A woman needs her needs 2 be met.
A man, wants his large ego stroked.
Be tender men, til she's really whet
Her appetite. Wait until it's soaked
Before wanting your dish be served.
She doesn't want your dish to come
Before she's had her appetite curved;
Really fulfilled by proper attention.

Her appetite need be proper licked,
In need more than your easy dish;

Take the time to get to know her likes
Before you just stuff her with the same
Dish she could get anywhere she likes.
Passionate suitors know how to tame
The appetite which pangs with time.
Go slow. Be generous in your love.
Be a master chef for only her. Shine
Will come when you polish thereof

Your skills at satiating true hunger.
Real men know what a tongue's for.

There is joy in the forbidden wood.
There is bliss on the outcast shore.
There is order where none stood...
by the wide sea, and refrained in a roar.
I love not flesh the less, but Nature...
ah Nature! I love thee more, and steal
from all I may have once for sure,
to unite with the heavens & feel...

what I nay can tell

-nor can conceal.

In tenth grade myself and nine other students were sent to the principals office to be dealt with due to too many tardies.

As I waited for it to be my turn to give my excuse, I listened to the other excuses so as to make certain I didn't use the same one someone else used. The excuses were many
and lame.

Finally, I was next in line and the principal
Said in frustration, "No excuses are going to be sufficient unless it has to do with the torrential rains we've been having lately.

I had my excuse! I told him, well I had every intention to get to school early this morning. I woke up early and everything
was going according to plan without a hitch. Then, as Fate would have it, I turned the key in the ignition and the car wouldn't start. And it was due these torrential rains lately.

He asked, "What does your car not starting have to do with the rain?"

I said, "The **** thing must have been flooded!"

He laughed and excused me.

I am within my very own season • eternal though soaked • nearing the end • where the sun goes down and down; onwards slowly, solely: but could I catch the summer rays within my hands? "Could I really do so some day? Or am I suspended between the reality and of the fantastic?" Smells of fresh soil neath my nostrils, as aeration is provided by the worms • fat within their cells • and blind without organs of sight. The burning leaves smoky greenish and grey • for the fresh has blended with the faded • and all is sodden anyway -despite the day being a long sunny one. Sodden leaves burn slow, yet smoke with fervorous attempts to glow right before my lachrymal eyes -yet I love, yet I love.Yet I love this second season now known.

Among, or in dispersion thru,
The great misty and smoky view,
Of a springtime gaggles' morning peal
Sets the pageant as all seems surreal.

By candlelight, and hearthside fire,
With shadows dark out in the mire;
Which knocks me out if truth be said
When looking out by windows ledge.

I hear the windy banks call my name,
As I begin to drift, and start to dream,
Of all the passing most precious things
That I see, which do so have effect on me.

Among, or, in dispersion thru,
The great misty and smoky view,
Of a Springtime gaggles' morning peal
Sets the pageant as all seems surreal.

By candlelight, and hearthside fire,
With shadows dark out in the mire
Which knocks me out if truth be said
When looking out by window ledge.

I hear the windy banks call my name
As I begin to drift, and start to dream
Of all the passing most precious things
That I see, which do so have effect on me.

A luminous forest, a weeping evergreen, a tall waterfall that the breeze bounds o'er, a spring of dreams that doubles back and cycles - sky in endlessly they do :  the wavelet course of the orbs or a calm stream, tearful eyes overflowing with heraldic thoughts thru the night, a singular occupancy in a surge or flood, crest followed by crest, ' till they disguise all, a reign of emerald hue that has no decay, like the flapping wings in the unfolding sky. A gigantic mountain standing tall and strong, not showing how lonely it is to be alone. A calming sound of the river flowing, swiftly the current goes like the days passing by quickly along with each memory. A passage thru the valleys of our future days, and the sunless elegance of such sorrow takes this wealthiest of natures and turns it to industry, and the eventual joys within loving arms that seek out company and some necessary duty in vain at this time, for the day time moments are chipped away by other moments, for all this, I finally admit that I need your happiness to bring me back from this wasting away, because I desire the multiform pleasures that you could bring to me - and I to you.

Thus, Spirit Untamed, my! Have to even scores so once didn't ye? Yet lost love in this season? Ye could naught blamed be such for any kind trespass! Which I forbid this, for it be treason. Ye did naught when allowed it was. Why ye and not me to gift one explanation with reason?

