I urge you to put in
An abundance of thought,
Is there resemblance of the rational in what you've wrote?
The ropes are taut, caught in a knot
Of the mind besot. Break out the raincoat,
Over skin lepidote does cashmere run like the water. Its moves are rote, yet nature is mute
To those who have no want to listen.
You crave the fire but hate the smoke,
If not for the purpose it served
You'd ***** out every spark
And never let it burn.
That candle on the mantle,
Over the roaring hearth;
Fair knowledge & justice blaze the wick
Of which is human.
And even in deluge, the flame billows-
For there is nothing to put it out.
Your thinking otherwise is simply hubris.

What will the horizon bring us?
I wonder,
Can you feel my heart?
In dawns of days gone,
In coming eves of twilight;
When I said
I shall always love you,
I meant it.
And days now start
Within a sky where there is no sun,
Within the dark of night, no stars;
Inside of me there is light
All formed from the memories
Of two kids in love, young.
Spiderwebs still entrap
Yet the venom is tapped-
How I wish I was still poisoned.

<>
it’s not even 6am, restless night, or wrestled night, ain’t much difference, see the **** geese on the water’s edge, I dutifully slip out of bed, awakening no one, dutifully slide in to my slip-on sneakers, grab the white umbrella next to the front door, dutifully, steadily, my first chore of the day, walk deliberately (and carefully) to make them get them get heck away, into the sound, and to cease polluting the grass where children may play…

standing at the waters edge, task finished, the sky commands examination, there is within the cumulus textured, multi-pastel, thick curdled pastiche cloud banks, overhanging the world as far as one can see, a substantive hole appearing in the sky revealing a blue heaven….what one believes, prefers should be, but what is, in fact,
not a…given and we are a but, partly cloudy day, a partly clouded observant person…

this reminds me that there are holes in all places, everywhere, in my disturbed sleep,  where I spend hours of triangulating in dreams, what I cannot pin down:

who I am, what I am, my purpose on earth, though I know where
I am, though not even, most critically, why I am…

is this a poem?

this thoughtful cursed query sits behind my eyes, frontally lobed, perpetually asking, judging me, these words, repetitiously heard,
one is not fooled,
it is a simple self-evaluation test, only an ask,
what are my justifications, ma raison d'être,
(reason for being) which is an amuse, for I discover

in French, ‘reason for being,’
is a feminine word,
(qui en Français,
c'est un mot féminin…)
and that makes me smile,
for I’m a woman-centric man

(I have no gender confusion,
this is not one of the holes
to which I refer)

perhaps it is, or, perhaps it is a rambunctious rambling of no worth, for no answers are obtained, given, deduced, and holes, skyward and inward are deep, none delimited by neither bottom or a top, just widening gaps and gapes in my existence…and answers are not
forthcoming…

<>

5:50am
Thursday July 18
Year Two Thousand and Twenty Four

The words were never ours,
Sentiments and sentences
Sediment from fallen stars.
Spoken once upon the start
Before concepts were a concept
When all was nothing,
All was dark.
Before dark was a thing,
Or no thing,
Before meaning had meaning,
Or a universe to dream.

Suddenly.

Like an almighty sneeze,
Came space and time and similes,
Metaphors, mistakes, and mystery
Supernovas, hangovers, hyperbole
All within the blink of an eye.
(Yet to be created)
The words were solid, stoic, patient
Content to spend eternity waiting
Forever fated to play the patron
Of a thousand dying worlds.
Until such time you called its name,
Until the first time it was heard.

When this mortal frame does falter,
If there be left a body still to burn
Cast my ash from the cliffs of Dover
For on the winds I shall return.
Though my soul may be lost to water,
Bones bleached and turned to dust
My heart will soar across the forests
Climbing mountains in the dusk.
Then as the daylight rises
And darkness gives way to light
I will cast these eyes, one last time,
Across the shores of life.

Be the recluse,
Be the hermit,
And make your assessments of others
Based on short and fleeting interaction,
Drenched in the sweat of "purpose" & "agenda,"
And be met with statements
Which really convey nothing and rarely
Encapsulate honest thought in brevity
But are said only to end the conversation.
Close knit,
The threads choke,
Living your turtleneck life.
No collar to be turned up,
The cotton already hugs your throat;
Nothing to end abrupt,
That which never saw its start.
Those who talk
Simply to hear themselves,
Do they have anything to say?
Those with the blinders on,
They never see the entrance ramp
Neither the turn-offs
Till it's too late.