I'm not a seasoned poet
As standards go
I have neither the will nor wit
To assemble words that exhale
Sensuous truths of beauty
I have been tossed in poetry's net
To serve and protect its fate
I'm not sharp enough
To detect Moon's climb
For I'm not Archibald MacLeish
I'm no master metaphorician
To equate yellow fog to a cat
For I'm not T.S. Eliot
I'm just here to release the waves
That load my pen to barrage
Their organic ammunition
I cannot delve into the dark show
As smooth as Edgar Allen Poe
I'm not one to sing of love, of wine
For I'm no Rumi nor khayyam
I can't settle music's dust
For I'm not Robert Frost
I can only write what I'm taught
By the shadow rulers of Art
If Yeats is awake
And Shakespeare watching
If Whitman, Dickinson, Keats
And the rest of the sublime ones
Happen to be espying
They would regard me
As an underling
And that would be a win
For I shall never reach
Their poetic spin.

Time is not a line nor a road,
It doesn't pass by in equal integers:
It grows,
Swells,
Accumulates-
In small moments,
Gets caught in the reefs.
larger pools for more prominent moments.
Boundless depth in a singularity.

To see through the eyes of a dead man,
In a moment long past,
Forget the small,
Happy,
Tranquil,
Streams.
Waves career from the bigger ones,
Crashing into my small boat.

To be cast from the hull
And sink in the singularity,
Be consumed,
Drown.

A moment doesn’t pass,
It clings,
Accumulates.
Swipe at the water,
Seeping in,
Try and throw it out,
Before another wave…

The time we spent
Continues to consume,
It swells,
And dwells
In the foreground,
Always.
Time does not pass by,
It is here,
Screaming,
Just as it always has been,
Growing.
Haunting.

I don’t think that I can bare
To accumulate anymore of our time.
My lungs are full,
I have choked on the untameable mass of the lamenting sea.

Genuine like a child
Candid like an open book
Exotic like The Wild
Reassuring like a second look

THE BIG HAPPY EVER AFTER

( in ego Nursery Rhyme vixi )

She was one cool chick.
Dressed -  très chic.

She curved in all the right
places - if ya get my drift.

Her name was Miss Dumpty.

Claimed her father Humpty
had been pushed - taken the fall

for some Mr. Big and
got his.

I remembered the case.

His smile was cracked...yoke all over
his face..legs scrambled at an unnatural angle.

The autopsy pics
made me sick.

Said she had gone to Sam *****
to dig up dirt.

But no dice.
Sam's paid..he's off the case.

She spat the name out
with a thanks-for-nothing look.

"So. I came to you.
See what you can do!"

"What's in it for me!"
I smirked.

"Me!" she clucked
in a Linda Darnellish way.

Turned out it was
Little Boy...would ya believe it...Blue!

Jealous of Humpty's
easy said-ness and how he

got recited more often than
Mr. B. Blue.

Nursery Crime is increasing
so they tells me.

Too many modern authors
making ***** parodies..

Or in the *****
Limericks Business.

Scaring the kiddies away.
Putting the frighteners on parents.

Me and Miss Dumpty?

We're going for the big happy
ever after!

Your breath gets taken
your chest is tight.
you try to grasp
with all your might
the world gets dark the light is gone.
you wonder what you did wrong.
is this the end is life really ending 
you start to reflect on all the pretending
then all of a sudden with a mighty gasp.
you get your breath back. oh gosh. at last.
your heart rate lowers you're finally back.
thank God it was just a panic attack.