Reason with explanation? One gift to me not, and ye, why was it allowed, when naught did ye? Treason? Be it for this? Forbid I, which trespass kind any for such. Be blamed naught could ye! Season this in love lost, yet, ye didn't once. So scores even, to have my untamed spirit thus.

ahy dih-zahyn tuh dih-seev yee
bahy klev-er mahsk awr klohk.

dohnt kahrp, need-l yohr bel-free,
ahy chohz tuh doo it az mahy johk.

sey yee fig-yer suhch fuhn-ee awl-soh,
yee shal uh b-teyn ey smahyl tuh goh.

I walk out into the good 'ol twilight,
Afraid of nary a scary thing bright:
But my silhouette's greater height,
That, that makes me begin wonder,
As I shudder cold in the frigid night;
And throw my dim echoes well in sight
Of my widened wandering eyes tonight;
And now I shall box my shadow asunder.

If you have me, you want to
Share me. If you share me,
You no longer have me.

Sitting here silently stripping my mind of the setbacks in my life, is just what I do to set the record straight for myself -it's so simple, I smile. I travel in my seasoned mind to the streets lined with live oaks along the streetcar line on Saint Charles Avenue and stand in the shimmering sunlight between the dancing shadows on the broken sidewalk for a while.

In the classic void of reminiscences,  I see the staggered walkways set askew by the carelessness of Time, meandering past the stately antebellum homes, guarded by hushed sentries, these whitewashed lions tinged with the chartreuse hues of age and forgetfulness.

Sentries sitting for centuries on static haunches, frozen in place by inertia, while azaleas bloom 'neath the Magnolia blossoms that fill the humid air with a perfume that beggars the reek of Forget-Me Not flowers.

If I must travel in my dreams, let them be daydreams of the fruitful past, when the uptown scene seemed complete, with moving pictures in technicolor themes; and they moved the wooden seats back, facing home.

The end of the line was a block from the muddy Mississippi, and my lover's house was too, (although further up the Old Spanish Trail.) Once I followed it all the way to the Pacific, and a different time zone alone.

My Cupid's absence saw another bloom,
Scene reviews of praise, richly gathered.
Defer your attribute with golden plume,
And dearest phrase is by all wit shatter'd.
I think nice aims while his aim reassures,
And like untutored youths we pipe Amen!
To ev'ry hymn. The ardor needs be yours
In shiny form of fine discriminating pen.
Hearing you praised, I say it is very true,
To your praise I would add much more:
But do so in my head, as thou loves you,
Such it is, final, for he holds rank before.
Then others for sake of words give relief,
My silent thoughts do still speak to grief.

My muse's absence saw another bloom
Saw I review of a praise, richly gathered.
Defer your attribute with golden plume
And dearest phrase is by all wit shattered.
I think nice aims while some write words,
And like untutored youths pipe amen
To every hymn that alert ardor affords
In shiny form of discriminating pen.
Hearing you praised, I say it is true,
And to utmost praise I add much more:
But that is in my head, as thou loves you,
Such words are final, they hold rank before.
Then others for sake of words give relief,
Tho my silent thoughts do indeed speak.

Who states most, which can state more
Than this fine praise, that you
Do adore?
Ye whom saw dun beauty
All her store.
Which should illustrate
Where I do pour?
Bare poverty within sad pen
Does dwell:
But a loan could lend a sum
Some vainglory
Yet I still do address you  -if ye Could tell,
That you are you, 
And this is me,
 Such glorifies thy story.
Let me but effigy what in you be Writ
Not making dim what He hath Made clear;
And such a silver shall fluff this Bright wit,
Making your silvers cherished Everywhere
You to your beautiful dank
Right be a curse,
Seeking dolor silvered, left  silver Dolors.

60% of 42=?

60% = 50% + 10%

50% of 42 = 21

10% of 42 = 4.2

21+4.2= 25.2

So, 60% of 42 = 25.2

What is red and smells like blue paint?

What is white and smells like bananas?

Gently so, the wind did go, go on a-whispering.
And thru the night, into the night, a-whispering
It did go. Go, Sweet Wind, go on a-whispering.  

In mellifluous tones, to the height of Christendom,
Sing a sigh, Sweet Wind, to the ears of ev'ry man.

Gently so, the wind did go, go on a-whispering.
And thru the night, into the night, a-whispering
It did go. Go, Sweet Wind, go on a-whispering.

In mellifluous tones, to the height of Christendom,
Sing a sigh, Sweet Wind, to the ears of ev'ry woman.

