"where day is....an opening door'

black lined eyes,
purple-red lips
cheeks of rose
and broken petals,

summer sings of
green feverish leaves,
of a hot sun, of my
longings.

twisting lizard
scales not skin
iron-like, unhinged
and re-hinged, threadbare,

cardboard sun, smartly
stitched like a brown bear,
woken from a trembling
night of crimson stars,

torn up paper, song
of love, hot bird,
sparrow at an angle.

Hello Poetry


Yearned.
Ached.
For so long, for a community,
That values the ineffable wonder
Of a wordsmith's creations, intended to
Repair himself and the world with bullets of
Verses.

And here you are.

Like/Dislike, matters not,
So long as we value each others work,
And the the heart echoes within
What the eyes read and the mouth whispers.

The array and disparity of your names,
A delight,
Each name a poem
In its own right.

So I resubmit a question for your consideration,
The answer is now known,
The answer is all of us.
May 2013
---------------------------------------------------------


­Who's Who In Poetry  



T'is a curious thing,
these verbal peddlers, tribal members,
famously well known to no one,
perhaps at best,
a kindred few, fellow-travelers.

Each a troop,
bloodied, purple hearted,
word-wounded,
anonymous unto each other,
yet all bonded intimates,
in solitary struggle united,
yet sea-parted by the very nature
of the solitude of composition.

All poets are Cain scar-marked,
purposed for everyone to see,
a warning to rabbled boors,
imagination suppressors!

World:

cherish these flawed ones,
gentle these frail but gritty,
the Lord has tasked them
to be prophets in one tongue untied,
undo the strife of Babel's division.

Poets!

Be the harpooners
of the unexamined life,
with unfettered rhapsody,
comfort caress us,
exhort the loopy
to light their illusionary candles,
turn the sad eyed lowlanders
into crinkly eye-lined smilers.

With clinical observation,
dense and demanding,
make us laugh at
the comedy of our situation,
teach us our free-to-see peep show,
reveal, unseal us
with **** empathy!

For who's who in poetry
is all of us!
saviors and failures,
recorders and decoders,
night writers of the oohs and aahs
of dreams and nightmares.

When this poet cannot,
no longer, anymore,
tastes his poems upon your lips,
keep your poems within his heart,
then he breathes no more,
and becomes one who was,
yet is,
because of you,
in poetry.
---------------
Postscript (1/25/17)

Even more true today, than four years ago.
Thank You.

You took a trip with Lucy,
to leave a world of pain.
She showed you a kaleidoscope of colors, but just left you feeling insane.

And then you danced with Molly, under the flashing lights, but all that did was make you sleep with a different girl that night.

This girl was named Addy, you thought you'd finally found the one. She made you feel so motivated, like you could get anything done. Then she left your heart racing, and made sure you couldn't eat. After 3 days you finally left her, because she'd never let you sleep.

You met a girl so opposite, she went by Mary Jane, with her you felt so at ease, she took away the pain. But your mother didn't like her, and neither did your dad. After awhile you realized that she didn't make you feel any less sad.

So you run back to the other girls,
although they never left.
They aren't too hard to find
when they're always sleeping with your friends.
Just one call and the girls will be back into your bed.
They're hard to get rid of once you let them in your head.

Found out recently
that I'm no longer afraid
of dying; I fear
most mere survival until
I've used up all of my days.