prayer of hope, for young and old, who suffer from the slings and arrows sadness and the loss of love; I offer up this prayer of hope and offer you my hand around your shoulders until you no longer require it

more than once,
for lengthy periods,
by events, other people,
my self was eradicated
and limping from day
to night, and J faced
absolutes, choices choking,
alternating alternatives that
offered zero, or even less
than zero, and the inkwell
wasn't refillable, and I could
point to nothing yet encouraging a mystifying purposed existence

then came a woman

who asked nor proffered
conditionals
pre, prior post or otherwise
and
offered up the miraculous
drink, human kindly notice,
snd it
drained the bitters,
began fluid replacement,
and slow resuscitation

and then
poems rebirthed me,
 liberated the angry sacred
gory sadness words devoid of glory,
with a reworded score, and
the eyes could write without
a patina filter of jaundiced hatred,
and whispered private internally
many times a beloving
hallelujah

and when ever the remembrance of
the near misses are crackly occasionally appearing, the surge dissipates intact quick
into a netherworld for suppressing
and bid "away with you," and a
thin lipped smile part sneer
for having survived
even
prospered when
                    then came a woman

and the self, the my self,
returned
after an absence of destructed
decades...deadening decades

and I smile when
the grandchildren tell me
knock knock jokes
and gently knock me on the head,
to make sure I'm alert,
then came woman
who had already~all ready
knocked me on the
heart

I have never been to Alabama, or…
<>
I have never been to Alabama,
or where
Immortality
reigns supreme,
but I am told here and there
nooks and looks of poetry
reside abide and
ENLIVE,
And sadness is banished,
loneliness impossible,
&
Loveliness abounds,

And every poem
Gets a sun,
Becomes a star,
And every poem,
Is immortalized

And those who choose
to compose, selves to expose,
become angels protecting all who write poetry in their hearts,
but
who cannot nor,
dare to share
<>
but
they share with them...
who in turn
share to all
the confidence of
Comfort

June 26, 2025
<>
a verily un~silly query,
for mine be already composed,
"A Flawless Poem", [1]
but
this doesn't beg the question,
as to what the answer
for you be;
and the 3:22am thoughts
are pouring over a tea bag of steeping darling Darjeeling
brain cells,
which sadly are not
resippable
and I fear are already long gone,
dissolved
but will be dragged back
from the irregular edges of
faint memories
for your
sipping them
later. letter by letter
<>
my slow dissolving, by a patient lengthy dismembering ,
this body's suite
of methodologies of self~distraction
to and from
its own destruction are numerous, varied,
well chronicled
<>
it is a dismembering of
disremembering,
a catalogue of life reviewed,
even occasionally revised,
for many are the memories
paining, and requiring
revisionist repainting;
an analog of a well thumbed catalogue, whose glue has tired and
the outlines faded,
as time and sad space
for you reach it's nigh
occlusions of conclusion,
reviewing, re-concluding
better outcomes than the actualities
<>
I see my ashes dissolution,
and into water traveling, well dispersed across continents,
their contents contented to
be filtered, but part and invisible parcel of a tinging invigorating particles of me,
will be shared to your body
for inspiration and even perhaps
reincarnation (mmmm);
me will be
tingling tinging the water
you
sip,
and old combinations of
new words will reemerge
from your fingertips and
silent scripts of
utterances
<>
thus,
we recompose the decomposed,
reassemble with a reassuring ease,
a last and ever lasting poem
anew,
and over and over
a once and first
timelessly
delivery
<>
this quaint notional of
passing conjoined words
through and over your lips
(ah ha!)
pleases me greatly,
though the lengthiness of
this creature goes on too long,
but @ 3:58am, length is a minor
to the adult need, to expound
every last kernel that is passing by,
for its inevitable retention and
ultimate
forgetting nonetheless
<>
iron of irony,
this is but a faint and impoverished recollection of
the harmonious words I heard in my head before they were etherized
<>
and a poor recapitulation of
their essences sensory density,
and yet, this revolution of
recapturing recall the question posed,
What if you only had one poem left, what would you write?

