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yet another odd mysterious penmanship by a soul brother, to me,
he, will remain nameless, and me, as well, though my nomenclature,
my nome, my home, tells so much but not all...though writing and living only love poetry, is my chief preoccupation, it comes most times, too easily and too frequently, or not at all

When one redraws daily the intersecting diagrams,  one of poetry,
one of Love, (which my tablet capitalizes without my asking,)
The overlap is either zero or one, 0 or1, of everything or nothing

this is a puzzlement to me, for I do not fall in love every day, or even twice a week (monthly under discussion), periodically inevitably, they are days of composition, imposition, self – inquisition, when everything is questioned and answers are oft, crazy long, driving everybody crazed, myself, included…

love is splendiferous, and there are believe or not, insufficient
adjectives to capture, captivate, every shade, type, unique or not,
and so the love songs, poems, keep on keepin' on, an onslaught
making  tidal tsunami tiny, all the billions of earthlings, gets one of
their very own, or sad~daily dies a little each day by the worst
of never getting a lick, a whimper, a sideways glance, a touch
even quick and subtle of that "I'm still here,'' quality...

all these musings, amusings, tragedies, as it nears 8:00 am and the early day can be crowned an-end-of summer bathing-beauty-winner,
me, in my special place, where nature reteaches me newly, what is now addressed as mindfulness where of course, is 100% wrong,
for the silence of my surroundings engulfs me, and my mind is emptied, the words spilling, nearly finishing, and the sweet hunger for
nothing more than this in perpetuity, eternally, but alas, midst this
perfected moment that is solely mine, solely minded
by me, is the lurking
incontrovertible knowing, silenced but real,
that this too shall pass
away from when I am gone,
yet, we enjoy it while we can,

can

a three letter word of great power,
my library, is  small but well tended,
mostly cats & dawgs,
mostly dawgs,
exclusively
perhaps
whispers the stubbly face of the old grandpa,
or I'll blow fierce little airs all over your rigidly
pretending-to-be-asleeping cute little facey,
then tickle your kissable little
lips
and make farty noises
for the rest of the day

she, irresistibly, bursts out laughing
like the roaring lioness she be,
whose cubs might be threatened,
and laughingly squeals, oh poppy!
it's all your fault, you grumpy old poet,
you made me put the *** in my
peej's!

and how his son,
the father,
on permanent overwatch,
growls below annoyingly,
"great,
now we'll be late,"
and
threatens to tell the
attractive single second grade teacher,
upon whom
he has a semi-secret crushing,

to which
we two devils scream out,
"oh please, oh please"
knowing she will find it quite
charming, and maybe even him,
tooing,
the single attractive father-man
who, could be ripe for a
twoing
><
and poppy twinkles,
thinking that no
matter what you
call it,
that thing,
is all-around and
in~between us while
he changes the young lady's
sheeting
these tempting and tumultuous  times,
when the insect bite of attraction nibbles
your cheek, and first blood thickens with
intrigued,
the blood heated by, with a bewildering new sun's glow,
then bubbling boiling
over
with phantasmagorical fantasies,
and one endeavors to coax, to tease,
to preen, to adduce how best to ******,
this persona, imagined or imaginary to be,
whispers a silent "no thankee''
and first bloom curls into a deathly brown doom,
you,
chastened by amorous hastening so quick evolving,
and the hither in come here, withers to a ghostly silencing,
one wonders, reminisces, and sadly recalls then forgets
the entreaties so eagerly received, how one wants to be
deceived,
for the once lay-buried-arousals now well recalled,
and quick to appear, faster to dismiss disappear,
and disaster cones and goes with light-speed velocity,
having fling,
now flung,
having crushed,
now crushing,
you caught laughing at your self,
still evolving long past the time
for youthful deceptions and silly indiscretions,
but not unhappily, for it was an acknowledgement
that good love poetry yet within resides, alas, alas,
it reciprocity seeds need replanting, and that notion
is quite pleasing...
9/13
Little bird
Liking
Lessie,
Lessie
Layout
Longitude
Loose
Towards
Lawyer?­
                   - Amisha priya
When the rain falls,
I'll be there.
When the storm comes,
I'll cover your ears.

When everything feels dark,
I'll be there to light it up.
When the clouds grow stormy,
I'll add a little sunshine.

I'll be there through the pain,
And in moments of laughter and joy,
We’ll stick together through thick and thin,
And together, we will conquer anything
Grief as an interlude.
The in-between performance.
Where shoeless days, wandering forests—
meet
black-dressed, paired farewells.

Where velvet curtains close and draw,
a symphony has long prepared
(for you).

Percussion slices into silence.
Clarinets hum in minor tune.
The bass joins in—they’ve been appointed.

Welcome to Grief’s Interlude.

The music plays now just for you.
Regret takes center stage.

What wasn’t said.

“What could I do?”

The music begins to fade.
I guess it’s time we see the view
from our heart’s balcony.

Crossing legs and leaning in—
anticipating more…
A special place for all our kin
is bursting from our core.

Cymbals reach the back of room.
The flutes play loud and low.
The composer pulls a handkerchief—
tears and sweat compel this show.

You feel so sorry.
You feel alive.
You feel memories—sharp and sore.
They’re taking bows.
The act has closed.
Another’s passing through death’s door.

Welcome to Grief’s Interlude.
Grief doesn’t arrive as a finale—it slips in between the acts.
This poem imagines loss as a performance
An abandoned cathedral
where I drag my soul to repent for my
𝙋𝙚𝙧𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨.
A lady appears in a wedding gown-
I feel like I am 𝙥𝙪𝙧𝙚 again.
Her dress turns 𝙧𝙚𝙙. She turns her head—
and wicked reads her eyes.
I face my fear and go too near to find that she’s gone 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙙.
She disappears and then appears a puny  𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙙𝙤𝙬-𝙙𝙤𝙡𝙡.
It chases me, I trip, I fall, they drag me to a hall.

“𝘕𝘰! 𝘔𝘺 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴!”

I wake up-
deep breath & sweat.
I wonder of what it meant…
To dream of
𝙢𝙮 𝙧𝙚𝙥𝙚𝙣𝙩.
This poem came from a dream — part confession, part confrontation.
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