Gently so, the wind did go, go on a-whispering.
And thru the night, into the night, a-whispering
It did go. Go, Sweet Wind, go on a-whispering.

The caterpillar walks alongside groovy stems; so what do you mean?
    the banjo plays on to rusty hymns; what is that supposed to mean?  the plainsong of those birds of a feather upends: excuse me, come again please?
   but nobody, no one;  ever… told you you had
to comprehend. Oh fam, you’re soo mean!
So you can take your suit just in case,
and I can take in the
rain and coat  my little dream. What, why? You don’t mind.  and I don’t mind metaphors
to explain lyrics across…  the bard. You’re speaking in riddles, Man! So what is Poetry
to me, if I can’t take
it’s license and play with my words, words you would discard, I call  deuces wild, yeah my friend. Nah, it’s not like that at all child. Yes it is. No it’s not. Yes it is. No it’s not! And that’s the way I feel y’all. I just think a thought and jot.

Jot it all down. Jot it all down. Jot alllllll DoWn… when I think a thought.

Despite the dark of nightfall's scope,
With eyes as bright as the hottest star,
I see you enter the door that lay ope
In the nebulous black, vague, obscure.
I do fear much, but shadows, no more.
So why do you pay this visit at my door?
Have you come to claim a debt I owe?
I've paid my dues, I  think I know.
Oh! It is you, Sir Death, at my door!
Silly me, I thought you'd let me sliiiiide
Making house calls still? Yes, he replied.
He took me away, to return nevermore.

Solemn at sundrop, upon the heavy Terrain I mused,
My sour heart was bittering; a heady
Moon I perused.
Peer & whisper Sorrow to you, Moon,
Sigh for sigh gave
I, as vespers weary into dimmet Soon.
Tears upon grass
That wail, Aye! sparkl'd by 
 Dim lit ray: but
Steeped in my way,
I mused on the abject fools
Which so do pass
O'er bleakness. Alas!
One with I claim I!
As she clearly befell,
Nightfall raised her well!

I promise you this, lil Cupid, by your quivers, I woe not if the arrow injures, my heart seared, ruined by
such wound: however remote the years soon
to pass or that which came, never a lass by any name could rightly be aware the stain nor such feasting on my hearths flame by gluttonous Love, a heart in chains; and do consider the purity born from martyrdom. That which cures and calms the feeling of agony, to the point it be hardly ever felt, a mere hinting at pain dealt in only the slightest degree. No! That which tortures my one and only spirit and body, just that fear is what truly is the dismay heralding my imminent decease and decay: for my fierce fire may be but the only flame which burns so in this cold and cruel world I tread all alone as it turns, in confused hopefulness I yearn to see you deliver -and impatiently I lie awake at night waiting for her.

Accustomed to the night,
      I walk thru the puddles
Made up of my sorrow.

I smell yesteryear, static white,
      Vanilla Fields, and subtle
Time beneath the bow.

Your hair once would
           Fall around me,       pleasant
       Sounds of yesterday


Da-da-da   -da da-     da-da-da

To court the chancy chasm, (most reckless child;) you seek to challenge Fate to a dual, as the royals motley fool.
Dost thou so deem such a fashion, to debtless guile seek; and to each so bleak must ye be? Why does thy low heart drum again, as sweet
dreams burn so far from dim, that no  guardian soul
thy death upon a whim shall console?  No hearty compassion given then
shall take a stake in thy very grief to share in your very woe,
when your vain needs by Passion driven proves fatal as promised, and joy turns to sorrow’s debt.

2 8 4 6
3 7 2 5
4 6 4 4
5 5 2 3
6 4 2 2
7 3 2 5
8 2 4 2

2 8 4 6
3 7 2 5
4 6 4 4
5 5 2 3
6 4 2 2
7 3 2 5
8 2 4 2

I
  can
        barely
                  hear
                         the
                               soft
                                     muted
                                                 patter
                                                          ­  of
                                                                her
                                                                 delicate
                                                        ­                  footfall
                                      ­                                              upon
                                                                ­                          these
                                 ­                                                                s­teep
                                                            ­                                          steps

This morning, I stepped on a landmine.
I tried using a twig to clean each line,
I spent a while, a very very long time,
Using a twig to depoop the very bottom
Of my shoe, & my dog thought, (Got'em.)
So as he's laughing at my bad situation
I used my noggin and vented frustration.
Found his brush & he stopped rollin'
As I scraped away what was holdin'
Fast to my left shoe. The moment; golden.

