train myself to write anywhere and at any time...
as commissioned by ms. melan
~'~'~'~'~

so I, being a being,
a poet who carries his mind scheming
with him:
drags along his body and soul,
just in case:

that his hands might feel the touch of
beauty, skin and beyond,
the exteriors of his interiors,
to feel, to feel, to feel
every one of his surfaces,
the reality of his peculiar real

his eyes so one can envision the unimaginable,
and thus, never be satisfied,
for all is
always new,
beyond original

that his ugly, ungainly ears,
may never miss the sound of his tripping & falling
head!over!heels with the realization,
he just might be foolishly
in love

the tastes of life's living that
make his pulse race,
crease his smiling face,
causing his blood pressure so high
he pleads to surrender,
just begging to let his tongue
survive

and smells that arouse,
producing & promising
words proud &  profound,
that have yet to succeed
in capturing
the fullness
of the
special musk odor
that masks
allure of attraction

no, not a lot to ask for…

5:26am
SunSep13
two zero two five

utters is
Ma~Ma;
until,  some day,
you say ok, enough,
and acknowledge and satisfy her
overwhelming craving;

be assured,
the father is no different,
for after Ma~Ma,
they will indoctrinate you
with the concept of equality,
and Da~Da will be pronounced
shortly, thereafter,
probably twice as much when ma-ma is not around

so Colby,
rest easy, be assured,
both your parents were & are
perfectly
normal

and it emits a cry, of sudden surprise,
a howl for the hole in its roundtable tummy,
when it pleads for knowing, for it knows not of
knowledge, why this light comes, who bids it enter,
and why this entity they call mother,
has all the answers required,
and why the father,
moves so
stealthy
to hug
them
both
and
squeeze them together

7:33am
Sat Sep 11
2025

in the babies room,
in the keep

a silent metronome,
we know exactly when,
when sleep pleads us enter,
and when it bids us adieu,
when we growls for sustenance,
or begs for plenty of the mercy
of emptiness to cleanse our void,
when to compose,
when to repose,
when to dispose,
and when tempos dictate
lay down child,
fallow!

but its greater feat,
when sounds the bells of alarm,
when need is greatest,
for arms embraces,
wet lips to refresh,
bodies to synapse,
eyes require delight,
when needs be greatest,
for that very first infant step
to what can only be ever felt,
but is otherwise undefinable,
for another
+to make us complete,
a unity, an,
us+

come to us in twilight, and just before sunrise,
in the in between times, when souls exit and enter.
through microscopic cosmic windows, and there
is nothing but you and the full emptiness of earth
and then! fill our void with words as yet unborn,
and aid all our passages from nether to glory...
for you, we, await...for guidance inherited from
visions of greater-than-us metamorphosis
nat


<>
upon first awakening and reaffirmation of life,
reading the first poem of the day
6:59am
Sabbath
Sep 13
2025

"you have the power to inundate,
pro-create as you initiate the young
with the magic of your words." ^
<>
awake, askew, at just past midnight,
reread these worded cords with no deliberate haste,
as is not my wont,
no smile and drive~by for these privileged privies,
that unknowingly wrench and divvy my parts

no, theses require forethought,
deliberation,
there will be no outpouring,
there is no need,
this is not a crack to be slow filled with a potter's
artisan gold,
but a cutting that highlights continental divides,
wounded spaces and pain,
for which no glossing over can easy relieve,
each word a chosen well

for you make your own Grand Canyons,
in this life,
chasms that render, sunders with a constant but
invisible echoed thundering,
off /of my soul,
turned my persona, physical and intellectual,
into a walking, though awaking of the deadening
of a personal failure, a fail~you~are,
that cannot be undone, and now, out loud,
alone in the dead of night, in the construct of early mourning,
yes, in the sunroom where there is no sun nor son,
I weep openly at
words that should not have been
so tenderly and sweetly,
tendered to me

inundate,
I know this word,
better than most,
for grief is an old acquaintance
that you want to keep at a good distance,
for when it in-un-dates you,
you, visibly marked,
a cheekbone or two crushed,
a limp with no raison d'etre
and a chest pain, no pill can bring to
heel

for I am a centuries old grief,
and the inundation I speak of,
is the loss of child,
who has divided his living cells from my mine~mind

how oft, what is plainly visible,
is missed, goes dot unconnected,
this pulsing compulsion to lift the chin of the beginners in life,
whose sorrowed demeanor, complected temperament,
incompleted confusions,
can sometimes be so easy swatted,
encouraged away, and sometimes not,
but openly pleads for compassionate leave,
an easy helpful nudge away from
from the riptides of growing up,
& growing lower...

so my wonderful life is not so wonderful,
and my bad posture bent over is not from laziness,
my surgically repaired ventricular machina,
is more than a physical symptom, just a ticking clock
that solves for the quantity of beats of
busted opportunities

outside, an owl,
perched in a nearby acorn growing giant.
whom we have never seen,
for darkness, his/her palatial estate, hiding place,
hoots with no regularity,
a derisive hooting,
thinking I am too, asking for compassionate leave,
'but I am not

some five, nearly six decades ago,
a young songwriter wrote:

"Teach your children well
Their father's hell did slowly go by
Feed them on your dreams
The one they pick's the one you'll know by"^^

this never just passes by,
for its arrow is a permanent implantation in mine,
and the owl just hoot hoot hoots with the stubbornness of
an unhappy chile^^^

so I see now,
how I overcompensate,
and without a knowed thought,
extend a finger, an arm.
an entire tired life,
to
initiate, pro-create
the younger ones, (1)
but this still,
does not,
nor ever will it,
rhyme with
expiate

this, my very own
9/11,
and that other one,
which I experienced,
as well...


2:03am
Thu Sep 11
Twenty Twenty Five
<nml>

now, I rest, for how long?

"lie still and let it wash over you, the was and is and soon to be.
How frightening yet effervescent the next 24 hours. The lust, and musts of future days revert to the ancient past..."
patty m.
><
the irony!
when I am stilled,
the effervescence of me
unbounded, unleashed, and the torrential rain
of words fulfilling and departing from my interior

I am
a Grand Central Station
of trains labelled
"the was and is and soon to be''

all moving in an unscheduled mayhem,
but never crashing. never accidenting,
only accenting my racing against time,
my oldest and fiercest Super Villian,
and one just knows, never can you beat time,
time, that old rascally up his sleeve card magician,
who when shuffling the deck,
he knows
what was,
what is,
and here his red eyes gleam with satisfaction,
soon to be...

He and I,
old familiar adversaries
addicted to living.
never leave the table,
never leave a *** or
a poem on the felt,
and having always felt,
firm believed,
there will always be one more,
one more gamble, another day,
to write another poem
and turning my cards over
to reveal, to revel,
in my Royal Flush of creativity,
when time, smiling face,
with his
wild card,
**** time,
who trumps me for
it,
in possess of a Five-of-a-Kind(1)

~'
and the new players,
the young poets,
slap me on the back,
saying I had a great run,
but they don't know 'bout my
secret stash,
preprogrammed to appear,
long after these fingers
cease their tangled tango of tap dancing,
my dust,
my lusts and musts
will unstilled yet be
blowing, floating in the
soon to be
so ha!
                         nml
6:30am
Wed Sep 10
Twenty Twenty Five