Love is
a good thing
when frosted coated with
passionate kisses.
Without them kisses,
it’s like kissing your parents
on the
lips;
meaningful but not pleasurable
Oct 10, 2020
Oct 10, 2020 at 12:44 PM UTC
Subtle
~for Sally~
there is no escaping it.
to write of subtle,
one must be blunt,
forthright,
direct,
write with no subtlety.
there is no way, impossible, to capture the fine single threads required
to weave a tapestry of bold and delicate intertwined, of depth and
surface, of a droplet of water shining outstanding in a sea of harsh
blather.
there is bold, there is pale. they can coexist, perhaps even
heighten each other.
but subtle is a delicacy, a single thread, a standard rarely achieved.
which is why this poem makes no pretense at subtlety.
Aug 21~22
2020
Aug 22, 2020
Aug 22, 2020 at 7:48 AM UTC
هر دو بی فرزند هستیم (متفاوت)/we are both childless, differently
——————————————————————————
*let us not ask each other or god
the why, just how life worked out
and maybe by a choice unconfessed*
~
yet we both lie.
~
you possess thousands of offspring,
tend to their every need, breast feed
them water, special nutrients, stroking
their leaves, worry about their viruses,
you, dying just, a little, when, one rooted
looks up and says, “I am dying mother,
thank you for your love.”
~
my ***** produced two men,
each now, differentially,
lost, lost to me, and daily
privately, in word and wet,
weep my losses, for what
is a man who had children,
but goes down into his grave
gray haired, with none in
attendance to refill the soil
that his grave grayed body
requires to
hide his wasted,
childless
life.
Jul 25, 2020
Jul 25, 2020 at 8:52 AM UTC
Love: “and I know not if I sink or swim”
Love:
here’s how I see it;
everybody should have the
ability to walk around with
two sign optionality:
1. No vacancy
2. Open: (all rooms have A/C & cable)
never be disappointed; you know what you’re getting up front
and for an extra fee
3. credit cards Not Accepted
Jun 21, 2020
Jun 21, 2020 at 5:27 PM UTC
six trees gathered, a single stand,
looking for a gathering, standing of four more,
a prayer circle to make, branch to branch
holding onto each other, to have their bark better
heard, the question on the table, today’s agenda:
why must trees die?
overheard their human querying same, the proud trees
too, puzzled, sending their inquiry to the heavens that
feed them never failing, water to quench a rooted deep
thirst, their role, job description well understood, purposed
to shade the world, give off fruit, so tasked, so asked:
why must trees die?
Caught the busy Lord unawares, dealing with seasonal pandemics,
endemic hatred from the frailings of human weakness, who honor
pretense by their mouth moving, but don’t believe their enunciation,
oh! tiresome battlefront, millions of casualties inflicted on each other,
Lord could not countenance another self-interested questioning of his earthly architecture
why must trees die?
on a beautiful paradisal day, cumulus whites decorating a blue coloratura that never be quite replicated, quieting, five-sense waters at ease, minimal moving, lunching noon hour,the birds, insects, rabbits all retired to cooling reservoirs, munch, gnaw, pollinate, yet the trees misjudge the sun dial iris quietude in the manger, the grove, as the Lord’s good graceful forgiving demeanor, therefore shocking, disbelieving the unforgiving ruthlessness of a deity of love, so the
cracking of a single bolt of punishing, purposed lighting, that knocked all the trees down, single blow, roots embruing, ember glowed, a “sounding” the world hears unoften, unremitting, not understanding its other-worldliness, so rare appearing when an actualized answer is returned, declarative, tangible, glorious words:
because I am who I am, The Eternal, alone, who keeps the imperfect balance of all my creations, without oversight, asking only from them
acceptance of things beyond earthly comprehension...
Jun 6, 2020
Jun 6, 2020 at 8:20 AM UTC
what is the what, this simplicity, the great difference?
~~<>~~
he reads certain words,^ then
the poet uncovered, stumbles upon, a rhythmic bearing, provoked,
his own bearing now lost in contemplation, exits the cottage, wandering on the always wet grass, observed by animal menagerie,
espy him watchfully, a human directionless wanderer wondering, asking himself the meaning of it all, knowing answers reserved not him
we celebrate subtlety, process the minutiae of extracting an exactitude of the precious précis of each momentary why, only when he honest confesses his ineptitude, can he truly begin to pluck words from the airy atmosphere to assemble them in format that mines the great difference in everything, the differential veins
the creatures, unshy, wish to contribute, suggesting editions, subtractions, this turn, this twist, this nuance, always clarifying, valuing utility beauteous, making the meaning perfectly clear in ways that make you gasp at words, their powerful, to define, then refine, then just plain be, be fine, finding, exploiting, drawing freehand the lines of distinction exacting***
this great differences
~~<>~~
^
“and next to nothing is everything, all worth knowing,
you, write my poetry, as I write of you with breathless
ease and comfort, for the thoughts of all men in all
ages and lands, are original to where our eyes espy
each other, where our lips kiss to cross, cross to kiss,
what is the what, this simplicity, the great differences?”
Jun 6, 2020
Jun 6, 2020 at 12:28 AM UTC