I think about leaving sometimes, 'leaving what?' Petah asked thoughtfully. 'Leaving here..going somewhere were nobody knows my name- all so I can make up a new identity for the world! I want to change, I really do, and I have but Petah has not. 'why can't you change?' I beg and plead for petah to do what I wish, but in the end he tells me something that changed my perception of him.." why would I change, when your own father couldn't for you?" Strange girl yer are, strange oh yes— big dumb brown eyes, and chocolate soaked hair, plump lips that held a quiver since the silver of time..A slim yet sickly figure-that ain't do yer well. Change is impactful oh yes, but for change to happen to you, it starts at the expense of someone else.

''How wondrous it is to be read by someone
who appreciates this gift given,
A kiss, a tear, a poet's religion.
A friend made, words displayed, a song, a poem, hello, goodbye, or maybe Shalom"
patty m
<>
look, it's not like I lack for inspiration.
138 butterscotch chips
already exist,
full poems, titles, couplets, bare naked (ladies) notions,
(men, women, children, asordid genders ageless-survivors)
all demanding rescue,
their cry of SOS, undeniable, but their
lamentations defied, asided, when miz patty m writes,
and oblivious to all else,
attention must be paid!
even when it is 2:55am
even on a Tuesday! (1)
<.>
to the meet, to the mess, to the beating heart that refuses to keep,
a doctor's orders of de minimus seven hours sleep,
when commissioned, when ordered without permission,
you drift into the sunroom, where the night outside
is holy dark, the silence raucous and overwhelming,
and utter inaudibly in his mind,
and piety and poet repeats:
"Yes Ma'am, Yes Ma'am, sir!
<.>
we write for no one in particular
for there is no one who is not particular,
all!
special, sharp edged, distinctive,

and there is no limit, yet,
to how many poems
can be created in a day,
except for the foolish delimiting, irritating
science of 24/7/365+1;
but mercy and insight is demanded,
when miz patty m
does not insist, but commands it
<.>
''A kiss, a tear, a poet's religion..."

indeed, in deed, in deep,
these the elementals of the one true religion,
perhaps the shortest excerpt that ever summarized
the humanist's
faith and the One Commandment,
that summons us & Grace to the table
where we compose and create,
not by fate tempted, but by a fate commanded,
by a faith so grounded & profound,
that every human
regardless of identity or language
each has in their possession, a heaven sent
something important to say,
which is why,
''A kiss, a tear, a poet's religion..."
is the largest tent ever constructed
after the Tower of Babel
where languages were created (4)

a half hour has passed,
a period of absolute measured time,
that cannot be recreated, recsptured,
but like energy,
nor can it be destroyed,
for this
poem, this kiss, this tear,
marks the moment, the neuronic iconic synapse (2)
of our interactive minds believing and breathing
as one,
and even the atheist  among us
must to no one in particular
(well, maybe to the Angel Leonard)
must whisper most utterly,
hallelujah

'''''''''''''
poem dispatched
at 3:44 am EST,
from the
current latitude and longitude for where natty is,
approximately 41.05° North latitude and -72.33° West longitude.

But I’m selfish—
even with myself.
What if I no longer wish to roam?
What if I’m tired
of digging through fire
just to find a softer home?

Tell me—
what does it mean
when someone won’t let go of love,
even when it breaks their bones,
even when the sky above
has given every reason
to move on?

Not because they’re lost,
but because they chose.

Because I chose a piece—
no matter how it fits.
Even if it cuts,
I won’t call it quits.
Even if it’s sharp
and tears through my chest,
I carry it still—
because I loved it best.

It wasn’t perfect,
but it was mine somehow.
So I hold it close,
like a quiet vow.

Is happiness in seeking
what finally fits?
Or is it in keeping
what never quits?

I can’t tell
if I’m betraying my soul
or finally making myself whole.
That’s the echo I hear
in the quietest part—
not a question,
but a stubborn heart.

A name I won’t forget.
A light that won’t depart.
A feeling that lingers,
sharp and true—
and still,
I carry you.

Gravity holding us on this planet,
As we rotate, somewhere, In outer space,
Earth, reproduces for free, our survival needs,
In your mind, a beautiful, peaceful place.
With a sun always around, free, light and heat,
For without, its bright orange fire, we would freeze,
From our head, to the toes, on our feet.
Many lit, evening sky’s, moon and stars reflecting the sun’s light,
With running water, rivers, streams, and creeks,
With mountains, valleys, and different colorful plants, wonderful sites,
Fish and other creatures, living  ln lakes, oceans, and seas,
Different, birds in the day, many shapes, and colors,
Along with other, animals, that roam in the night,
A perfect place, for every race, to survive, together, as happy as can be.




                                                                                                                                             The original: Tom Maxwell© 6 6/17/2025 AD