Birthing stars in a prophetic vigil,
My stainless blood, immortal,
You live on in the tears on my window....

Sustaining me.

P.S. Let get that mentor ***** put to bed, I am ready to take lessons from you!
---------------------
Unbreakable Poet

he keeps company with a
society of the living,
such is,
as it should be,
tho an ancient order,
t'is composed of only his
breathing brethren

he orbits in a special galaxy,
as we all so do,
one sun amongst many,
but in this, his cluster,
no scientist can well predict,
his trajectory, his course,
or any of us
whose company
we keep,
but one company,
we are,
one company,
near and dear

but he errs grievous
if he thinks,
his universe is but
an isolated fragment,
a world slipping into darkness

He is much mistaken

the one moon we share
rises nightly
in different shapes, mystic always
but
it is
Unbreakable,
Forever True,
it is there as long
as poets like him
make it so.

make it so.