Rolling symphonies of snores
keep me from a dream as I
conduct their crescendo with a smirk;
barely of a sliver of blanket
left to call my own;
goosebumps on my legs remind me
that this bed is full of things I love
who choose to be here too.
I am wide awake,
wrapped in hushed darkness;
like a freshly dipped photograph,
I develop best here too.

Appreciation amid glorious people
They sound speak resound
Fantastically
Ah and we are just as they say
In the grand sphere
Of poetic masterpieces  just
Amateurs
When if you read much
Feel
HP poets are masterpieces
Writhing psalms odes
Songs and heartfelt
Artworks daily
As poets are defined by effort
Heart and good designs
I know no place
Other where all these
Parts exist in better people.
I am often lack in
Saying or plussing or recognizing
This very fact.
HP poets are the best.

Wouldn't it be crazy wonderful
To see in person some of
The most noted Wordsworth's
And personalities that
Hello Poetry has to offer?
August 15th would be good
Here in Clayhatchee Bamalama
In the south with nothing else to offer but the woods and cornstalks the peanut dust air.
It would be a festival. A face to face to finally meet the poets I admire and describe in my head by their words and their profile.
I'm about to start a gofundme page to make the wildest dreams come true. Imagine Eliot greeting you in person.
Its gonna be tie-dye only and sandals dress. (Weeds illegal here and the price high as hell, so bring your own)
Load up the vw van with all your poet friends.
Entrance fees waved to those
Bringing their own soap and toiletries. Oh, and beer....or ***....whisky....tequila.... Etc.

She sits on a wooden porch
in a chair that learned its comfortable shape
over decades of fireside conversation.
Her hair, still dark,
dark with a swatch of silvery gray
that drapes across the top of her head—
an honorary sash, life-bestowed.
Her cheeks, still round.
Her eyes, still green and wondering.
Her fingers, still short as they
light a long wooden pipe.
With a flick and a hiss, she *****
sweet tobacco smoke
and breathes out secrets
in languages spoken only by
those who understand the trees.
She sips bitter tea from a clay cup
and names each of the birds
that fly into her view.
She grows berries just for them
on vines that twist about
unsuspecting beams and rails.
A metaphor, she suspects.
She hums familiar melodies to herself
and cracks a wrinkled smile.
The world, as she knows it,
is only ever waiting to be enjoyed.

WHAT A POEM SHOULD BE

A
        Poem
               Should
Be
             Devoid
                  Of sentiments
            Should be
                   Dark as the Night
Or
                Clear as the day,
          *A
      Poem
            Should speak
Attention
And
        Not seek attention
             Should be
           Bright as the culminating cloud
Or
           Dark as the emanating nights
A
        Poem should not seek, but speak
Should be
              Free as the Moon moves the earth
       A
           Poem should
Be
         Free, but not stale
     Should be
            True, but not forced
A Poem
       Should not seek,
          But speak
Should
Be
    Vast as Rainfall
And yet
       Calm as Dew falls
A
                      Poem
Could be
        Violent,
But mean no harm,
Could be hateful,
          But mean no hate
    A
          poem
Should
      Be bright as SUNSHINE,
Should be
           Vast as Rainfall,
      Yet
         Calm as Dew falls
A Poem
     Should not seek attention
But
     Speak attention!!

Should be
        Vast as
               Rainfall

                     *Should
                          Be
    Vast
       As
            Rainfalls

Frankly, I don’t give a ****
if you weren't a spiritual guy,
because I can’t shake it—
I see your smile
in the smear of each sunset
and your side eye in the stars that follow.
I hear your ‘hello’
in every forgiving breeze
and your infectious laughter
in each clap of thunder.
In these small moments,
I feel whole for just a second,
and my heart swells at the thought
that you’re now so much bigger
than anything I can possibly
clasp my little t-rex arms around.
But, see,  I’m grateful
that I get to find you
from scratch
every single day—
that I can wrap myself
in all the parts of you
that I committed to memory—
that you, alone, gave me a chance
to fall in love
with the change of the seasons
all over again.

In the quiet hours
before the sun,
I shed a thousand
layers of you.
Dead, heavy skins
flutter to the ground
to decorate my ankles,
until suddenly,
I’m light.
So light that I float
and, as I rise,
breathe in
the whole universe.
I see colors—
new to my eyes.
I feel safe here,
knowing there is
no happiness
like mine.

Music is thick,
syrupy sweet and
heavily cloaks all
of the hazy bits of
undecided sunrise and
smeared headlights
that I blink into
oncoming clarity.
Last night looming—
an ominous rain cloud
born to wash out
all of today’s quick wit and
coveted common sense.
Last night, so curious,
while I slowed time by
refusing my dreams;
when I quieted my mind
and didn’t have to work
quite so hard
at keeping myself warm.

Eyes tightly shut, I pretend that
not a single part of it was real—just
some kind of lucid, rotten daydream
straight out of a can
found forgotten and rusted
on the back shelf;
its contents laced
with so many preservatives,
the expiration date just hangs there
a waste of ink, ignored.
Its nutrition facts, faded,
from too many days of
denial and hope.
No, I don’t care what’s in it—
it tastes good, and
I could die tomorrow.
So I nosh on it by the spoonful,
happy for sustenance,
happy when my stomach turns,
happy, once again,
when my eyes open.

Don’t be afraid, little heart.
It’s simple, really.
Be smarter than to believe what’s promised,
and you’ll always have the courage
to keep beating for something,
something better.