yes, oddball me, when the subset  sunset worshippers clutch their ooh and ahh pearls, moaning nothing compares to the beauty richness of, the serenity vision of a slipping sun
putting us to bed with a restful aura

***** that

me pre fer

a sunrise powering its way to *******, asserting its power of life and death over this earthly satellite, one of its obedient servants, reminding the flowes to open bloom, the grains of the field to ripen, the animals to re~warm from the cool night, emergence of humans from their protective prophylactic shelters, and commencing to observe their surroundings with an admixture of
silenced glee, and fresh resolution and a quick uttered prayer of thanksgiving for having so much precious that we possess in so far as we were born naked, and be burrowed same, but in between that, we own
temporal rights to love, appreciate
and to
being a human story
of
    
       *glory unique

~
Learning to patch. Learning to mend.
Learning to venture. Learning to comprehend.
Learning to capture and befriend.

Inventing the berry. Inventing the cream.
Inventing sweet slices before bedtime
and the Fragaria colored dream.

Loving new life. Loving each child.
Securing the stem and raising the vine
by loving the wife.
~

Wordless? Could I write a  poem with silence?
the skid-slide of the road
the burden of a sudden night on me

Sometimes, I fall asleep
with the pen uncapped in my hand
little book open... it may seem so lovely
look at her!
huddled up with her little thoughts
a true writer, that child!
but- but I preferred sleep!
sleep was pleasurable and it did not run
I preferred pleasure to poetry, madam!
please take the label back

But...
sometimes the pen runs out of ink
and the ballpen stutters
and I get teary-eyed in the dark night
I engrave the paper with the ballpen nib
trace the words out in the morning
sometimes I tear the paper with the ballpen nib
and then weep

Sometimes, like this time, the lamp dies
I press the buttons of the AC remote
every four seconds (I counted)
write in the light of its lit-up screen
Sometimes I write on my hand
and when the hand runs out, I go to the arm
I write on pants, on tissue-paper pieces
Sometimes, there is light and pen and ink and...
and you know exactly what.

I could never call myself a poet
the word stuck, a jumble-mess
of all my literary inadequacies
rolled up to hardness, taped to throat
I... I roll up like a cat or a rug
words come by on a conveyer belt
and I stamp each with 'unoriginal'
unoriginal, unoriginal
a moving queue of unoriginal
so many words! the page is empty
I become unoriginal
other times...
so little words (like this time)! the page is full
I become unoriginal
Then I get so upset, I toss poetry away
like crumpled paper, roll over on the bed
an upset lover; I keep an arm back though
for some little touch


Oh my
I think I'm going to sleep
with the pen uncapped in my hand


Or maybe...


No, put it away
we are done for the night

The Privilege

rare s/he who contemplates the
painting that can only seen from
frame, looking to outside/from within

expelling words, expecting sounds
felling forest trees, a-seizing, but
listening, waving… hearing silence

For we mistake who’s the audience,
we are the audience,
we are

The Privileged

the Privilege
accepting your acceptance,
taking your listening,
listening to your taking


That This! was Granted,
you to us,
The Privilege,
astounding!
for you gave us
art
to create


JAN 8 2023
1:25pm
thank you
for the privilege.

Chinese chest-cold got you spooked
Virtue-signaling with your mask;
Flu was flu last time I looked.
How many boosters now, I ask.

What if they told you: Stay at home
And wear your knickers on your head—
Then bow down to the Queen of Rome . . .
You'd do whatever Nanny said.