Once when I was a manchild
a blind broken piece of finework
cut from the loom
and thinking myself whole
and the gleam of light in a dim world
I ventured forth in my majestic ignorance
and was upset
when the unfinished piece I was
unravelled at the first stress
and into a  hospital bed
where tender mercies made me whole
and ready for Monday

look in the mirror
balding dome still a temple
each hair a heritage

Write down!
I am an Arab
And my identity card number is fifty thousand
I have eight children
And the ninth will come after a summer
Will you be angry?

Write down!
I am an Arab
Employed with fellow workers at a quarry
I have eight children
I get them bread
Garments and books
from the rocks.
I do not supplicate charity at your doors
Nor do I belittle myself at the footsteps of your chamber
So will you be angry?

Write down!
I am an Arab
I have a name without a title
Patient in a country
Where people are enraged
My roots
Were entrenched before the birth of time
And before the opening of the eras
Before the pines, and the olive trees
And before the grass grew

My father descends from the family of the plow
Not from a privileged class
And my grandfather was a farmer
Neither well-bred, nor well-born!
Teaches me the pride of the sun
Before teaching me how to read
And my house is like a watchman's hut
Made of branches and cane
Are you satisfied with my status?
I have a name without a title!

Write down!
I am an Arab
You have stolen the orchards of my ancestors
And the land which I cultivated
Along with my children
And you left nothing for us
Except for these rocks...
So will the State take them
As it has been said?!

Therefore!
Write down on the top of the first page:
I do not hate people
Nor do I encroach
But if I become hungry
The usurper's flesh will be my food
Beware...
Beware...
Of my hunger
And my anger!

my followers come
three by three makes nine in all
a crowd starts with one

The wind blows
in the birch tree
Why do I think
of widows at a funeral,
faded and tired.
The leaves too.
soon they will fall
another summer
another year nearly over
I cannot but help feeling
as the leaves fall.
I am a year older

When parents bicker and fight
the children are left
in a wasteland
of shadowy facts
the rocks of absolute love
move and skitter
and the places where they were safe
no longer have footing
the attendant black crows
peck and harry.
Silence and tears blind the sky
and hush the lives
off the innocent who
die crying.

Is it wrong to be serious
and somber of mien,
with downcast eyes
and a body so lean
that a ray of sunlight
making dark into day,
would find no impediment
on its straight made way.

So I live my life
not too-giggly much
but happy and content……………        
……………..my days lived as such,
that all who know me
cry “fellow well met”
and time will quiet spin on
while I live ……..no regret

PriestlyPriestly
14 hours ago

you say fifty people
I SAY FIFTY GAY PEOPLE
you say nightclub
I SAY GAY NIGHTCLUB
you say the shooter was mentally ill
I SAY HOW DARE YOU PERPETUATE THE STIGMA
THAT MENTALLY ILL PEOPLE ARE SOMEHOW DANGEROUS
WHEN THERE HAVE BEEN COUNTLESS NEUROTYPICALS
THAT HAVE DONE HORRIBLE THINGS OF THEIR OWN VOLITION
you say this was isis
I SAY HOW DARE YOU CONTINUE TO SUPPORT THIS ISLAMOPHOBIA
THIS WAS THE WORK OF ONE MAN
ONE MAN WITH A GUN
AND NOW FIFTY OF MY BROTHERS AND SISTERS ARE DEAD  
SO I SAY HOW DARE YOU
TRY TO MAKE THIS ANYTHING ELSE THAN WHAT IS OBVIOUSLY IS
THIS WAS A HATE CRIME
AND THE WORST SLAUGHTER
-BECAUSE THAT IS WHAT IT WAS-
IN HUNDREDS OF YEARS
AND IT WAS A HATE CRIME AGAINST THE LGBTQ+ COMMUNITY
SO HOW DARE YOU TRY TO DOWNPLAY THIS
TO A MENTAL ILLNESS AND AN AFFILIATION WITH ISIS
BECAUSE MY BROTHERS AND SISTERS ARE DEAD
AND YOU SAYING well this happens to other people all the time
ERASES THE FACT THAT YES I KNOW THIS HAPPENS TO OTHER PEOPLE
BUT THIS HAPPENED TO GAY PEOPLE
AT A GAY NIGHTCLUB
AND NOW A PLACE THAT SHOULD BE SAFE
FOR MY BROTHERS AND SISTERS
AND FOR ME
IS NO LONGER SAFE
BECAUSE A MAN WITH A GUN DECIDED THAT
SINCE WE ARE DIFFERENT THAN HE IS
WE SHOULD NOT BE ALLOWED TO LIVE

