A Man In Search of His Style
It so happens to be June.
It so happens that the picture window
Frames a contented, bay lit, full moon.
Searched for an answer lifelong
A devolving, lilting song refrain:
Man what is your tune,
What's your style, finally?
Examined so many rooms,
Tried out different beds,
Jumbled now, assorted, some sordid,
Some long winded, florid,
Some cursive, cursory and accursed,
Some so bitter-filled I shared them not
Lest I infect you, a sin in F major...
Love poems galore, and yet to come,
Some seriously desperate suicidal,
Some ditty, even a mite witty,
Some eurythmic, most free versed,
Rhyming is where you start,
Free verse when you're all grownup,
But all this delay, begs the question,
What's your style, conclusively?
Con-cluded, cannot be all things,
Took the con to ascertain the
Truest course of my abilities
At Port Serenity,
I write what I see,
A head lifted from pillow,
A seconds-long act of inspiration duration
Becomes in moments,
a fully formed poetic inclination curation
Literally my eyes see words awaiting coordinating,
Poems flying by, needing plucking,
How a child eats his morning cereal,
His rituals informing, of the man yet to be,
How our bodies lay, hair unbrushed,
Tying us into a conjoined knot
T'is the mundane, the profane of every action,
Makes my lips move, personalized prayers framing
Perhaps this is a condemnation of sorts,
Ordinary things might bake ordinary poem cakes,
Residue of an ordinary man, an ordinary poet makes
So be it, tomorrow is a farther day, when
My vocabulary may be a word greater, lesser,
But knowing now that the spring source topical
Fills a well so deep, so close nearby,
I rejoice, mineral springs, waters of inspiration, plentiful
No matter that plain words are my ordinary tools,
With them I shall scribe the small,
Cherish the little, grab the middle,
Simplicity my golden rule,
Write they say, about what you know best,
Surely in the diurnal motions,
The arc of daily commotion,
Do we not all excel?
For this, if be, my gift meager,
I, on blended knee, freely embrace eager,
Promising you that life ordinar,
Together we shall celebrate'
Fully, and most fair.
June 15th, 2013
take me to the fair this summer,
let’s be children for a day—
hold my hand on that ominous yet beckoning pendulum ride,
kiss me on the spinning spaceship
where gravity has unwound for a few lovely minutes.
we can watch the midnight fireworks;
we can turn back the clock,
and then turn it forward again when we get home
and you sleep with me,
setting my innocence free for a while,
but don’t worry! it will return soon enough,
because we are basically adults—
almost, but not quite yet—
and because we are basically children—
barely, but not quite anymore.
‘basically,’ ‘not quite,’
what strange words they are,
there and not there, yes and no—
they are contradictions, just like us.
we are enveloped in that gawky overlap,
barely stumbling across that unsteady middle ground,
but we do it.
and it is marvelous.
I wish for a fair trade
Given to us by birth
An exchange of one for another
To give and get equal worth.
Perhaps this is greedy
Perhaps this is wrong.
But if a choice could be given
I'd be where I belong.
See, I don't belong here
Stuck with drama and thought.
I wish I could be different
But humanity's what I caught.
But if I could make a trade.
For something who's worth is the same,
I'd chose the wings, the flight.
Than to be stuck here; earthbound and tame.
To lift off into the beauty of birds
To give my humanity instead.
No pain, no worries, no cares
Anxiety gone, with dread.
Yet fair this would be,
For I'd lose as well.
I'd lose all the good things,
Memories, family, love's spell.
So maybe it's a fair trade that I seek
To escape from Gravity's grasp.
But still, here I am, and forever I'll wish
For that fair trade that'll come at long last
The first thing went through my mind when I
saw a beautiful woman was.
1. what does she taste like. Her skin. her mouth. that spot right behind her ear. just inside her ear.