perhaps an extremely and extended
siren song of my exterior erosion,
my mind's muscle memory discarding its residue of residuals,
we call memories,
allowing our peculiar perceptions
to fade and yet,
find a way
to away to
you
for your
(wink)
reorigination
<>
As the Jewish King & Psalmist wrote
a thousand years ago,
there is nothing new under the sun,
but somewhere a poet
greets the sunrise
with newly inspired words,
as if it is a first birthing of
a great
and unexpected creation,
deserving of a last~ing

co~memoration!

~for M.C.C. ~
who sang me to sleep,
when my soul begged me for
sweet release,
just was lucky, I guess

"Mornings here with a coffee cup
Stories in my head, looking up
If the rain holds off we'll be in luck
But we're lucky anyway"

<>
Been there, done that,
ritualized & compartmentalized
the essences of the routinized,
to measure the days of my life,

as small keepsakes,
charms and tokens on a bracelet,
jingle bo jangle,
when another be repeated,
the telling belling of
a ✅ of satisfying satisfaction,
<>
and I!ve been bone
marrowed & narrowed hell~married,
imprisoned until decisioned,
that no life was no life at all,
(take note! y'all y'all),
and I miss my dog's greetings,
and snoring while I'm wide awake,
always loved to drive too fast on  
back country narrow lanes,
in my suburban shrunk
small suv,
with radio blaring, no need for
trucking on the Truckee,
been there, done that..
<>
in the small ways,
in the
small places,
take my slow going days my way,
and not no need
to rent borrowed uninfluenc-ed content
cause I custom built it in,
easy like, five easy pieces,
learned to make daisy peaces,
of the bright nights melding
with life affirming hot sunlight
and there is no bad time,
with a cold blue~ribbon
in my left,
my right grasping two O'clock
on my heart and steering wheel,
driving freedom fine,
Chapin~ Carpenter
on the stereo dial,
no set time,
just anytime,
rain or shine
for me and my poems
to *** together,
like old time,
any fine rhyming time,

together we flashback
to the sweet Release
from jail in 2008
<>
and break out a new one and clap  it onto the clasp
my bracelet of charmed
keepsakes,
like memories of
my old dog, thinking
one more time,
just got lucky
6/27/25

not  the prophylactic kind,
nor the rubber kiss road tire kind.

but the rubber of bodies
old and young,
tired and tense,
young and flexible
migrained, played & splayed,
pain paralyzed,
soothed by cherubic
fingertips
oiled with,
anointed by,
a-custom cream
of tenderizing aloe
and gentling, kind loving
quieting & shushing

tho mine own temples,
raging, feverish,
combobulating
as words spill as *******
and then

she
sleepy whines:
why did you stop rubbing me?

and for
a sleep deep,
she leaves
me,
going unanswered

but happily
nonetheless
boy be typing
**The End

a gift for Aladdin Aures H
from his 3rd follower...

<>><<>
the inescapable need,
unformed firmament
inquiring; am I capable?

the impulse palpable,
the urge to urgent,
to gorge and disgorge?

instead of morning prayers,
precomposed and ordered,
morning poem plucked from

morning fog, gusted breezes,
early-on, newborn sun rays,
progeny of disheveled skies

words fused, in irregular sizes,
senses censured by drowsy eyes,
but the chest beating arrhythmia

means bursts of free verses
superimposed on reluctant eyelids,
jigsaw puzzlement be re-conformed

and the first poem of the day,
emerges from the intersection
of mind, pale dreams, and the

first is special till the neu morrow,
when fresh bursts explode inward
to windward, and the first is just

yesterday's mesh of hash,
once formidable, now last,
pinned, yellowing, purely a
*descendant of the recent,
but always, ancient past^