d'ja really know
in my home vernacular
that ooonts mek them tumps

Irony is not believing your mirror
or alternatively
sensibility at its finest
(not my line but I will add it – it fits)
bald head, wrinkles, skeptical eyes
are just the outside.
quietly, privily, absolutely
the inner me still canters along
well, not canter really,
just a steady trot
with frequent pauses for
let’s call it reflection.
trouble is,
as some of us know
and ruefully acknowledge,
time speeds up,
birthdays come so quickly now
last year’s card is still on the shelf
and the envelope too
If someone makes a time machine
I will volunteer
to see if it works

on my street at night
sparrows quietly cheep and chuff
time to go to sleep

daily sun shone hot
bright summer blue in London
back to gray today

Just look,
my astonished daughter
at this image.
Once I seemed a monstrous being
but look and look again
this is me,
this overgrown hedge
of my beard
and hair
and moustache
the broken nose.
The eyes
peer out and say
this is me.
At that time
you were not even envisioned
and now I am here
in this black and white photo
your father.
Keep me please
I bind you to an unknown past
connected by memory and dna,
this time is yours
if you want.
Just ask

Part One. The Kvetch

I am starting to wonder
about the Daily Poem:
Is love always forlorn,
never requited.
Is there an alternative to angst.
where did laughter go.
smiles that blaze like  a sun
turning  a face into an ode to joy:
are they forbidden.
poets write of *** and their lover’s bodies
mostly cold, mostly clinical.
Never feral, never lyrical.
Oy

Part Two.  It’s Spring after all, time for a change

Can the algorithm be dialed up to happy
set to silly and plainly sappy
I started this poem sad and gray
Somehow I changed to light and fey
It’s Spring after all, time for a change

In the warmer months
The ladies sit on the bench
And watch the passersby.

The ladies are old now
Some very tired and frail

They talk amongst themselves
And watch the passersby.

They were all young once
They were all girls once

Some sassy, some quiet
Some thin, some on a diet

Some undoubtedly wore lipstick
And tight skirts

Some went to Sunday school
Some were flirts.

Now they sit on the bench
And watch the passersby

When my daughter rides by
on her tricycle
She smiles and waves

The old ladies smile and wave back
And just for a moment
You can see the girls they once were

Poems are an odd business:
an idea,
a concept,
it slips into your mind
and all of a sudden
there are words
that describe it,
it’s present,
it’s past,
sometimes it’s future.
these words have to have
rhythm and scansion,
the syllables must sound right,
the words must sound right,
the lines must be right,
the silences in between
must sound right,
just using words.

It is more than building with bricks and mortar;
these are fixed known things,
but poems
come into existence
like flashes of lightning
that light the sky,
they are there
and then they are not there,
you have to be quick
to catch them before they fade,
and leave you in the dark
with no words on paper.

I will give poems a rest for a while
give myself a break and others too

just lie on my bed and propped high
with my big red day pillow

look at the tree close outside
where yesterday

a blackbird sang and sang and sang
I was enraptured

and wrote a poem about how
no one heard

all the deaf are  listening
to their own plugged in music

while all around the earth is
heaving with new life

the winter blanket thrown aside
so that spring air and spring sun

can midwife bear new leaves
snowdrops and jonquils

no church bells ring so they
come  in modest silence

harbingers in all colors
to say a new year is here

and warm enough that
our skins can feel it too

whipped by the wind
the waves wash ashore
tidying the beach and
making smooth the sand
so that lovers
drawing hearts with sticks,
can make public their desire
for one tide at lest

Men are men
and women are women
and never the two will tweet

It’s not all hearts and pretty flowers
you know,
sometimes the words won’t ****** well run
the synapses blink and stop
and the lines flow like maple syrup
cold from the fridge

Best then to wait and see
If harmony happens
and words flow again
in the right and only way;
if not stop and abandon
and save your thoughts for tomorrow

vegetarians
don't eat meat of any kind
tofu for you

For them a short life
Easter lambs cavort no more
dinner on Sunday

Morning.
My window open
the new days view
in front of me

So bright the birch,
fresh burnished by the sun
standing in front of
the lichened wall.

the hanging bird feeder,
full of grains,
waits for the birds that
rarely come.

the cats
who reign here
have exiled or
killed them all

on townhouse front lawns
new spring time grass rises green
the weeds are in sync

No matinee today
from my blackbird,
the robin too, is off sick
and the rain is so insistent,
that the shoosh of the wind
in the birch tree is just a whisper.

