Ocean has tides
Ocean takes a slave
Slave to money
Slave to power
Power over people
Power to control
Control the life
Control my love
Love your world
Love earths nature
Nature is pure
Nature has flaws
Flaws are here
Flaws are perfect
Perfect dates exist
Perfect isn’t hard to reach
Reach for the stars
Reach for hearts
Hearts are for love
Hearts are for emotion
Emotion makes you feel
Emotion breathes life
Life is a gift
Life may recycle
Recycle the trash
Recycle to be clean
Clean your home
Clean everything
Everything exists
Everything is creation
Creation is you
Creation feels
Feel it
Feel the breeze
Breeze through life
Breeze by
By the way
By your side
Side with me
Side of the sea
Sea spray
Sea decay
Decay is rot
Decay means bye
Bye my love
Bye from above
Above the world
Above the crowd
Crowd
World

August 20th, 2011

Pink and white hothouse lilies
parfume the atmosphere
of our summer retreat,
the shelter upon our island redoubt.

Their scent, a scentry,
posted to guard against
the oranges and reds,
the piano notes of fall,
the ivory whites of winter,
the iconic colors of the
seasons of responsibilities.

Lock the doors.

Preserves of
oranges, peach and lemon,
summer fruits,
preserve my calm!

Mingle well
with the other summer's fruited sweets,
cherries, black berries, caramel,
all, ally thyself with salt air
and do thy fragrant work!

Ferry away, banish,
the wardens of the
workweek jail, like only
summer garden colors
and sun-rays can.    

Still yourself,
be calmed, becalmed,
there is no breeze,
tis but mid-August
and the grill still awaits
your further command.

Long days and humid nights
bid you drink red rosés,
and summer lemoncellos,
chilled to accompany
the sweet summer corn
covered in salty butter.
drink the jus of the
summer sea's bounty,
saltwater berries, seasonal delights.

But you know better.

Stepping outside,
you are tree felled,
senses red alerted
by hints, whiffs
of the odor of change,
a piano refrain.

Acorns in August?

Can't be, won't allow it,
that slight chill, dispatch it,
won't let go yet of
sun tanned lotion notions,  
and legalized
summer laziness.  

Beneath my flip~flops,
acorn shells irritatingly crunch,
uninvited guests,
they are the peas I feel
under the mattress and bed,
contaminating my head,
while I lay  cloaked beneath,
my summer weight comforter.

Too late.

Back to school flyers
litter the driveway and infest
the Sunday papers.
I am defeated,
my senses tingle,
at the sight of these
changeover secretions.  

Sap of the maples is acoming,
the Paul Revere warning
of Redcoated leaves soon to
invade my bay's sandy shores.

Come my friends,
be courageous
and of good faith.

One more time, unto the breach!
One more time, unto the beach!

Tho our armor of golden tan
will of necessity rust red by cold bitters,
the summer of our poetry,
recorded, will forever live.

Even tho summer's demise
draws near, its death most glorious and not in vain,
when we lay spent and slain
after our approaching defeat,
apres the Battle of
Labor Day,
We still have our body,
Our poems, summer crafted,
The cello and the piano
Reminding those few left to listen.
<•>
mid august suicidal
August 12, 2017

to the facts:
suicidal thoughts come as regular as a
teenager pimple

weekends summer sun burns the skin,
the inner gloom,
so that I just make from the
Monday to Friday bookends
of grey cloud doom, barely opened eyes

the acorns peas under the bed's mattress,
my summer-brain pod irritants
are
freshly arrived, fully ensconced,
antibiotic resistant sob's,  
the colored newsprint of hateful
back to school flyers still haunt and clog
the sinking sunking sinking
waste disposal

the newest indignity,
the emails proclaiming
end-of-summer better hurry
drink up those three cases of pink rose wine
down in the chilling basement

not a bad idea in *** actuality

nothing kills like suicide and
nothing kills suicidal thoughts
like a three week drunk
starting now

