poem by the hour,
no need to shower
us thus

he selfie critiques,
I do, I do,
or else it would be a
Poem~By~The~Minute

look at the banner photo,
see the tablet self composing,
the list of would-be,
coming soon someday,
an arms length long
list of almost finished compositions,
composing me in motion

the tablet on lap resting,
yes, in his semi~famous bus,
see the trees in the upper right,
window reflecting, they too
have come to peek~see poems
writing themselves
by that fluorescent light
dividing thems in progress from
them ones not ready for prime time

don't try to make out the words,
they will be sited soon enough,
in the meantime, a sip of
milky coffee between
poem breathes

for Marshall, the straightest arrow, that when airborne,
ebbs and flows, with air currents that take him to where he was intended to go*


Old Son

you call me that,
semi-factually correct.

though technically,
now an orphan.

perhaps
you meant,
old soul?

semi-factually correct.
the old part.

Proposition:
He is an Old Soul

the soul part,
t'is yet debated
back n' forth,
in the Senate of

every breath

every word

every stray thought.

numerous amendments
to the "bill" proposed,
but afraid of failure,
the sole sponsor of said
proposition,
does not call the House
"to order,"
for a final vote

the endless debate,
he pontificates,
is way too pleasurable....
and no passage, failure,
way too displeasurable,
a likely outcome

I wish my eyes could paint
The beauty of you but
I would never get the color of your eyes right
When they are filled with wonder.
You look at the stars while I gaze at you,
The same fascination guiding my eyes
To discover the constellations the
Freckles create on your jawline.
Or the rosy hue of your cheeks
On a brisk October morning
After your jog, breathless yet filled
With more energy
By 7 AM than a cup of coffee
As dark as the leaves you tousle,
Leaving a tornado of fire behind in your trail
Like the hurricane of fall has crossed your path and you
Have knocked it down before it stepped on your cape.
The rich color of your laughter always stumped me,
Because it was neither loyal to my joke,
Nor cautious as the rising sun,
It was golden.
Like braiding rays of glee and love into a solitary strand
Of pure contentment.
You were happiest in the lightest shade of blue
When the sparrows would sing
And the bees would dance with your ears.
The tint of your sun kissed lips
Doesn't match the shade of the many sunsets
You witnessed with the same innocent fascination
That the whole world is good,
Even if just at that moment.
The baptism of your morning voice into my ears
Is as childish as your wandering fingers,
Tickling me as your golden chuckle
Paints a new canvas for my mind to display
Within the gallery that is you.