On days like this,
lonely people in lonely lives
give over and give up;
here in this gun free country
the gas oven, the dressing gown cord
and stored up sleeping pills,
are enough and enable the tired
to leave without saying goodbye.

The dead do not read obituaries,
are not here to unravel confusions,
to answer the question. Why?
to answer the question. Why?
to answer the question. Why?

Now there is one less setting at table
a bedroom door stays shut and
in the bathroom
the toothbrush goes dry in the mug.
The clean shirts at the dry cleaners
are picked up and  on their hangers
with the new heeled shoes in their bag
are fresh goods for the charity shop.

And in this big city village
no one cares
no one really cares

numerology
eleven followers now
an awkward number

the loon sings
his songs,
the night wind
wafts his plaints
over the black water to us,
sitting on the dock
in the silence
of a Maine Summer night.

my happy niece clare
back in london and clothesless
suitcase lost in Detroit

Huginn and Muninn
fulfilling the augury
fly North at nightfall

on a night time beach
jamaican dreads share a chalice
this white guy bongs out

one drop of water
an advance warning maybe
look up for rainclouds

my brain
failing two times
to achieve the hour of two
does lie awake
and seek news
reassurance from familiars
wonders from the untutored
wisdom born in by stones
who come to frolic
and leave cairns
to say goodbye
till tomorrow

Last night was scrub-sky time
lightning for light
thunder for admonition
rain to wash away all trace of the day
wind to dry off the wet branches

today is a bright day
clouds like spring lambs
chase and frolic with the wind
playing the trees and chimneys like harps
dusting all the corners

my dog
streets now cleaned
every pole a beacon of desire and remembrance
what’s a girl to do
with a multiple choice question

me the writer
observers of facts and fictions too
just feeling good
tree music in my ears
the warm sun promising Summer

I thought that if I took my writers block
And cut it into pieces
I could build a wall
And, being higher
I would see the Eastern Dawn sooner

That way I would have a leg-up
so to speak
on all the other writers and poets
and gain an advantage.

My words would be brighter, cleaner, newer
Ready to go
To fit into my line
And make a poem.


But clouds came,
the light dimmed
And the words stopped.
There will be a tomorrow the weatherman said

woke up this morning
feeling excellent
picked up the telephone
dialed the number of
my equal opportunity employer
to inform him I will not
be into work today
“Are you feeling sick?”
the boss asked me
“No Sir” I replied
I am feeling too good
to report to work today,
if I feel sick tomorrow
I will come in early”

Adam and Eve lived here
before she went vegan
and chomped the wrong apple
dropping them both into deep schtuck
with a difficult learning curve
before they got up to speed
as our progenitors
and began begetting.

With only two to start with
there had to have been a lot of ******
with begats here and begats there
and still, the gene pool stayed clean
without fits and starts
so there must have been a Divine Profiler
in the sky keeping the books straight
with our future at stake.

But there is a question?
In the beginning there were only two
so was Adam the midwife
and if so
where did he learn the skills
the whole midwifery bit
the gentle initial slap
to get the first wail ever on this earth

Interesting theological
and philosophical thoughts
not even thinking
about baby clothes
and the like
I suppose breastfeeding
was a must before Baby Formula

Deep thoughts for Easter

On advice from someone
I met clandestinely
I spilled my heart out.
I was surprised at the result
Two pairs of Louboutin shoes, different sizes,
too high for office work.
One gather-me-tightly corset
strings cut in a panic and abandoned,
bras that emphasized parts too boldly
for the emergency ward
where hearts are already under stress
and thongs.
thongs are the cigarette butts of yesteryear
see once, think once, buy once, wear once
and abandon for ever,
the "I was here" icon of today
All magic memories for this heart's man
with one fault.
They are all too big to press in the family bible

As a child
I was born a catholic
and unknowing
and not yet averse to religion
my knees endured
the long pains
of high mass services
in my monastery school
where the old abbot
held up by god
eventually finished
and the sun still shining
outside the church door
we hormone confused bodies
were released
to boyhood

Pensees from my mother

I lie in bed
knowing the truth
that those who come visit,
bright faced and light voiced
with words that miss,
that fail to arrive,
I do not hear.
And then to atone
they bend to bestow
a farewell kiss on my brow,
a move to make up
and blur the fact,
I know that they will live on
and I won’t.

