“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

So easy and flowing like everlasting seas.
It's comfortable, sweet and calm
It's a strong yet delicate arm.
I'm the boat, the wind and the free bird
Riding the breeze and waves.
I'm in a tranquil state. Arm behind the head.
I'm dozing off while the cloud carries me.
I know no fear. You are the sun.
I bathe in you, while you gently hold me.
I reach for you, and I find all that I ever wanted.
So, I'll keep surfing on your waves.
Hoping that the sun will never leave me.

this accidental status, we are all very busy
to be on the lookout for, the odds are not
terrible compared to the lottery, a modest
1 in 300 million, but it’s an easy buy and bust, just a two dollar bill, two lousy singles,
for a legal purchased fantasy that’s
cheaper than a cup of coffee

but finding love is miserable murderous
murmuring mess, can be very expensive, and
exhausting too, physically and mentally,you’re swimming in shallow waters tween razor rocky coral, begging for a slice of your double sized portion of anguish

And yet,
can’t be that hard,
it is a mega billion busyness,
with no cure or satisfactory vaccine,
and the randomness can drive you
mad, make panting to-pack it in,
until your spidey sensnses tingling,
a ketchup and bitter herbs mixture,
and you’re sweating, and it’s 100% anticipation of the well known (!)
unknown risks, this easy
walkway~path in the woods,
leads you on, with marvelous views,
even babbling brooks, till you find
you’ve climbed halfway way up a mountain and to make it to the top,
it’s a rocky boulder strewn,
ankle and heart twisting road that
takes you to the grandest place and plan

oh but, boy,
where the view of the worldscape is only
fantastico, but the only way back down involves throwing yourself into a
quarry pit, full of dangerous chemicals,
that burn scars into your inside parts, invisible wounds so untreatedbly unspeakably bad and incurable
again and again,

and you say stupid things like
I can’t help myself,
what’s a matter daddy,
just want some sugar in my bowl,
and when your neck gets broke,
and it’ll take incredible processing
to just get you to walk again,
and yet
the single
odiferous scent, that amuse bouche on
your lips, and you’ll do it all again for
once monte carlo throw of the dice,
because the odds ain’t that bad,
everbody lives somebody
and given the billions of opportunities walking in just this planet,
even one in a million sounds
pretty good,
even,


very…fair

~for Maya~

(8/12/24)
never put off the important stuff
till tomorrow, defined as 202five,
first tend to the existential jive,
after all there are harvests
that need bringing in,
bills that need to be paid,
or yet to arrive,
and them older ones, children demanding
an installment to keep them happy’n
currently hip

the weather vane ventures an opinion,
another option, hard to discern, for the
vane spins wildly as almost undecided
as a teenager dreaming ‘bout which girl
to prom-vite, or a seven year old confronting
30 plus favors in the tuck shop before picking
the craziest, the most colorful,
& worst tasting,
then dropping cone et al, on dad’s ****** brand,
new sneakers

putting off poetry till the next year’s almanac
agrees a day off you need,
to seed,
to cede
for yourself, a practical decision
that any farmer could at arrive,
tho probably better things need doing,
****, even sleeping as there is never
enuf  seconds even for that, cause something
always needs fixing,
and

I ain’t even mentioned the vagaries of the
full time occupancy of worrying bout
the witches in charge of discharging
crazy unpredictable Canadian weather

but there is something that needs tending,
use those soil stained fingernails to unburden
the weights that don’t go away, just because
the body too tired to talk to the soul, cheat
sleep, scribble down that single verse that
the chest can’t get rid off, that rhyme in
your puzzled mind, as to what comes next,
and then the rest will follow; which
one you ask, me smiling, the one that
already burnt a hole in your breast,
complaining bout their orphaned status,
and looking to be one of the kids who get
luckily adopted

but what do I know, probably all wrong, me
with no plan on how to survive beyond T+1,
the way markets taught ya how to think
about additive time, a day at a time,
but still find a poem for you
squeezing itself in between his very different
list of worries that never quit, making those
hailstones falling in his can’t-sleep-either brain,
rising with the Eastern sun to pen
crazy poems about humans he’ll likely never
meet…

postscript
————-
his favored Persian poet penned, (1)

“We are often in battle,
So often defending every side of the fort,
It may seem, all alone.

Sit down my dear,
Ttake a few breaths,
Think about a loyal friend,
Where is *your music,
Your pet, a brush?
…
Now pick up your life again,
Let whatever is out there
Come charging in

Laugh and spit into the air,
There could be holy fallout.* (1)