when you poem me,
and the sudden tumble
into a mesmerizing moment,
is a felling of a tree, that
everyone can hear, anywhere,
forest everywhere,
suddenly, I will know you,
no introduction required...
to be with you, and save my
day, my heart stolen, and to my
captor, I hereby surrender,
capitulate completely, quick quiet,
and we are three thrilled together, a triumphant triumvirate,
for each other and a unity of
1 + 1= 3

is a new counting,
a unique
formulation
a formidable forming

a mutual following,
a fellowship

nml
Weds.
June 18 3025
In the sunroom

the isle is surrounded,
one if by day, and
too by night,
a thickening paste
of fog, condensed humidity,
and the mind smiles that
interloper explorers would sail
past by us, unawares,
for the waters are merely a
dirtier shade of green grey,
a "path" to follow and we
would be spared the noisy
pollution of politics and
and injections of identity
that divide, the tirades of
the overly righteous chest
beaters, who never question
their certainty, their compasses
always broken pointing their
"only one way"

sail on, sail past. this piece of
quiet tranquility, a place that
has just one of everything, a
sufficiency, a rejection of excess,
and the only melancholy is
the finality of passing of
the day lillies,
b u t,
the multi-colored irises, the
flowering of azaleas, rhododendrons, and the brevity
of the cheery cherry blossoms
of those;
secure, safe we are, assured that
their peaceful return is guaranteed
by the firmament and its secrets,
that, along with the overwhelming
greenery of this spot, for the
pleasuring enjoyment of all,
even the fog's quietude,
its surround sounds silences the anxious rapid heart beating,
slowed by one thought only:

Here,
herein is,
here within
lies the truths of
shelter

S. I. 2025

"As if everybody knows
What I'm talking about,
As if everybody
would know
exactly what
I was talking about"

Paul Simon
<><><>

test the hypothesis,
get out the glass beakers,
mmmmix the acid and the base,
wear those rubber gloves
and with goggles on,

always paying penpal attention,
we have the first aid kit and
the fire extinguisher
nearby
and handy

As if everybody
would know
exactly
what
I was talking about

what
I am talking about
is self~care
and on a dare,

whispering,,
a modest scream,
an ego soul statistic~all
@it's ok,
"love thyself"

everybody
knows,
...as if...
....as if....

"are never really finished,
they are only due.
Writing may be draining,
never perfect,
but it’s always rewarding."

no buts or exceptions
whenever you think your
done,
you lets the little tickles of
mmmm. maybe a
change, a comma here,
and the madness is
well,
maddening

the reward?
the compulsion that drives
one to exclaim,
I can do better,
and take a clean sheet
and the blood rush,
accelerating heart rate,
the beating speeding up
of pulsing of everything

why that's your reward,
*you fool,
fooling yourself
one mo' time

flux.
a word whose very sound connotes its meaning, a sloshing state of change

a liquid moment,
for we solids,
of bone and flesh,

though
we may be islands of stolidity,
entrenched, focused, organized,
when the surround sounds
of change are all about
you too are
fluxed

the serenity of splendid isolation
is not an impervious shell,
close eyes, ears, nostrils, mouth
these liquid times we abode,
inescapable from the roller coaster of
crashing storms of our
environment

try as I might,
cannot recede into a
white sealed envelipe,
cannot secede from
the froth of current events,
in the age of no distances,
and the rotational revolution of
but one lever,
a single beating wing
can disrupt the
the supply and communication
channels of our normative existential machinations

let me retreat unto my poetry trance,
but that choice
is currently unavailable

be wary of the calm of routine,
we live in a time of
the olympics of change,
and we cannot walk
on water,
nor tread forever

flux.

the liquidity curse of our
ever curving intersections

As HL Mencken put it,
“The urge to save humanity is almost always only a false-face for the urge to rule it.”