I thought of love today
All those words in my mind’s eye
Imploring me to feel sad
Being had is bad too
Our cries
Our sighs
Tears falling on silky thighs
Her dancing lightly as a fawn
Unto a grim dawn
The princess bright
Enlivening our sight
Crossing the Bridge of Thorns
******* on a Golden unicorn
Until despondent
penitent
Heart rent
Life spent
And out of words
The birds take me
Forwards to heaven

hello poetry
the ***** daily is here
plagiarism

the purest form of sycophantic flattery
and kiss my *** ed ness
plagiarism is it?
now they tell me,
oh well,
I will grab some while I can.
"Fab write - congrats on the daily **"
Feels good to me
Enough postings in this mode
doesn't have to rhyme
or be an ode;
Why stop
Gets me to the top
My name in lite prose,
Sufficient unto the day,
Or something like that.
And
"Wow well done on the daily my friend - stunning write **"
How to describe this gem
A sound bite for all of them
The gift that keeps on giving
(just cut and paste)
This way nothing ever goes to waste

Now this bit below,
A gift for all time
In the blue corner and by the one and only…………….
The Englishman
Weighing in today just for one short piece
Will i am Sha ke  es peare .......................

“That strain again
It had a dying fall:
O, it came over my earlike the sweet sound
That breaths upon a bank of violets
Stealing and giving odour!  Enough; no more
‘Tis not so sweet as was before” **

Gosh he’s good

gives me time to copy some stuff
Well that should be enough
I’ll rest on other’s laurels
only the kisses, not the quarrels
Why not? and God wot
Post it quickly, who’s to know
A Daily Poem I’ll be all aglow

hitherto a poem
with vision and precise wording
limned all our dreams

poetry - a haiku - a follow up

Now it seems to me
******* and a keyboard
wow! anything goes

Life in my kitchen
I cooked lima beans today
No taste of anything

When is the game over?
When the man dies?
When the first born is a girl?
At the end of the first meal without salt?
When the woman dies?
At sunset?
At the late time of night when the spirit ebbs?
When his one good joke is repeated too often?
When his son is killed by friendly fire?
When the potatoes are blighted?
At the end of high school football stardom?
When rejected by a prom date?
When destituted by frivolous litigation
Destituted by insufficient health insurance?

When caught cheating?
At cards?
In adultery?
In a resume?
By the IRS

When caught?
In a sting?
Ten most wanted?
Interpol?

When I finish my drink?
When I empty my wallet?

forgiveness is all
to each other our benison
there is a tomorrow

It is nights like this
with the air hot and till
that they come for you.
They cannot be seen
looking directly on,
but with the head canted sideways
you know they are there
in the shadows at the far end of your eyes.
They sit perfectly still,
wings folded at parade rest and ready to work,
veterans of these dark hours,
trained and blooded
and with a desire to have no feelings
about doing the job right.

No animosity, totally professional
quick, competent escort staff
they are, it might be said,
in the boutique-packing-to-go-now
side of the business.
We are all going to the same destination:
plush cushions, snacks on porcelain plates
delicate porcelain cups too.
Here with our name bar codes,
our history in tie-on tags, the reasons why……
Factory Returns, Out of Warranty
Time Expired, Use by, Discounted to Go,
it’s all written and in an account somewhere.

And when we are assembled and ready to leave,
The door at the end of the hall opens and is tested,
It is one way only and shuts with a metallic snicker
and has no inside handle which you might try
if you had second thoughts about this trip.
There are no second thoughts,
no thoughts at all and no regrets
too late for that.
It’s like queuing for Wimbledon, gentility and good will to the last,
the memory of the taste of strawberries and cream in your mouth
as you go on your way out and up for an ever endless lebensraum.

Let me write of and sympathize with
men
strong and typical
women
strong and lyrical
and children
an ode to joy forever
mostly all boxed in
twentyfour/seven/twelve
home, school,
different grades, more school
job(s) on the cusp, second job
home at night late
and yes, there is a tomorrow
mow the square  of grass
in front of the house
over and over again
years line up ahead
the same dispiriting grind
but you have a team!  Yes your team !
every season beginning  anew
playing well, job coffee breaks joys for a minute
then fading and fading and fading
out of it  till next year, for sure it will be better
and Yes, Remember to Vote for Change
then the same old the same old unchanged
and now you’re the empty nester
the silence is suddenly very loud
and there are fewer options now
where did it all go

measure your hemlock
write the names in copperplate
then fall on your pens

The shout travels up the narrow valley
furthered faintly by the sheer rock face
to the ear of the man stacking shooks
he heaves the last sheaf into place
and walks to the shade tree
for the lunch brought by his wife

“It’ll be a fine harvest if it stays dry”
“Happen”