The hammer is falling, my fists are clenching and teeth gnashing while my bones are crunching. Waves of pain are crashing, breaking. The voices are calling but no one is there, not even myself. The blood is pumping, aided by adrenaline dumping. The lack of the drug is inducing my mind to start seizing, both my legs are freezing, involuntarily quaking. The sensation of claws are slashing my back. As my heart keeps thumping, pumping and jumping. Now my blood is pooling. So the attack dogs keep drooling. They smell the blood and begin to whip into a frenzy. I jump up and start running, because the dogs, when hungry are very cunning. I was moving fast as if I had wheels, but one dog was much faster and now nips at my heels. The dog bit my foot so I tripped and then fell. Now it’s gnawing on my leg and I don’t feel very well. So I patted the dog’s head and then laid down for a spell…will I wake up? Only time will tell.

(and I cannot live
from with-out)

<>
a poem in appreciation to Rossella Di Paolo

<>

I, too:
          - am an embryonic work in progress,
well into my seventh decade, with no ending in sight


                                I too,    
live in the house of poetry, the address likely differs,
but suspect the innards of the houses differs little,
the decor,  quite similar

         - my house shrewdly requests a rethinking,
                                    noting, it lives my artifice,

with in & with out

Then, we are a We:
                                  
          - my cavities house her, She, Poetry is of Ruth (1) born,

          - Poetry, She, reminds me, ”whither thou goest, I will go”


This duality:
          - where the haunting of words providential,
             emanate, both inhabiting & inhibits my breathing
              She, a fearsome creature, a fearful-something,
for it tears me and shreds tears its demands be wrung
from with in to with out

She, Poetry:
          - leaves me gaping, hollow, fills me with
            depressurizing boreholes exposed to the elements  of
            externalities of an admixed atmospheres, that nature demands             be refilled, fresh in, stale out,
for which the artifice trick is knowing which is which

when Poetry’s  birthing:
          - chest pounds, heart-rate beats heavy metal,
            abdomen contracts, there then, no languid in my language,
            no help untangling the alpha-bet jumbling,
            product of the screams of pushing,
squeezing it forth

you’re hoping to quick-catch newly formed combinations,
for if you fail, a poem
noisily crashes to and through the floorboard cracks,
where poetry’s chaotic glinting etes
maliciously glimmer~winks at me
with a sarcastic thank you

“ah, too bad, another creation stillborn,
gone to rest, biting the nether dust,
without hope of resuscitation…”*

just another unfinished work in progress

periodically
a survivor clean caught, transcribed, edited to be finished,
amniotic fluids cleared,
poem resurrected
blessed with eternal life,
readied to be shared and delivered,
affirmed

and you say to no one and to everyone:

this poem will be our poem,
wither it goes, ascending, descending,
all live in the house of poets,
one house,
many apartments,
each poem a god,
and
my God will be our God,
your God, my God,
in the House of Poetry

“Few people know how to take a walk. The qualities are endurance, plain clothes, old shoes, an eye for nature, good humor, vast curiosity, good silence,
and nothing too much.”
—Ralph Waldo Emerson

<>

A late-in-life walker, the words above resonate in my mind,
with a check, check, check, check and a voluble ding, reading

and nothing too much”

many a poem mine labored, birthed arrhythmically walking,
eyes see verses, verses fill the mouth, mind desperate as
the feet unceasingly trod round new corners, new visions,
Emerson’s words remind my well worn weary path daily renewed, a vocabulary child re-newborn, and how to keep all this forever,
until tomorrow, and nothing is everything all too much carried over

and nothing too much”

speaks to an openness in every orifice, be prepared scout-boy,
to adapt to nothing too much as hours earlier now recalled are ancient history, mind staggers at the minuscule differences tween yesterday and this exact moment in this exact place that has been reimagined, deserving of recording, notating, and my desperation struggle to
semi-successfully delineate, report, on all these
mini-magnificent miracles countenanced, overwhelms…

the brain furnaces/furnishes a thousand thoughts, a million worries,
slew of infinity-sized emotions like love of children, so it’s confusing to window-peeking  strangers watching for the walking man with tears pockmarking his cheeks, unaware that his each stride is a story, a unique grace forward and too, backwards, history mine, reviewed, graded, and the comfortable shoes, the old sagging clothes well worn and beloved, fit like gloves, whispering in the good silence,
a lamb sacrifice to the

good silence,
“human, your foibles and deeds, admixture of
blood inherited, a morality crafted by ancestors,
so the next step is
alway$

and nothing too much”* and everything…

Sat Dec10 2023
Shell Beach, Central Park, in my mind, and nothing is perfect

Statuesque, cocooned in a living-goat of many colours,
Fastened by multi-hued cloven hooves,
‘Approach without fear, do not listen to rumours’
‘I am learned in lore and wisdom, a parting gift from the Elves’

I nervously approach, what shall I call you?
‘Name? so many, but call me Mother Earth’
‘I am the embodiment of all that is pure and true’
‘The virtue of flora and faunae from their living-birth’

You knew Elves! I am full of envy and wonder!
‘Yes, for many years, hundreds by your measure’
I once thought I caught a glimpse, made me shudder!
‘Do not try too hard! their spell is dangerous treasure’

Surely not! they are renowned for their kindness,
‘No! the danger lies in your malign-heart’
All I want is a quick peek, I have faith in their goodness,
‘Very well, come back tomorrow, go it is getting dark’

Sunrise beckons, into the woods I eagerly creep,
‘Do your parents know you are here?’
No! they have eyes only for my baby brother! makes me weep!
‘Step into the light, and see what will appear’

Imagine my surprise, before me my sobbing parents,
‘They are distraught, thinking you have been spirited away’
But, I haven’t! I only desire a few moments,
‘Even a brief visit will condemn you to be forever lost and astray’

‘What you see is their perpetual abjection’
‘Your jealousy is corrosive and spells mortal danger’
‘There is a hard choice, Elves and no way back, or their salvation’
‘You forget the intense glow of their love around your manger’

© Rob perspiring-poet