<>
You can drop that History course now

"everything in the cosmos was going to be drawn into the poem,
nothing must to be laughed at because it was already laughing,
nothing was too serious because it was already grieving,
the ache and the flirtation,
all this range,
this massive Spectrum ,
what a...what a thrill"

Bono
on Allen Ginsburg, Poet
<>

gotta tell ya,
every time I read this
quote,
two things happen:
get a headache and must
lie/lay down

and no. 2,

people who took a lotta drugs
write pretty good poems and songs


so where did I go wrong?

each to his own, every family a nation unto itself, and genetics undeniable, perhaps my disabilities have infected my descendants and
thereby, I am justifiably guilty of
their sins of commission and
omission

they do not generally like me,
or mire specifically do not
like me stylistically

how I perceive myself,
and how I am perceived,
are in opposition,
and while,
all the while,
it is the sun~sum total of our lives,
added up, divided, pinpointed,
we draw,
we make,
conclusions,
decisions beyond inferences,
and behave accordingly

~for a she who denies it~

c'mon c'mon,
have you ever got a
grade lower than than
A-?

ever stayed out so late,
causing your parentals
angst and  aggravation?

Not go to class,
without being overcome
with an all day long
residual residoo
of big ***
flashing "guilty"
tattooed
on the inside of your
brain?

doubtful
but I'm sure you are unwilling to
confess!
(Shame! Shame! Shame!)

but here is what you are;
a good'un
with admirable qualities
that cannot be denied,
even if you tried to lied,
for you reveal yourself
in every script
you pen,
******,
you are
too
a goodie goodie

good'un...

(that nobody can deny)

I approach this subject with expertise,
for the economy of brevity
is not my forte,
indeed my natural tendency
is to never use
one
when three words seem
so more additional  expressive


but,
economy is to my taste
when delving into the emotional,
which as a poet poseur
seems incongruous

but the verbal deliciousness of
a well chosen phrase,
that one can roll on their tongue,
looking for subtle notes like a good wine,
is a sensory delight,
a provoking nugget of
an alliteration of the senses,
that seeps into your interior,
gladdens the soul,
worthy of jig, or even a
hot **** expletive,
demanding many more
sippings

it may require an ooh and an ah,
and the loosening of teary eyed
moisture,
the acceptance of
acceptance?

the  spreading of a satisfactory warmth in-the places that
welcome heat, allowing both
head smacking grinning,
or deep emotive gestures
to form upon your normally repressed status

~for she who knows ~
<>
The word "likeability" is spelled L-I-K-E-A-B-I-L-I-T-Y., though the inhuman spelling master of this site, deems it a misspelling mistake, condemning it to live in red, and offering up no replacement

<>
it is that time of night, which is also
a time of early day, when dark silence prevails, except for the excessive rumbling of the our old little cottage's environmental devices gut rumbling while laboring to condition our atmosphere

our atmosphere;
is my brain on fire at 2:30am,
with new conceptuals, many contradictory, racing in and about my brain all begging to
write me first, while the mental fluids are juiced, and words are finger pecked into existence with a maddening slowness

but this one,
re likeabilty has risen to the fore,
because it is the last to be born,
and seems therefore claiming precocious precious preeminence

not a quality I deem much in my owned possess, but one easy discerned in others and delicious delighting to the human souls who
recognize it instantly by the smiling comfort of its parfume

what I like about like about likeability is it's a pleasing scent,
that aerosol invades a room and
spreads like a virus of happy,
quite contagious to we old curmudgeons,
who by nature feel put upon by
our aging equipment, and the daily struggle to maintain it, and the forces to countervail it ,
are endless and not cheery by nature

So
I am enlivened and enriched,
engaged and effervescent,
when youthful patois,
direct and with little boundary,
radiates the human existential,
and light shines upon my soul,
awakening in me
an optimistic countenance!

perhaps I exaggerate,
confusing youthful energetic optimism
for a condition,
and not merely a demeanor,
but I rethink upon it,
snd decidedly decide
this for real, this is genuine,
and by its very natural nature
(a lotta nats in nature)
its openness, unguarded,
refreshes and moisturizes
our skins,
internal and external

this special quality is not universal,
or else there would be peace on earth (ain't happening),
but those who have it,
who think beyond privilege and
privacy,
but intuitively,
offer up to all
a pleasantness
rich and original,
will write an indelible script
upon the world
for the better

I like it.

