There can be certain potions
needled in the clock
for the body's fall from grace,
to untorture and to plead for.
These I have known
and would sell all my furniture
and books and assorted goods
to avoid, and more, more.

But the other pain
I would sell my life to avoid
the pain that begins in the crib
with its bars or perhaps
with your first breath
when the planets drill
your future into you
for better of worse
as you marry life
and the love that gets doled out
or doesn't.

I find now, swallowing one teaspoon
of pain, that it drops downward
to the past where it mixes
with last year's cupful
and downward into a decade's quart
and downward into a lifetime's ocean.
I alternate treading water
and deadman's float.

The teaspoon ought to be hearable
if it didn't mix into the reruns
and thus enlarge into what it is not,
a sea pest's sting turning promptly
into the shark's neat biting off
of a leg because the soul
wears a magnifying glass.
Kicking the heart
with pain's big boots running up and down
the intestines like a motorcycle racer.

Yet one does get out of bed
and start over, plunge into the day
and put on a hopeful look
and does not allow fear to build a wall
between you and an old friend
or a new friend and reach out your hand,
shutting down the thought that
an axe may cut it off unexpectedly.
One learns not to blab about all this
except to yourself or the typewriter keys
who tell no one until they get brave
and crawl off onto the printed page.

I'm getting bored with it,
I tell the typewriter,
this constantly walking around
in wet shoes and then, surprise!
Somehow DECEASED keeps getting
stamped in red over the word HOPE.
And I who keep falling thankfully
into each new pillow of belief,
finding my Mercy Street,
kissing it and tenderly gift-wrapping my love,
am beginning to wonder just what
the planets had in mind on November 9th, 1928.
The pillows are ripped away,
the hand guillotined,
dog **** thrown into the middle of a laugh,
a hornets' nest building into the hi-fi speaker
and leaving me in silence,
where, without music,
I become a cracked orphan.

Well,
one gets out of bed
and the planets don't always hiss
or muck up the day, each day.
As for the pain and its multiplying teaspoon,
perhaps it is a medicine
that will cure the soul
of its greed for love
next Thursday.

THE MILK drops on your chin, Helga,
Must not interfere with the cranberry red of your cheeks
Nor the sky winter blue of your eyes.
Let your mammy keep hands off the chin.
This is a high holy spatter of white on the reds and blues.
  
Before the bottle was taken away,
Before you so proudly began today
Drinking your milk from the rim of a cup
They did not splash this high holy white on your chin.
  
There are dreams in your eyes, Helga.
Tall reaches of wind sweep the clear blue.
The winter is young yet, so young.
Only a little cupful of winter has touched your lips.
Drink on ... milk with your lips ... dreams with your eyes.

What balm is there
in being right?
Especially rightness,
righteousness
grounded in bitterness--
are you joining me in my misery?

I do not want
my happiness to come
at the expense of yours--
as if there were some
limited supply of it;
some small cupful--
snatching at the drops
that fall.

If I want compassion+mercy
extended to me
then I **** well better
extend it to others.

And so I go forward,
waving olive branches.

Will you grasp back?

soft waves ripple the water,
               they come    and    they go,
           sprinkling seeds of fervent hope

   gentle waves tickle the sand,
            they come   and   they go,
       leaving dreams
                   of rapture
       behind

             Boastful waves CRASH into rocks,
    they come and they go,
           shattering dreams
                           to  s  m  i  t  h  e  r  e  e  n  s

frantic waves expunge the sea foam,
         they come and they go,
    d
      r
        ow
            n
              ing
                    
                   hope
                     as
                it does


    silent waves creep back to the sea,
they come and they go,
        a cupful of  
              tears in tow

Would it seem presumptuous, perhaps impertinent,
of me to invite you for a cup of tea on a sunny Sunday
morning at a small shop on a well- trafficked street?
And, it you were to agree would you question me,
over that cup of tea, or before, as to why I wish
your company on a sunny Sunday morning?

