~ for my friend and fellow poet
Rebecca Askew~

wherever that bench be,

I be

oxygen sweet, sharing mine,
preserving you, a necessary for me

for are you not
my very own Canadian
wild shorebird daughter,
my wailing
wild woman, kicking up dust trails,
driving across wide plains
with no-eye boundaries,
whose prayers and lamentations,
take me into mourning places,
and lift my eyes skyward

what is this,
the third, the fourth,
the nth,
poem you have extracted,
from oil drilled within me,
dug in my inky deeper places,
my tarred but oil rich sands

though our eyes have not yet crossed,
our embrace completely incomplete,
a millennia of words exchanged,
borders crossed oft,
no passport ever shown,
no visa needed,
when this will not sufficient prove,

I do not know

but with calm certitude

Michaelangelo finger extended,

when that last traverse

will be spent, at last at lasted,

the when or the wherever

this will be, a commencement ceremony,

I Know

that my spirit

you so well possess,

will come upon your request

bring your near,

no marble bench memorial markers here,

just life giving

empty Adirondack poet's chairs,

needing jams and jelly filling,

your name dedicated,

inscribed thereon, upon one,

be by my bay,

(forgive but forget cold, unforgiving Lake Michigan,)

by my bay, seagulls wail and squeak

airborne inspirations,

acting soully as watch-birds over poets-in-residence,

where words lap upon the simple shore,

for free-taking, warm lived life contained,

no talk of death, only cheating it...

This I know,

as well as the colors of

my blood, my guts, my words,

yours, the first words my eyes read this day,

this, my last belief, as my heart beats,

come summer,

we will write together side by side,

the windy invisible, indivisible

words composed,

be, that, our true *benchmark,

of lives well lived,

forever preserved,

death defeating,

you,
help me to
see too well,

so laughing shouting,

fine woman-poet,

**I know thyself

“I cannot be what I ought to be, unless you are what you ought to be, and you cannot be what you ought to be unless I am what I ought to be.”*.    
Martin Luther King



tonight, saw a woman
dance to these words...

body precision pinpoint akimbo shaking,

testifying with every limb,
this be, a sensible truth....
the music of the words,

no music
but the words, uttered in his kingly voice,
that
was the only instrument present,
more than sufficient...


long after, the theater dark,

audience and dancers,

dispatched onto the

New York City dark despairing winter's icing streets,

I am tasting them on my tongue,

out loud as they should be spoke....


not going to essay, meaning plain,

not going diminish their simplicity....


but this I can say,

this will feed my consciousness,

a long time coming....
and I will be
that much
closer
to who
I
ought to be

8:00 am plenty of time to get

tinder-ed
it's how people meet

no worries here,
tinder-ed tendered thundered
by 9:00
I'll be fine,
possibilities multiple, soul flayed,
body at risk, hookup sweet,
no problem,
will line up a few,
on the hour,
star power,
no heart, but
candy is dandy
when you need a date
on Valentine night
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
http://blogs.wsj.com/personal-technology/2015/02/13/dating-heats-up-as-valentines-day-approaches/?mod=WSJhpssections_lifestyle

winter's after-the-noon shadow lights,
fused-tinged with early-onset grays,
harbinger of one for whom death
detaches the answer from that question
too soon asked, so long unanswered,
why me?

those gray lights, a violin accompaniment,
mourning pitched wailings unasked for,
yet always in attendance, court courtiers,
feelings of insufficiency, angry angst insects

envy days when simplistic unknown fears
were the worst enemy, never lingering,
for unknowns have no answers and
cannot obtain permanent resident visas

but reality, another matter, mad hatter,
asking repeating what is this, why is this,
even comprehension partial gives
no comforting answer satisfactory logical

envy innocence past, for newer questions now *****,
comfort by the lies in the essaying, trialling,
if, but, for, the distractions most affordable,
so grasp the pen that is the envy of thy companions

let the ink wail louder than you,
make paper shed what you have used up,
let envy of lost and found, found, yet still lost,
salve, but not solve, soothe, but not save

in the winter afternoons, those shortest days
of indeterminable longevity, words received,
offer little, but words self-conscripted,
a mortal transcript of pain immortalized by pen, relief will yet be,

for the pen is the envy of all