Several poets have told me
That I wear the wrong hat;
I should be a journalist
And let it go at that.

That I should write who-what-when-where
And put it out as news
And turn my eye to everyday
And pay the newsman’s dues.

I can’t put my quill pen down
And give up making rhyme.
I have vistas in my soul
That snare me every time.

Though I dance among the fairies
My words create brick walls
Devoid of hollyhocks and lace
When answering the calls

That urge me to take pen in hand
And share what moves my heart.
The need to see reality
Will doom me from the start.

I won’t wear a reporter’s hat
The double yous can rot.
I’ll keep searching for the elves
Whether finding them or not.
ljm

~for she who will know~

the Mother of Muses came to me

on bended knee
come for to confess
a lie so grand it boggled
the heart

we bring you nothing more
than what you already possess,
the jewels of rose gold are emplaced
in your dual ventricles,
the veins stained with blue green sapphires to
feed the right and left hemispheres,
where the emerald heat and the yellow gold,
raw melt the alpha word-finery awaiting,
the pinpointed pinprick of an eyed glimpse

to release the oxidizing words atmospheric
we are not needed, just proceeders,
*** stirrers? no. *** watchers? oh yes.

all contained within,
this then, the art of the human heart,
where the external stains rest awaiting,
completing, complimenting, coming
to fruition in a reforged new birthing

see how the child looks with adoration,
perceiving the art of the mothers heart,
the spilling of time at the precise moment
when the exchange is as long as an eye wink
and as short as an entire lifetime

We the Muses, not teachers, nor inspirers,
just peddlers, collecting thimbles of words,
polished with hued syllables of tarnish,
experienced watchers discerning the exacting,
the interactive interactions of the cells,
the DNA concoctions of singers and sinners,
priests and the unforgivable, trying to tie
what deserves untying, which is an everlasting
poem that needs, laughing, an original act
of the art of the heart, yours, permission to say
The End

11:14pm
nyc
Sept. 18, 2019

Who writes of me
without pad nor pen
or scribes with sharpened knife
a belly of lies unfastened from sheath
deep that bores the core of heart?
Illusions swift they swim
in waves as shoals
spawned from
tiny minnows.

I looked up and there was a Greek god,
Standing behind the glass door,
My heart nearly stopped,
As he walked towards this marble desk,
I tried to speak but there were no words left,
Betrayed by my tongue is how I felt.

He looks just like Poseidon,
Standing there drenched in his own sweat,
I might need to ***** my brain back on,
Because right now we are by the water shore,
Holding hands and counting stars,
Suddenly I see life and its full of color,

My thoughts are scattered,
In me he has stirred a hurricane,
I imagine he has a beautiful name,
One fit for a god looking face,
He has me feeling like I am in a fast paced race
I might need a pacemaker if I keep up with this gaze,

My wondering mind stays on the water shore,
Kissing,dancing and commanding the sea,
In our Hawaiian shirts, flip flops and white shorts,
My big flowy hat and his three pointed trident,
My mind has hidden treasure,
A thousand thoughts of guilty pleasures!

I cannot recall the best advice
I got from my father
but the best
advice I got from
a man that's not
my father
is to
make friends with loneliness

If you and loneliness are enemies
you'll be lonely

but once you and loneliness are
friends you'll be solitary

The difference between loneliness
and solitude
is the difference
between
the naive kid who thinks one's
happiness depends upon others
and the wise sage who knows that
one's happiness depends
only on
one's self
and one's self alone.

he watches the rain like
it's alive
but he feels less alive himself
behind him
the house turns dark
its last light going off

don't turn back
don't look back
keep going ahead

and maybe another house
and another wife
will open up before you

or maybe there'll be another
war coming
and the nation will need
your service
again

this time the fear shall be
less intense
The first time
someone points
a gun at you
you're terrified
the second time's the same
third
forth
and so on
but eventually there comes
a time when you
run out of people
to point guns at you

fifth

twelfth

forty-third

and none of them make you
feel like her eyes
watching from the window
behind the curtains
and no pulling of the trigger
and no bang
is like her voice screaming
at the kid to go away, to not look

"A stranger! That's what the
man outside is. And I'm calling
the police if he keeps staring like that.
DON'T!
you dare look at him. Go to
your room. Now."

What's a man when all
the wars are over?
A squirt gun against the sun.

His good hand, the one with
whole and working fingers
reached into an inner pocket
of his uniform, found
nothing.

He walked on
And it rained on
And there were no more wars

When the sun scorched the sand,
I went to Henry’s Island.
The winter came and left the shore
Spring was for a while and then no more
The rains beat the shingled beach
The soothing autumn was within reach.
Yet I spurned these tempting seasons
Couldn’t persuade myself with good reasons
To visit the island in fairer weather
And landed on it in the harshest summer!
The sands bit my feet like burning coal
The beach seemed alone without a soul
To the distant horizon my eyes could gaze
A fishermen’s boat hung in the haze.
The red ***** though found it a fun
To come out of hole to bathe in the sun
When I was close they were quickly gone
The beach was alive and I wasn’t alone.
The seagulls skimmed the waves for fish
The sea was all mine like in the dreamiest wish
Placing all her beauties at only my command
Gifting me a glorious summer at Henry’s Island.