The soft curve of her neck. Her shoulders. The junction where breasts meet her arm. That long expanse of her soft belly. Her sweet lips as they parted to allow access. Tart,salty, sweet all combined. I could see myself eating all courses slowly savoring.
2. What does she smell like. Not her shampoo or lotion or perfume or body oils. I mean her pheromones.
that deep unique essence of her.That smell at the base of her neck. under her chin her armpits,the hollows of her elbows. her belly button,her beautiful mound, that simmering potion be it ever so slight or close to overstated as I gradually slid down to Taste. To nibble at her taint and stab gently with my tongue. Her ass. That never- never land of sensual convergence.
3. What does she sound like in various modes. Her voice lilting, high pitched, throaty, nasal. he cadence of her speech. her laugh nervous, content, sing-song. early upon waking.so many undulations and coloration's.
4. What does she think like. concise open, flowing restricted, guarded,untrusting, fair, fearful,provocative, sensual, sexual,cold, shallow, deep,intelligent, smart,vengeful,hurt,
carefree,calculating,ditsy,unsettled, divided, loving,caring,nurturing.
5. Is she Clit or Vag or a combo of both. And what other erogenous hot spots. Which one gets her out of her head and free falling in unabashed ecstasy. Which hollow or crevasse or soft expanse is a fuse. Another ingredient to her potion. how many stimuli could I apply and keep in her sensual Calliope until a thrashing conclusion or a cessation of movement, breathing or sound that will bring her release tumbling down in near syncope.
6. If she had on no lipstick I would imagine her breasts/aereolas/nipples. brown, wide, smooth , bumpy, pink,caramel thick long endless.
7. what comes through her eyes. my god her eyes. That is another universe worth of endless research and
Now I don't do the subconscious speed of light hound dog amalgam.
Now I just see the woman and see the woman again.
All is still applicable but is casual thing. third nature even.
God. Thank you for your gifts.
Words are more than sounds that are born from simple shapes the mouth make, more than mere vibrations that have spilled from your voice box and into the open air.
Words are vessels which can cradle feelings of beauty and happiness.
Other times it can be a syringe which injects poisonous and deadly thoughts into the brain.
I think it is safe to say I have had my fair share of these doses.
I am twenty years old
I have never been in love
I have had my fair attractions
As for true love I have not
I imagine her though
Beautiful too me
I'm not quite sure her name though
Nor have I ever seen her before yet she welcomes me in my dreams
I think if I were to be in love
I'd like to be at the start
The start of something new
Something so pure
As pure as the bright blue sky
With the sun shining bright
Yeah I think that's love
Waking up next to her and seeing something like the sun
Don't get me wrong there are cloudy days
There will be raging storms
I guess in the end I'd like to be at the start
The start of a sunny day
I guess I'd like to be in love
Fay sat with Benedict
on the grass outside
Banks House. He wore
his faded blue jeans,
white tee shirt; she
wore a lemon dress
(one he liked) with
small white flowers.
It was warm, a summery
sun was in the sky,
trains moved over
the railway bridge
just over the way.
She talked of a nun
at her school, who
was strict and carried
a ruler around to hit
the hands of girls who
spoke out of turn.
Benedict sat cleaning up
his six-shooter toy gun,
wiping his handkerchief
over the silvery barrel.
Girls live in fear of her,
Fay said, she creeps behind
them and pokes her
finger into their flesh.
Have a teacher at my school
who pokes with a pencil,
Benedict said, digs it right in,
especially when he’s making
a point about something.
Fay’s eyes caught the sun’s light;
he thought he could see angel’s
playing there. She caught me
over my knuckles last week, Fay said.
Did you tell your parents? he asked.
God no, she said. Daddy would
have beaten me for sure; upsetting
nuns and such. O, he said, he loved
the way her fair hair shone in sunlight,
the way she moved her lips to form words.
He put his gun back in the holster
(the one his old man had given him)
around his shoulder. She spoke of
the mass and the priest who came.
