In an attempt
To form a confession
While lacking
Poetic expression
I put a tongue lashing
On my muse
Using words seldom abused
This and thats
With words that snap back
Now I'm really trapped
Not to mention confused
In this bottomless pit
Forcing words  
Without a muse
...

this is an excerpt from a very long, (shudder) private poem about a dinner party with visiting friends, up from Memphis to celebrate their birthday in NYC.
Unplanned,  I gave them all gifts without hesitation from an unusual collection of mine that they were admiring.  
When questioning my unexpected generosity, by way of explanation, I jokingly said
"there is no room in my casket."

~

sweetly thanked for the unexpected gift,
the poet replies comically,
"there is no more room in his casket",
for even these, small trifles

later in the quietude of
late night contemplation,
comes a greater realization,
the truth was unseen
in his offhanded remark,
now, gives him pause and cause
to capture a greater  revelation

there is insufficient room indeed,
for accompanying the poet on his finale,
an uncharted encore voyage akin to
Tennyson's poem of
the famed voyage of Ulysses -

thoughts yet unthought,
a few thousand poems,
that time forbade completion,
all must yet reside beside and inside his soul,
timed-released escapees
from the real yet artificial limits of
physical deterioration

these,
be his boon companions in arms,
his banded-brothered company,
purposed for inspiration,
his lasting re-actualization

so plentiful, indeed,
there be no room in the casket,
for the merely beloved,
beautiful physical objets d'art,

they  too must give way
to the natural law of
"unto dust returned"
but poetry
*never dies

I've stored myself away in a proverbial zip lock
Stained with nicotine, filtering what little sunlight may shine through
Sequestering any resonating laughter my soul may have once contained
In Tupperware from the late eighties
Filling the cracks in my belief system with nail polish
Trying to heat the icy corridors of my being with a cigarette lighter
And a curling iron
Any beauty I may have once possessed I gave to the gargoyles
Who flew it far out of my current zip locked reach
Holding vibrations of strings from a thousand miles away in holy regard
Salting my unadorned misery for better preservation
So that I may taste it once again
On the tip of my sailors tongue when the thought of a smile crosses me
My greatest current pleasure resides in tiny, fake, resin beings With wings
That will never flap
And I am obsessed with what may, Or may not happen in the tiny fake place
In which they dwell

~


~==~
compassion
is   a   towering
tree,       its      roots
grow   deep,    for    that
space to  reach,  in  between
a    rock    and    hard  place.   to
find    its    nourishment    from   pain;
it’s     sustenance      in     life’s       pouring
rain.  for  its  seeds  lie  in  needs;   the  human
kind  of  suffering.  without  which  this  gift
would­  cease  to  exist.  a  grace  of  great
price;   a   pearl   of   bright   light.
well   - nurtured  it  spreads
it's  broad  arms,  to
swallow.   the
s o r r o w,
to  comfort
a   mother,
a   father,
a  son  or
a daughter,
to     give
hope    to
the  dark  of
their   night.
an ointment it brings
not just once or twice, but a
salve to soothe a breaking heart... for life!

~

*post script.

please, for one moment consider this... the human emotion of compassion does not, and cannot, exist without suffering!  compassion is in many ways like a mirror image of pain, and a man or woman with a well-developed gift of compassion knows it's great value is in its ability to enlarge our capacity for selflessness, for in sharing compassion we absorb another’s pain.  yet we must also remember that many kinds of pain are incurable and are destined to be borne for a lifetime.  therefore, equally important to that thought is this... compassion is not a “one-and-done” cure.  instead it is an ointment and salve that must be applied, as often as needed, even for a lifetime to those who we love.  and is not this the greatest pain reducer possible?  ( and what’s more, it also does serious damage to narcissism! imagine that... two for one! :). it is only then in this context that i say these words, "pain is the gift that awakens our compassion!"