somewhere nearby is a closet that only ever expands,
and all sacrificial offerings of homage, therein, accepted,
I know of a t-shirt of a medium gray chesterfield, with
white lettering, in a simple font, waiting, stating that:

FOG HAPPENS

this blunt factual, a summary judgment, does not
do fog full justice, though on the islands where I live,
its directness captures the massive totality of the
power of fog as a gentler reminder by the gods of
weather, that they are in possession of tools varied,
and fog which exert no harm directly, yet is fearsome
paralyzing, and extraordinarily stealthy, sneaky and
some other word that begins with S but propriety forbids
my writing *****.

is akin to an alien invasion, covering, never hovering,
taking all as prisoner, though never a full on
kidnapping, just an unlawful imprisonment -
sure you’re “safe” in the confines of your abode,
which is actually alarming, when you look out
the windows and see nothing, awaiting for your
own disappearance too but your cells knowledge
reassurance says not today boy, but do stay inside!

fog does not burn off. myth. it moves en masse,
in its beyond~bulky
undefined confines,
as a singular one celled amoeba,
moving at its own chosen speed, somewhere else,
to hide comfortably, knowing that its power is truly
awesome.

we watch it depart with relief, though it can come for
extended vacations in your environs, its peripatetic
course is such that it likes to lazy~leave, oft dropping
off pieces that are gentle called medium cloud cover,
as a reminder/warning/mission statement of
anytime, anywhere, anyway and nothing can
impede, inhibit, interfere, interrupt, with its own
rules of engagement, and is always victorious!

I will cease here, for there much more yet
to say about fog, as I’m watching its slow
withdrawal to caves in the sky, comfortable
air conditioned and above interfering rain clouds,
and the sun rays cannot harm its delicate,
deadly elemental,
shades of pale soft skin.

But it will be back, and so will I, to chronicle its
misadventures, describing better its blunderbuss
personality, hidden complexities, but for now know
in its abbreviated simplicity, eloquent encapture,
and all encapsulating nature, ‘tis no accident that
there are many things in your life beyond your control,
but this phenomenon unique for there is no
countervailing, counterwailing,
only a
just does,
but with no justification
only obsfucation,
when we state:

FOG HAPPENS!

We waft and wend our way through life
Avoiding complication's strife,
We meld our courtship to the mould
Incorporating righteous hold,
All the while, ***** our head
Until such time that we are dead.

Some abide by rules, absurd
Others running with the herd,
A few deny the Devil's work
Others conjure the berserk
Wherewithal we come and go
As tactically, as best we know.

Some we win, some we lose
We play the cards, as best we choose,
For life is but a gambled toss
Of joyful win or saddened loss
With courage then, we all stride out
In optimism's bouyant shout.

When, at last, the curtains fall
Aloft, we hold, summation's call,
Good or bad, that last decree,
Bears determination's fee.
For judgment's tidal vanity
Is but a ripple, to humanity.

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ
19 May 2024

Inevitable, that the circle be completed,
celebrating our seasonal return to the
sheltering abode by river, bearing winded
surround sounds to our isle of near-perfection,
where slivered tongued foamy waves deposit
new & used poems on beach, emptied from
now repurposed sea shells and hardened
conchae's, evidence that the truest inhabitants
never leave, always return, with their markers

Inevitable, that I write this in premature
anticipation, amidst the towers of babble,
& honking taxis, imitating Canadian geese,
who await our presence to refute any paper,
that we fool human claimants, before Nature
pretense of ownership, are not mere renters, albeit
but for a few centuries, which by larger definition,
is an interim short term lease, writ in invisible ink, that tho it
yellowing disappears, the orange summer heat magic revives

Inevitable, that decades of worshiping this
place, now mindbound, as temple, shrine, to
a place extant in our minds, wherever we be,
as land that owns us; here, we have buried
super~hero figurines, sanded, polished memories
of loved ones, parents, friends, adventures, times,
confusing generations, for the children of earlier
children, whose children, now too scream with glee
& courageous abandon, familiar+identical to forbears

Inevitable, that we live here, though life demands
our presence elsewhere, in our minds,* for each
year burnishes our genes with sun rays, while sand
smoothes our roughened skin, and we are only refresher
modifications of our earlier selves, when we first were
lost, and stumbled upon this grail, with shovels and
red plastic pails, with which we commenced erecting
foundations, homes, gardens and vines, and images
that are always at home in our minds, living on,

in real time…

~dedicated to the heart fixers~

sometimes I smack my head,
when a poem commission is lying on
the ground before me, and I just don’t
hear it, believe it, in order to retrieve it…

many months of physical rehabilitation,
sessions always ended with a certain cutesy
Gen Z~Millenial crossover phraseology:

“remember to tell someone you love them”

the instructors mostly youngish,
so we senior~smile
a tad dismissively, give them a reward~grin, and
head for the locker room,
where we gossip and compare notes,
on the Part II of our in-process-future-realization,
living a grueling new life of self-preservation, 24/7

the PTs & EPs pound you on the machina, go faster, work harder,
eat better, sleep more, take those meds, motion is lotion,
walk the talk, never be still, but race to live longer and
prosper, this hard work is your new job, and resignation
is non~optional

now, it hits me, via a figurative sharp slap on the side of the head,
triggering an actual physical manifestation that reverbs to the toes,
that the most important lesson went under the radar,
evading the former trader’s dimming vision,
flunking himself on the rehab test paper,
a purple F for fool,
a grade, earned and deserved, and herein poetically preserved

the hardest heart work, begins only after you co-
commence the longest road back to where you once
belonged, but where you can’t walk alone, for therein
a recipe for failure; and the work that needs doing,
is on you; take that tear-repaired heart, and give it away, it,
one can be healed, but not if sealed, for the hard-hearted
walls thicken, and “over  time, the thickened heart muscle
can become too stiff to fill the heart with blood; the heart
can't pump enough blood to meet the body's needs.”

so break off pieces of your heart, give them away with
relentless abandon, for this is the heart that self-repairs,
new tissue, new fiber, and most important, regeneration,
the one single reparation that can successfully
accomplish the true miracle of getting by giving,
no forgiving, if you don’t exercise the heart by

“remembering to tell someone you love them”




dedicated to the hard working staff of the
Cardio Rehabilitation  Unit
of Nyulangonge, Rusk Institute of Rehabilitation
who started  me
with a mighty push on the long road to utilizing my heart properly

<•>

I do love my poets so, those ones, soft spoken, genteel, feeling,
using first, but never, guile, words mano-melo~harmonizing,
softening the edges so smoothly, no rough necessary
for me to protect, confounding the harsh takers,
who never think to ask, end by cradle, stroke,
don’t go below, see deeper that my nerves
are feminine, that pink is but a color,
that anyone could be love, not an
invitation, but a philosophy of
the mutuality of surrender

now you know why I write poems,
to understand better the heart human,
ferret out the chaff, the bad, for everyone else.

June 2020