I might answer, before that cup of tea, that your interests
interest me, and given what I see, you seem quite shy (and
I have heard this is true) and I think you might be more
inclined to reply over a cup of pekoe brew on a safe and
sunny well-trafficked street on a Sunday morning.

And, what would the object be, you might ask, of meeting
over a cup of tea and what would a pertinent question be?

The why and why not of what you know and what you do,
the who and why and what of you  cannot all be explained
over a cup of tea on a sunny Sunday morning, but a small
answer, say a cupful, with one who takes pleasure in
interesting conversation with one who seems interesting
is all the question and answer needed on a sunny Sunday
morning and a cup of tea.

I am hungry and I am not silent
I am thirsty with a cask full of headaches -  but I don't partake
I am mindful of the acetaminophen with codeine
because they take the pain away...

So I am no longer hungry
and the thirst continues with the glass 1/2 full
salt pepper and sugar mixed with baking soda add cupful of flour and raw egg. I can certainly add mayonnaise

MIX &EA;;   MIX &EA;;   MIX &EA;;  

and she tells me that she loves me
and she expels her lonely thoughts
and she runs in circles with clarity
as the clock continues to tick

as my hunger persists for hours and days upon days that last
I can no longer go through this
and all is becoming useless
as the type written lines are becoming shorter

my height has become my tolerance...

As soon as the final cupful
of water was poured,
we’d hoist him from the plastic tub
and he’d jiggle as if electrocuted,
water flinging everywhere,
a wild tremor from head to tail.
Then we’d pat him dry
with a pink towel,
black hair glossier than ever
and he’d run
straight to the fence,
rub up against it
as if rubbing the freshness
out from his skin,
back and forth
with a goofy look on his face.

another postcard came,
sent from the hollowman.

bright, happy pictures
on the front.
and terse, inked messages
on the back.
"am ok" or "doin fine"
"still here"
&  "i am living my life"

anger and grief,
etched in each
& every  penstroke.

he, rings ben,
& they talk,
like lovers , in hushed
& secretive tones,
for long periods of time.

but he won't speak to me.
ben says,
he says, it is still .....
too hard, to fresh & raw
....and i remind him,
to much of her...
(she has a name,
i say angrily)

but, really,
i don't know,
what to do with that.....
any more than i know
what to do with.....
the boxes, stacked,
in our garage.
your bequest to me,
the residue of your life.

each time i open
one to unpack.....
i add,
a cupful of salty tears,
before resealing it....
god!  
it might be years,
before i get them done.

and i know,
this is not so much,
about his all encompassing grief,
or the tidal heft of mine.

as much,
as it is about,
my need to make,
things, better and smooth and fine.

you,
in your much missed
wisdom,
once said,
"we are the sisters sisyphus'.
me, i am wanting to be,
glue,
always, holding things together,
often, way past, their prime.

and you,
you, want to take,
a jagged pebble
and work and polish it,
till smooth as a marble...

but really,
both these things,
are tasks never done....

and in the end,
the world has it's way..... things, lives,
come apart and shatter
and we are left,
to begin again, again....

so, sue for you
and  in your memory...

to laz,the hollowman
i give his mispent anger
and recieve his postcards
and hope that time will heal.

as to, the gift of your boxes.
i seed my salted love...
they will be there,
when i am ready
and the tide is right.

and i let the world have
it's way...
in hope you are smiling down from above....

and i think you are...
this weeks message,
    
                               "got a dog"

coffee stained her teeth
and smoldered her tongue
as she choked on a cupful
in hope that it would somehow
wake every single cell of her body
from the tormenting dreams
that never failed to welcome her
in her every slumber

gust of wind caressed her skin
and lulled her with muffled melody
as she embraced the breeze
that greeted her with relish
as if it understood her undying misery
that she concealed imperfectly
from everyone she knew
desiring that eventually she’d get through

A handful of Memories
A cupful of sorrow
A flagon of happiness
Faith in tomorrow
A measure of taking
A measure of giving
A curious jumble
This business of living

My friends
Deserve more than
I can possibly give.
And, so, I pray for them as best
I could.