~Primus inter pares~
(first among equals)
<>
the risks
the aspirations
the trial and erroring of
outrageous under appreciation

the silence,
the unabashed frustration
of our inability to right express
the exact precision needed to redress the pile of self~unsatisfying drafts
that need the evermore honing, whittling
curettage of accumulated filing
repeated nip and tucking

T his!
makes us all
first amongst equals,
we,
who throw ourselves again and
again, at Henry's urging
"once more into the breach"
we foot soldiers who but toil alone in grande silence until we satisfy our innermost creativity
are all so alike
all of
^firsts^
among
equals
in this grande society of
poetry addiction!

~for George Harrison~

Very

soon George, I am bound for
a stilled shaded land, a tiny isle,
which knows the
all encompassing fog,
hurricanes wrath that days linger,
and though memorable,
never the first image recalled,

but a mind's eye video of
a perpetual sunset,
agonizing silenced colored fantasies of farewells,
each unique and alike though all things must pass,
a benign benefit comfort suckled this old man's
never fully at rest visions,

for the sunset is perfect perpetual,
always setting, never settling,
ever bound to surprise,
our farewell is another's welcoming,
and each of our days an
A-1 slicked continuum,
a sliding circularity
and
we sigh, ooh & aah
at it miracality,
its genteel reawakening
we admit with pleasured honesty,
yes, sunsets are a corridor edged,

somewhere it is always sunset,
nevereverending,
and its farewells
are truly truthful welcomings

<*>

Shelter Island
May 2025

~for George Harrison~

Very

soon George, I am bound for
a stilled shaded land, a tiny isle,
which knows the
all encompassing fog,
hurricanes wrath that days linger,
and
though memorable,
never the first image recalled,

but a mind's eye video of
a perpetual sunset,
agonizing silenced colored fantasies of farewells,
each unique and alike though all things must pass,
a benign benefit comfort suckled this old man's
never fully at rest visions,

for the sunset is perfect perpetual,
always setting, never settling,
ever bound to surprise,
our farewell is another's welcoming,
and each of our days an
A-1 slicked continuum,
a sliding circularity
and
we sigh, ooh & aah
at it miracality,
its genteel reawakening
we admit with pleasured honesty,
yes, sunsets are a corridor edged,

somewhere it is always sunset,
nevereverending,
and its farewells
are truly truthful welcomings

<*>

Shelter Island
May 2025

as a house in the country,
by the water's edge,
on a clouded, zero moonlit night,
and the handful of light ****** are
far far distant and inform you that
are essential alone

the almost total absence of vision
reminds me that once,
long long, ago, I
stood by a river's edge
in a great big, well lit,
city of millions,
and the loneliness was
so acute,
the despair so
encompassing,
the overwhelming sense
of loss,
so comprehensive,
all made the dark swift waters
a close distance beneath my body,
the equivalent black pitch
of this
countryside night
both purported to
offer comfort,
neither were

Black
is a knot,
non~neutral color

how much poem can
one propose, compose & dispose
of in an Apple watch timed
inchoate incontinent inconstancy
tide-pool of multiplying amoebic minutiae
of a single minute

can you cram a lifetime of
an everything
without filling
the centrific center,
the holy totality trinity ethereal of
birth ~ life ~ death,
one
entirety capsular
summary?

Not I, derided He,
124 drafts accumulated
of a life
heretofore and a
thousands poems scripted
and a thousands yetto come
hereafter!


If only,
I could have loved it better...

a hand without a palm,
a smiley face with a ----
for a mouth, a
headless horseman who
passion rides country roads at night,
but sees no one and no thing

the title is a poem's crown,
full of hint and mystery,
an encapsulation of a poem's
source and origination;
do not mot~send us little pearls
unstrung, for the beauty
so greatly
amplified, when their lustre
is so
great fully magnified
when
strung together in to a lace necklace shape,
clasped by the overture of
the meeting of
the beginning to an end

the title is a mystery, a provocation,
a first bite intended to arouse,
a first kiss upon a neck that tremors
our souls with unanticipated shivering delights, and an ending to which we return with sighed satisfaction, and the cloture and aclosure, and a smile of
ah, I get it!

entitle us to the puzzling delight
that a title hints at what surely will
follow!