the truth burden just got harder;
Adagio for Strings, Opus 11,
whispers stay thy hand


~~~

Caesar Has No Authority Over The Grammarians*
(Caesar non supra grammaticos)*


I am licensed to drive.
I am licensed to broke.
I am licensed to be birthed.
I am licensed to marry, divorce and someday I will be
coroner-permission"end" to die.

If I so choose, I can be state approved to cut your hair,
have my own business, weld, own a dog, panhandle, play tennis in Central Park, dance in my own cabaret, even commit suicide legally.

These United States were a refuge for my foreign born parents,

Bless you both for privileging me such,
you gifted me a country where my voice, clear and unashamedly,
unguarded can speak here unafraid, for our
Caesar has no authority over the grammarians.
Tho the IRS gonna come after me, and king phony Barack,
Gonna eavesdrop on my privacy,

As long as I can write my poetry free and clear, untaxed,
won't ever mortgage my soul to any government hack
I will carry my U.S. passport in my left pocket over my heart,
Till they take my freedom to speak away.

Then I will get a gun for free speech is worth dying for...

The Mysteries Between

You all write, ponder the story of your heartbeats,
The signal beacons, the lighthouse beam of your existence,
Playing with emotions, fooling around with notions of cease and desist,
Russian roulette

I wonder about the mysteries of the silences,
Between the beats.
What happens in that momentary space,
When you cannot say I am alive?

So her is the answer.

That!s right.
Her is the answer.
That's when your lover sneaks in, climbs aboard,
And holds your heart with palm-lined hands plein d'life-lines,
So long may you live together in harmony,
And cracks that may appear from time weary woes,
Are kept from spreading and endangering her object's desire.

Know you now.
Now you know,
It is in the silences that the true joining is confirmed.
Which is why I call her,
My Wonder Woman..

The Summer Alphabet of Woman

Every summer, I learn a new language.
Every winter, it departs for warmer climes,
And its charms and naked arms, its own alphabet,
clean forgot.

Multi-lingual in the summer's peculiar
One language, one aleph bet,
But mega-millions of dialects,
Know them all cold, know them all, hot.

I speak Woman.

Summer is soft, shapely, sweet,
Clean, bare, lush in a sparse way,
And Woman is spoken thusly.
There are no harsh sounds,
Guttural exclamations, nein!

I speak Woman.

There is no ugly in the summer.
Ugly being an ugly word.  
It cannot exist in an atmosphere of
Sun, greenery, sand, carefree days, vacations, no school.
There are no ugly women in the summer.

I could take this writ many places,
But if you are sputtering sexist or other labeling words,
Could not give a good *******, because in the summer,
There is no ugly, there is no prejudice.

And I still speak
Woman with an almost perfect fluency,
au naturel.

Gym clothes, short shorts, A-line skirts swishing in the breeze,
High, god, so high the heels, flats clip clopping, flip flopping
all over my heart,
But, it is the bare arms and the hints of summer
Cleavage, the short skirts, body hugging one piece fabrics
stretching from here to down there that does not
Hint,
the shoulder strap of the underthings that asks,
that commands me,
to wonder where it leads too...

Even the light wrap at night mocks me,
Like gift wrapping with a smile demure...a teasing blindfold...

All these say:
Write us poetry in our very own tongue,
Woman.

Will oblige.

I curve with curve of the ***** and
invert with  S arc of the waist,
Mystifying, how it is the designed place
For my hands to grasp, and never fails.

The crayola colors of flesh variations,
Boggle the senses... How can tan  and pale,
Dark and Light
Have so many
Symphonic variations?
Adagio, slow and leisurely, a pas de deux
For two eyes, then a
Timpani crash and thunder, as
Byron wrote,
"music arose with its voluptuous swell,"
Yes, swell...swell...swell

Enough.
My eloquence, no match for my
Fluency.

Late August, and my vocabulary is already
Diminishing.
I forget how to say in
Woman
Without you I am nothing,
With you, I am more than everything,

Tho I can no longer say it,
It is is still true and
Beyond belief.