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Dear New Poet:

Then I'm your man,
your very own
Northern star,
one leg up of a
3 legged stool,
upon which all,
we, enthroned poets,
the world-over,
do rule

the honor you
bequeath me  
to be,
a first follower,

your very own
first responder,

cannot be
disdained
nor
diminished

this case,
this birth,
novice revival,
heart transplant,
makes it
the greatest
to be the first—

the quencher
of your thirst
so long in the parching,
the throat burnt

by a desert sojourn
of a now ended,
forty years

so come to me!

message me
a message,
find me a find,
your poem so fine,
I here now vow,
our embrace will
ne’er be broken

give me this
honorific!

let us together
be terrific,
raise our glasses,
arms entwined
toasting you  
all that mind and 
breast of yours,
bursting full of 
future~contains,
the full release of, 
bringing longer life
to us both

I am a father.
I am a grandfather.
I am a First Follower.
I am a First Responder,
for all who need a leg up,
so step upon my heart,
the first step upon a ladder
with no top, no end ensighted

my legs are as old as time, but,
measure me not by the rings and 
the metered scales of gray hair aging,
shock of white, a cain mark, wizard-wizened

but by the muscles
of my deep affection,
the solemnity of this,
my irrevocable promise

this,
the blessing
we both earn and make
when you write,
while we wait
in quiet attendance -
for all your good works,
your kept promises

Blessed
are You Lord our God, 
Ruler of the Universe
who has given us life, 
sustained us until now,
allowing
the reader and the writer, to reach,
meet, embrace and
greet this day,
this new born poem,
with hallelujahs
                                         together

A HUGE discovery (on an overheated wet snow stinky stuffy bus


no one

not the grannies, the discolored, the over bundled,
or even the seven and eight year old noisy brats,
(towing blonde nineteen year old au-pairs from Sweden)

doesn’t have their face planted on a screen

most messaging
when the light shines in and the illustration is illuminated
through the stink of overheated humans on a bus-poet

i can tell everything about you from the way
you tap on the screen

you nice you mean
you possess a southern drawl, a handwriting less ‘n a scrawl,
you are a passionate lover slow and languid,
you’re a bath splasher, a snowball thrower,
believer anything wet, well, should be a shared liquid

your think all lives matter especially mine

who plods thru life slow and safe one key tap at time,
making love in the same way and never in the afternoon

whose mother loved them swell well and made them
crazy people who smile at everyone
sharing their terra chips, body parts and
sweet spicy spit
with loving tenderness

the ones who write beneath colored decorated fingernails
so careful not carefree using the finger pads to message and
never break a nail or own a heart making a mess worthy of
cleaning up with a repairman

who lies ‘n cheats on their taxes and their lovers with
reckless impunity because you are so important
then what the heck you doing on this bus with us plebeians?

and the one next to me generationally born to use two thumbs,
but pauses to reflect on the way humans speak to one another before desensitizing blurting any old thing

And the one to whom I show this poem and insists I miss my stop so she can text me her digits and kiss that thumb
a year  later in front of a smoke perfumed fire and she whispers
smarty pants, mr smoke scribe,
who writes only love poetry
watch, what does the smoke say?

but it says nothing that cannot be best expressed by
letting my thumbs do all the talking by tapping
all over her body

A rainbow swam past,
Colorful and beautiful
tropical fishes