~for old poets every where

I'm a short burst deep sleeper,
the woman is a restless wild eyed story telling schemer~dreamer, who drives at night
in fourth gear,
shaking the bed,
with dreams gone wild,
crazed & crazy intermixed stories unhinged but always
real life related

most by morn forgotten,
'cept for the truly bizarre,
where scraps of unbridled unbelievable
remain for head shaking disbelieving

i sleep in clumps,
four hour sessions and thus oft
bear witness to her
charcoal activated dream states,
where physical reality intersperses,
i n t e r m i n g l e s
with her dream life,

when she wrestles with an
unreal
dreamed restlessness;
my fingers find an exposed
body part, arm, shoulder, tummy,
and steady massage a message
from my fingertips to her
brain,

mantra: it's ok, it's alright,
and return her to the safety
of a deeper sleeper,
so the brain can do its work,
washing away the unrefined,
needy for distilling,
overnight cleansing,
of unwanted memories
which generally works

in the thorny morny morning
she gets a questionnaire
and 9/10,
has no recollection collection,
my magic prophylactic
fingertips, each tipped with
a inked smiley face,
look up at me,
know-it-alls,
smirking contentedly,
"our work is done here!"

Nay, May 25
2025
writ by starlight

First Official s u m m e r Saturday,
weather personas correctly (!) advertise two hours of
sunny morning before the clouded
vanilla parchy brow of the sky
occludes any May
summertime fantastical notions

Sun low in the eastern sky crests at
acute angles,
and spills rays thru the tree'd
frothy cappuccino branches, which
under the influence of drunken
substantive gusts, shakes the rays
on the bright green lawn stage, casting a huge patchwork of shadows, and it's easy to conceive
many tall giant ballerinas dancing in a chaotic disharmonious modern choreography

Perhaps it's a Parson's choreo,
more likely the akimbo nature
of the motion motif,
a Body Traffic concoction

But the sun is gone by 9:30am,
the green stage is now just a
plain old green screen,
the shadowy ballerinas banished,
and my hand held porcelain mug,
frames the denuded scene,
only the invisible wind remains
to say:

oh it's you human,
back in para-dise,
did you expect perfection
of hot sun & hot coffee
awaiting your return?

East come, Easy West go,
this version of my true unheated coloration disappoints,
but I wait in on/no human,
said the triumvirate,
that rule the sky,

on this island of perpetual sunsets,
we do not guarantee a seating
of matched sets,
but visit with us tomorrow,
with poem praiseworthy,

and then,
again,
who ever knows?

yes, it's true, I
timestamp each script,
The time the day the year, the moment and where, the location's criticality, para-Mount!

return to your poem, return to that place, remember recapture retain,
regain!
The source, the emotional contagion, rage of sadness, humility of sweetness, the loss of loss, insight to the inside,
inside the insight,
recapture  and regain,
re-attain!

sift the flower of that past emotion,
re~fresh it as if it was a newborn,
with life extant extended,
fully ahead, relive it as
anew...

This is why we write poetry,
to code ourselves, and then upon rereading, decode ourselves once more!

this is why we read poetry;
to decode, replace refresh neverending reimagining

This is how we store our memories,
This is how we wet our face replenish and re~pour our recycled tears, refresh our bodies,
souls and mind,
and perhaps, even regain the perspective that time like a river,
is forever eroding our memory
on the margin, like rocks in the stream, worn down to pebbles...
This is your re~gained!