Bless my
Friends, oh God, each
One according to their
Kindness, and their many selfless
Merits.

In the hollow of my heart
I yearned for loves completion
Like the caterpillar yearns for wings
Cocoon enveloped in solitary darkness
Not yet aware of the transformation within

You gave me wings to fly
Made of glass and fragile like my soul
When I came to alight on the first bloom
They shattered and dropped like cellophane tears
And once more I was incomplete

I didn't  think I could try again
Heart dry as dust and no more tears to cry
But I heard you calling my name
And knew deep inside
That you had never left me

Filled now, like a cupful of crystal water
Spilling over and spreading in rivulets
Running in streams but never running out
My lips are soft and I thirst no more
Satisfied from the inside out with you

have you ever drank a river?
stretched your lips over it's banks
and ****** everything —
the fishes,
the canoes,
and the boots
that sunk 5 years ago.

I am so thirsty that if I could stretch my mouth
around this planet
and crunch the glaciers,
swallow the oceans,
and breathe in the clouds —

It would not still be enough.

But see what nature did.
It gave me a small mouth
and a mind that believes
that a cupful
is enough.

Use a cupful of hallucinations
A handful of flight of ideas
12 table spoons of euphoria
And mix evenly.
Add a half cup of pure paranoia
10 slices of negativism
A sprinkle of disorientation
And a flavor of indifference to taste
Allow to cook for an hour
And you have for yourself
A perfect dish of crazy

Fragile as a flower,
Delicate as a China plate.
A cupful of emotions,
Don't hurt or crush them,
Respect others feelings,
Tomorrow it can be you.
11/3/2021

The moon is known for a mysterious elixir that she produces
People down on Earth bow and worship the almighty queen, more than her husband, Helios
The moon expresses her satisfaction: merrily guzzling down a goblet of juice from Neptune stirred with milk from Saturn, with a little pinch of the stars

A little tipsy she becomes, hiccupping and giggling through the night
As she is befuddled, she starts to explode in light so radiant
Slowly, she starts to vibrate and tremble and rumble and wobble
With the last of her strength, she lets out a cloud full and heavy of her emotions
The lady produced a cloud full of silvery light

The light turned to a heavy liquid, a concoction when it reached Earth
People gathered buckets and cauldron to capture the birth of the tears
The people gathered the mixture and boiled it over their hearth
It bubbled and foamed and dripped from the sides with no care

Excitement and zeal shook the universe
One by one everyone peered into their cauldrons filled with the tears for it bubbled no more
There it was the tears of the moon, so pearlescent that it swirled around like a galaxy
The smell so heavenly but heavy that no one can describe
Goblets raised and heads lifted, the earthlings drained the liquid down their parched throats
Like butter, it was, so smooth that no one could feel the liquid against their windpipes

The liquid that looked so precious
Looked like a potion filled with gifts and fortunes and magic
But it wasn’t
This was a cauldron full of the moon’s agony and hurt and regrets and burden
A sip would hurt a mortal but a cupful
You’re dead
The mortals fell one by one for possessing all of the moon’s pain was just too much

Rooibos
—late night thoughts
in a cupful, to the tee caught in the awe,
or in the ways the hot beverage tickles the
tongue floor

     ....one sip leads to more and more

What are we?
water!
73% in our brain
and heart
83% in our lungs
60% of adult body
is WATER!

multi-fold
are its many a merit
it strengthens you
sharpens your wit

failing to drink which
causes confusion
aggression and symptoms acute

stop reading now
rush for your cupful
and take me
to the highest court
if untruth I speak

writing like this
my coffee I need
my words
are water-soaked
and water-tight
surely this you can see
when you read!

A cupful of your love and hot, creamy coffee in life.
23/6/2020