it has been a week
a big week
full of turmoil and upset
goverments dying
to be reborm

people dying to be
something other or else


words spinning, spitting hate
words tripping, traveling around
creating hope and seeding love

flotsam and jetsam
landing on shores
both foriegn and known

big thing going on
going down

...and yet you still have time
to sit and rub my feet
...and I still have time to let you

life continues.....a pace

for Leonard Cohen
RIP*

That holy voice that undid the buttons of dresses
whispered them off shoulders onto the floor;
songs that celebrated the pellucid sky of Greece;
the dark confessions of hustlers and junkies;
Abraham poised with the knife of obedience;
the desperate Hallelujah of broken kings;
razors in the hands of beautiful losers;
generous assignations in dingy hotels;
the singular Glory of the god of Art;
spoken in the minor chords of death;
celebrating the discordant mystery of life;
danced to the very end of love, never missing a step.

from afar
we watch the implosion,
some regard as revolution
others desecration

from afar we watch
the unravelling
the words spooling
upon the floor

we watch sparks fly, hopes die
we watch tears fall, ruck and maul

we watch, disbelief, horror, jubilation
we watch this divided nation..

we watch and pray, we watch and pray
this is the view from far, far away...

it gives my heart ease, to sit quietly
in the corner of your room
and watch you, as you sleep...

i sit in the chair
where not so long ago
you suckled at my *******

and marvel
at how the years have passed
at how you have grown.

i used to hold your feet
in the palm of my hand
and look down
on your little baby face

now you run and play,
you are daddy's little man
and nanna's goodboy
and tom and nates bestest buddy

this is the time,
sometimes the only time,
when i have you
all to myself,
this is the time when i spend
a few moments stolen from the world
to  watch you
curled up into a little ball
this is the time
when my womb calls to me
and i sigh and say;

"he was once ours but now
he belongs to a bigger, brighter place"

this is the time
when i kiss your sleeping brow
and give you
once more into the care of the god's
and then turn and go to bed.

there is a man of
gentle genteel nobility
who writes in quiet
anonimity
words that give the
soul wings to soar

an the is a rough and
ready workman
who writes his life
warts and all
with a pen that
drips literary gems

there are a couple of young guns
ready to change the world
one poem at a time
and one has nailed
the knack of the pithy rhyme
the other a thinker
gears grinding all the time

some, two or three, at life's end
or at least on that very  street
that share wisdom, the art of writing
both joys and defeats
old soldier's in the war of rhyme
defending the bastion
against the tyranny of time..

then there is the man,
such a clever soul
that deals almost soley
in wit and folderol
his pieces have
such a rollicking style
and always cause a chuckle
and sometimes leave you
rolling in aisles

one who delves into
the art of the rondelle
his mastery of the form
keeps me underaliterary spell

I know of a man
to whom sonnets are bread
to him, I take off my hat..
to write iambic pentameter
just does in  my head!

I find myself three shy of the dozen,
not of wont but becuase my head is full
of the many  worthy scribes that could fit the bill

each man who writes of love won or lost,
each man who puts pen to paper
and has paper tossed, toward the round file or floor
each man who writes with simple eloquence
of what is out side his front door,
or inside a turbulent heart,
who tries with words to explain
the workings of life..
or the tumult of his brain.

could take a place in this dozen.
has already become,
one of this glorious coven.
he, who takes letters,
syllables, jots and tittles
and creates swirls of alchemy,
magic to the souls of readers
and to the hearts, cartograhpy
maps of fairy dust and well could be

so to these nine, and three more again
to all men who have placed the sign
'writer within these brain walls'
on their heart and in their minds
I thank thee all

Your work has been, an inspiration to mine...

<>

Every summer, I relearn a new language.
Every winter, it departs for warmer climes,
Its charms and naked arms,
Its own alphabet,
Clean forget.

Multi-lingual in the summer's peculiar
One language, one aleph bet,
With a 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, no ways
Is there ugliness in any woman of the summer?

You could take this writ many places.
Most of them wrong,
So sputtering sexist or other labeling words,
Makes you ugly and wrong.

Could not give a good *******,
In the summer of 2013,
There should be no ugly, no prejudice.

In any summer,,
There should be no ugly, no prejudice at all.

Long past my primal,
I still speak Woman
With almost perfect fluency,
Au naturel,
Naturellement, à la française.

Gym clothes, denim short shorts, yoga pants gone mad,
A-line skirts swishing in the breeze,
High, god, so high the heels,
Flats clip clopping, flips flip flopping,
Stilettos making love craters,
All over my heart, like a surgeon doing good work.

It is the bare arms and the fluorescent, mint stripe hints of
Summer Cleavage, the short skirts,
Body hugging one piece fabrics,
stretching from here to down there
That do not hint.

The shoulder strap of the underthings,
Asking, commanding me to
Wonder where these paths lead...

Even the light shoulder wrap,
Casual over bare shoulders slung,
A late night elegance that mocks me,
Like gift wrapping over a
Smile demure, a teasing blindfold...

All these say:

Write us poetry in our very own tongue of
Woman.

Will oblige.

I curve with curve of the *****,
Invert geometry of the S arc of the waist,
Mystifying, how it is the designed place
For my hands to grasp, never failing...never letting me fall

The crayola musical 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, following ******* by eyes sparkling,
Timpani crashing heart and thunderous pulse quickening,
Violin heart crying out, joyous wailing need and desire sparking.

Just as Byron wrote:

"Music arose with its voluptuous swell,"

Yeah, just swell,
a voluptuous sea swell.

Well,
Enough.

My eloquence is a poor instrument to portray my
Fluency.

Early May man glorious loves life,
Late July, sadder man,
Knowing  the summer foliage colors will soon, fall-fade,
Come August, my vocabulary, already diminishing.

But
Never forget
how to say in the language of Woman, this:

Without you,
I am nothing,
With you,
I am more than everything.

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

My one true language of love
In a world gone mad.


August 2013 ~ July 2016 - May 2017