8:06 AM
Sunday
May 18
2025
~~~
Manhattan

"let us write cleaner, simpler,"
says my heart to my mind,

the mind replies,
(nay, whines)
wistfully professes,

"now, now,
all that's within, accumulated wisdom of nearly a century,
for want, for waste, let us
privy you a taste of elixir
of combinatory emotional
potions of our vast vascular vocabulary,
rambled scrambled
wandering among the
envisionings, insertions,
criss crossed propositions,
lay before you simplistic
complimentary complications,
take the adventurous down
a warren of rabbit holes,
let them happily be lost,
deep delve, into mysterious
confusions
let not the joy of
the unraveling journey
be sacrificed on an altar
of absolutism of
clean brevity
never ever
use but one word,
when
a tapestry
can be summoned!"

so we conclaved
and agreed to disagree,

and we each wrote home

the worldly swirling reverberating, whirlpool whirling, the To Do list,
issuing senior commands, and the poetry dieting and exercise regime
is muffled, though notes and promises atomizing, ideas and excitations, on the cardboard backs of yellow pads jotted, on menus for Chinese and Indian incantations,
assembled in their own corner reservoir,

nonetheless and all the more,

no births recorded, no spawn of the dawn, product of mid of night
illegal ramblings by the
East River

none
achieve a hallelujah *******,
and the pile of drafts messy are assorted and distorted in their own corner of the white writing desk,

stillborn lay, or more accurately they cry out pained:

"no, no, still to be born!"
"not yet dead!"
"permanent gestation is not a destination"
and other survivor slogans,
and mind and body bloated with
need to ex and to in
hale
them,
to let the healing compounding components of
new compositions see a
glorious Mayday morn of a steady streaming of
howling babies, and all agree,
look at you, look at me, look at this
5 minutes sassy essay on your lassoed status,
now force the door ajar and let the nightlight lead you to dawn,
deliver us, satisfy out our cravings,
make us wholesome and then,
with a sacred finishing
wand waving of blessed
Hallelujah
Amen!
Selah!

now get to work,
*** of coffee witches brew,
knock off the stalling,
Sondheim humming,
crying out a
****** recognition,

"send in the clown,
no more; maybe next year,
too late,
I'm here..."

4:07 ~ 4:25am
May One
2025

Here, of course, is New York CIty,
soon enough, my innate 4000 year old
internalized migratory patterns signal,
remind, now be time need to flee to mine
own Walden Pond, no pond, but a wide
bay upon a small river that feeds the
Great Atlantic, and silence & solitude
with assists from animals, the trees,
lovely breezes, the overlord, overloved
sun, will restoreth my soul, when I walk
beside green pastures and forests on country
unpaved rounds, and the poems hang from
the breezes, ripe for the love of a grasping~plucking:

A great reveal though, currently:

Though my soulful body be over 100 miles as the
crow flies from there, here, where I
was/born/bred/educated/nativized/citified/raised/lowered/ be buried/
and yet reside,
the mayhem vibrant+indigenous+unique
to Isle of Manhattan, where the streets cannot never be
clean enough, always, my eyes cloud over at the 10,000
acts of knindness, rudeness, unimagiable beauty, and sadly,
random violence on every street corner, surrounded by broad
ways, temples of arrogant prideful structures of Tower of Babel
ginormity, all pointing up at Him, asking pointlessly, patiently
for an answer that never comes, to
Why Here, Dearest God?

on this Algonquin island, with Indian trails *still extant,
trapped tween two diatomic, fast flowing rivers, do we masses
yearning to be free, live here, a man writes (see below) about
the walks he takes upon it paved banks for soul restoration
and new infusions and certification of the answers you've always, |already have known:

every walkabout
in its own way, is a
gray, grayed, concretized
green pasture unique,
topped off with a combinatory
poem and symphony,
that 90% restoreth my soul,
each art, conducted uniquely,
each in its
own particular,  
genetic birth sac,
nourished by the
atmospheric placenta

in the B.C. (Before Covid)
there was a joy at a city's
restoration, excitation,
after many decades of
wilful neglect; Covid
made many flee to
verified green pastures
hundreds of milkes away;