Benedict didn’t know what the heck
the mass was, but he just listened to
her talk, watched her lips make words
like some potter makes bowls.
He studied her hands as she spoke,
how they gestured along with the words;
small hands, thin fingers. He couldn’t
understand how anyone could want
to slam a ruler over such thin knuckles.
She spoke of the Host and that it was Jesus
in the form of bread. He was stumped,
but listened on, taking in her every word,
the sound of the word, the way she
shaped it, the way her tongue seemed
to hold then throw out the word.
Then she stopped and pulled off her
yellow cardigan because of the heat.
He saw on her upper arm, a fading
green bruise, like damaged fruit gone off.
She put the cardigan on the grass,
and talked on about confessions,
about the confessional, how dark it was,
how the priest was hardly
visible through the metal mesh.
Benedict half listened; too concerned
about her bruised fruit flesh.
I love the gap between your teeth
And the dimple on your cheek.
I love the way you touch my hair
And the way you kiss is fair.
I love it when you say my name
You say it with passion then , I'm tamed.
I love the way you hold my hand
It makes me feel I'm the only one.
Your caress makes me shiver,
Your smile makes me weak.
The list may be short so far
But I have a lifetime to discover coz' we'll never be apart.
You’re a meadow like Death Valley and I’m sick of this drought.
This love is like a labyrinth, with too many traps and too much doubt.
I’ll never be enough for you, but you also don’t deserve me.
I’m either thirsty or I’m drowning, it’s the desert or the sea.
It’s true what they say:
nothing gold can stay.
I gave you a second chance, and you burned it like a bridge.
For a girl who doesn’t care for you and probably never did.
And now you want me in your life, for no reason but to taunt.
I’m sick and tired of feeling exhausted, my heart is nearly gaunt.
I’m gray inside and probably out, although you haven’t noticed yet.
You’re probably too busy fucking her in your liberal college bed.
I hope she makes you happy, and then she breaks our heart.
Maybe you’ll learn the lesson you’ve needed from the very start.
That probably is cruel of me, but I’m sick of karma’s sleeping.
I never did one wrong to you, but life always has me weeping.
People aren’t playthings, and are not at your dispense.
You’ve lost your goodness and humility, and probably common sense.
I’m walking away free and clear, out of this labyrinth of uneven care.
Maybe my footprints will prove to you how it isn’t fair.
You’ve lied and you’ve cheated and you’ve broken my heart thrice.
And here you are, free and clear, isn’t that so nice?
I hope you live a good, long life, and I hope you do things great.
But I also hope you grow up before it’s too late.
So as you examine all the sand and sea and wonder what went sour,
I’ll be laughing and dancing and feeling alive instead of sobbing in the shower.
Do not take this as bitterness, for I see our past as sweet,
But don’t fuck around with fire if you can’t take the heat.
With your words that made me fly somehow.
But hidden within ur innerself its always been your sweetest lie.
Talking bout your dreams devouring me like ashes twisted and slowly disappearing.
The truth acts like a spirited-away. Letting it fly back to its inside.
There's this always inside of you. Something hidden and somethng blocked. Stopping you from outpouring what's inside.
Mind and heart was in despair. They were always contrary but hearing all! With your honesty, i know there is all the droppin of everythng. All numb but eyes were all blown. I cant stop it.
But all a could say. Everythng was fragile.
Revenge has always been part of the human soul. not in its anatomy form or any interior or exterior aspects.
But functioning with its own parts.
Its the anger! Where it all starts. Jealousy and hurt were the main stream and always end to suffering.
Thats all for love. We'd all be needing for us to feel even.
Just a pinch of happiness just to get fair for someone that we love but did somethng wrong within us breaking us. Attacking every tiny vessels which in the end, Turning us into an evil creature.
It was a buss - telling me it was that simple thing. Not to make it more bigger. But lets end this up.
Still it hurts,... Still. Its another woman. Such senstivity arising.