How do you do?
I am here for you.

Simple for me to say,
I am a container of dismay

After Thursday.

What is good poetry,
what is a good poet,
(s)he is a teller of stories in verse,
s(he) makes music out of sounds,
(s)he explores tension and boundaries,
s(he) undresses your sensibilities,
(s)he has a heart tapped into broken vessels,
s(he) can cry while in the midst of a write,
(s)he writes poetry for others, almost always from the self
s(he) can write love with a thousand different metaphors,
           but chooses not so to do.
(s)he loves language, maybe more than self, has as many
      books as dust on the shelf.
s(he) is a quiet observer, with no remorse for putting into
          words what the sky says to the child, what the man
          hears from the Earth, what a woman knows about
           birth and the pains of life as well, that no man would
          survive and too the wisdom found as one walks along
          the garden path.
(s)he knows that poetry is readily available, simply by being
     vulnerable and sometimes obtuse.

how to describe out of control
by using an elephant in a barrel roll,

how to use colour to
explain black and white,

if there is a success story
this is not it, don't worry,

speaks well when he can
be heard, knows how to
use words, to inflict himself
upon others, thank goodness
he only has one brother,

likes fall more than spring
notes fall flat when he sings,

(if this were a real critique
this ain't going too well)

walks with a limp too fast,
hangs on to the past
by a thread,

hears sounds
at night that drive him
from bed, probably all in his
head...sigh...

that is just a snap shot of the
toxic wasteland some go through,

negative self talk will *****
with perception,

make one lose direction,
you want doubt, this way
to the insurrection,

life ends too fast,
it can be gone in an instant
gone in a flash,

be a dreamer no matter how big,
trick is, how to take the little steps,
to reach each one, (feel that... can't
even say the words,* success and joy*,)

by setting out to
do what I intended to
haiku this review

scored a five point five
out of ten, in this life,
if age and numbers matter.

if one day,

I am away,

worry not.

if in two or

three days,

there are

no words,

no write,

I am all right.

if a week

becomes

two and s t r e t c h e s

the ache…

to a month

or two in

you.

I have gone

across

the Rainbow Bridge,

to the Other side,

with no regrets…

save not knowing

you, as one of this

Warriors conquests.

I
thought when
I first wrote

Poetry
it was
the release of

Woe
in me,
but for awhile

I
see my
style and who

I
write for
my audience of

One,

but,

Bullies,
pull the woolies
over eyes that sheepishly
turn away, look away, look away,

I had a teacher once who that
thought by giving me D's and
E's in English and jokingly
add in front of the class...

"Hey Elverum you got one
of your two initials, wanna
hazard a guess?"

When I was in
the Army,
had an MWO,
who was nick
named the Wicked
Witch of the West,
as his features
made you feel
like Dorothy, in
the Land of Oz
and because "there's no place like home"
                       "there's no place like home"
                       "there's no place like home"

So
it is
with sad attention

I
see there
is a bully

Here,
here, said
the judge, jury

So
there should
be, because poetry

Is
not about
the freedom of

Expression,
through speech,
it is about

Grading
and wizardry
and being numero

Uno
a legend
in his own

Mind
my manners
mind my tongue

Words
that are
spit like salvo's

Not
marshmallow's with
hard hearted centres

Poetry
is meant
to be read

If
I ask
for your critique

Would
you send
me a bill

Or
just your
ill will, toxins

Instill
your commanding
presence on the

Young
and the
new, who dare

To
bad mouth
you, your just

One,
how does
it feel to

be
so alone
like the sound

of
one hand
clapping as you

dashed
another soul
to the rocks

below
the belt
with svelte wit

But
alas, I
only write for

An
audience of
one, you ain't

IT.

Across
the sky
cloud smears remain

Gauze
in bunches
white and bright

Winged
ones broken
no flying dared

Spirits
strong births
and weddings still

People
parked lives
in garages safe...

other
places need
earth shaking change

from
flightless broken
wings ill repaired

1968
turns out
a 2015 sequel

Cities
both, streets
filled, with rubble.

One
an Earthquake,
other Equality troubles.

there is good in all,
woman and man to a fault,
(the only bad came the result of a fall from grace)
being a woman does
not disqualify you from
a man's work,
men take note,
say with me by rote,
'I must stop being a ****."
(chauvinisima)

take my love to the next level
measure it against the bevel of the Platonic
lust is a bust, then there is love, gimme agape
every time after a time,
and after a while you might under-
stand beauty...real beauty...really understand,
take as much time as you need,
you need this time...to understand the sublime.

Twain with his wit, to some, was an ear pain
Mark, a pen name, his words to heed, no disdain
Samuel Clemens, the humorist man was a gifted teller of story
Penned, Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer, innocent boyhood glory.