most have now returned,
like the Hudson and the East River,
their/these tides reverse, what goes North,
changes direction, naked to eye visible

So the population too, two way >flowing<
returnees and departees, always churning
the city's populace; here is a story of a man
who escapes but always returns, whose spirits
tidal wave flow from the sheltered sanctuary
to the madcap foment of a city in perpetuity,
revising its demeanor; from both flows do I
draw the water that feeds my words, and each
poem, differentiated, by the accent of my local

this is a city poem, born and bred, from my very
old head, which was birthed in a hospital by its
central park, and will see my ashes scattered within
its con~fines

(see notes for the story of another New Yorker who walks)

intrguing, this global web site,
when you post at your "odd" hours,
somewhere it is early morn, or the
dreading deading of night,
late afternoon, lunchtime, and the,
this poem slow falls to the bottom of
the front page, into a Found, but Lost,
maybe, some die almost, totally untouched,
some shockingly reveberate, some holy revered,
others, break & brate, forlornly, of unlimited loneliness

this mystery I have studied, and freely admit,
after 15 years, under-the-ladder-stand, and
wisdom goes from zero to less and lesser;
it is time for spring cleaning, amidst the chaos,
in/of a turmoiled world, soiled, cleansing the
palate this year, is harder than ever, and the more
I ponder our exploding litany, I swallow acceptance
whole, pre~forgive most sins, and submit to the burden
and know this:
of time and poetry, the poetry of time,
now, more than ever, is the time for poetry

and the time is:
5:44AM
Tue 22 2025
nyc, usa
and the poem is now!

~for S. Y.~

You, Sir,
are your own armed forces,

Your inner navy army air force
and coast guard,
that guard, defend
the outer boundaries of
your inner self from
the outward shock troops,
and the internal fifth column,
that will betray

You must,
mass personal personnel,
assemble all!

We
are the first
and the last
line of defense

Take Care!
so casually uttered, and yet the most profound command we give
and are given

Yes, we have allies, but we must recognize and admit
that threats exist,
both great and invisible,
minor and insidious,
and it is our own early warning systems,
that need constant recognition!

Yes, you,
take care,
first and foremost
your all eyes,
are your true allies
trust them,

Guard against letting your guard down,
Minor incursions no longer exist!
Every ache and pain is a probe,
and the night watch
must be ever vigilant

April 13,2025

a little

r,

that's all I have,
a hook upon to hang my spirits,
hoping these pre~sleep morbidiities
be by gravity,  
sleep drained, and my
heart restored to wholeness

<>

a tiny single letter separating,
us from them,
it is a handhold, a lifeline,
grasping something for all of us
to hold onto for balance,,
when thinking bout the
hurt we exert,
rendering me near inert:

what we do,
what we let happen,
permit, allow 
 the world to afflict our
children

gasp at the horrors, inflicted,
grasp the enormity of all of it,
curse my brain for this self inflicted pain,
the most vulnerable exposed
to our failures to protect
them from infections
inward and outward<
desirous of infecting

and you claim
"did your best"
with reddened gilded~guilt edged letters
a  illegitimized excuse.
knowing you cannot protect them from the
evils already contained
within,
and the without,
so well hidden,
the bullying torturers,
who are their parents
who go unpunished!

who cares
whose the guit moreover,
all needy for a No, no, No!
the visiuons implanted in my brain,
beg sleep to banish them
from under my drooping eyelids,
but the lightning screams overheard,
infect my eyes,
and the sleep slowed
from
my hopeless prayers of remorse, restitution,
laying bed flat, supplicating
anyone who hears this total body cri,
and no one answers
for the guilt is widespread, broadly shared,
anyone who is parenting,
knows,
the answer will not be forthcoming
and forgiveness will not be granted
by yourself
to yourself
from yourself
for forgiveness
for this
one on the list of multicipity of sins
committed,
is not attainable...

and to sleep,
bit by an asp.
who delivers a certain kind of respite,
perchance, not to dream,
is my only hope...

Saturday,
2/19/25
10:00PM