The orb of night once didst glow,
                                                         and thieved the seascape tableau;

And blended with the dawn,
                                                  which I once did set a wish upon:

But now I am an humbled man,
                                                      whom stokes the fire when I can;

For few sorrows haunt me of late,
                                                        sav­e for the lost boyhood I gave

To the subtle winds of change,
                                                 to the night that I deem most strange.

I wander aimlessly here, here in this place where I
often go. A refuge where I come to be restored by the midnight air, ere that perfect silence into which I'm
thrown; and in which I can collect my thoughts &
know  -my percipience does ignite somewhere.

Somewhere off the map.      Somewhere off the globe.

Aloft in these Nameless Hallows, I travel lightly -because
my body ne'er goes... goes... goes...  in these, my echoes within -within the far compass of unerring tranquility: but what an ability
-what a beautiful bliss! to cast no shadow where the
dutiful exist.

  Lo!
           Suddenly a downpour hits!



  T'is Woe!
                             T'is Woe!


T'is Woe!  



                                   And, sullenly I resound her hiss.



I look thru squinting eyes as lightning is barely
lightening the glinting skies; the frightening bolts
extending and scarily resembling skyward highways
which have me verily trembling, hammered, amazed.

Tho I feel and see and hear -part of me does part with
what I fear -and the other partly remains enthralled- as
I tuck myself in so near, an attempt in thwarting the
violent squall.

Now I slog helter-skelter thru the deepening pool.
Seek I shelter like a tooling Creep or a creeping Tool.

                          

Thunder rips the sky asunder!



Those pounding noises sound like resounding voices,
                                                       ­                         voices,
                              ­                                                         voices
and then I wonder, wonder, wonder... if the torrent is my only
torment:


or

if I must also face my other self,


that half of me
that ne'er lies completely dormant,

that hemisphere that lives and breathes and moves by stealth.




This is my grimmest fear, when I must ask myself -for my Self

- which part of me I should
shelf.

I think I can abandon both,
                          you see:
but then there
would be
                     nothing left of me...
                                                    or me...
                                                *or me.

Flee from me as far & gone as our needs must be -
To the distant stars & beyond; this, my plea to thee.
Keep from me worn & wan; My Grief, My Misery!

Life, was ******, & yet you still wish to make it so.
I bet you planned & set each manic scripted episode.
But, I'll be the man & get all I left back again tenfold.

'Tis daybreak, a Summer morn; and as an orange flare Rises, it seems that the skyline burns, and billows sail Away whilst the windy currents do go on... eagerly, as
The desirous, bright star parts the sky this very dawn.

When into The Lost Archives of Time," Oui, Sirs!
I have many hours misspent," I as much do admit;
& in truth, deep thoughts are cries of mine, be sure -
Aye, hath plenty hours since been biased such to a myth.
Then again, to defrost dark ice of rime, Sweet Lord!
I laugh! O and the Powers descend, my last rush to ad lib.

Naught mine own angst, nor the apocalyptic soul
Of the universe in dreams of what may come to pass,
Can e'er the length of heightened lovers' shrivel,
Suppose a penalty to an enclosed room devoid of glass.
The waning beam hath been rediscovered from the veil,
And the somber prophets mimic their very own prophecy;
Possibilities now deemed certainty by seers themselves,
And order or peace proclaims olive branches a - plenty.
Now with the dew of misty time-honored and worn Time
My love feels new and fresh, but Death to me does cling,
Tho, despite his scythe with which he reaps, I'm alive!
He adds insult to injury upon those he the end did bring,
If the world forgets the names of writers whom toiled,
Yet many poets meet critical acclaim & enjoy the spoils.

I stood cautiously upon the "great" hill,
The breeze, calming and 'o so very still;
And the sweet new blooms were proud.
Languid pull, curved, beneath a shroud,
Their sweet leaves of a sweetness stems,
Crowns which keep the droplet diadems
Caught from the budding tears o "Morn";
And clouds were fair, so wispy, so borne;
Fresh from the clear beck which so slept
Upon Azure plains of sky, and then crept
A faint buzzing among the green'r leaves;
Born of th' sigh that this quietude heaves.
For not the dimmest stirring in this  scene
Of all the umbrage that lie over the green
Was seen -such Joy such solace did bring.

I stood cautiously upon that great hill,
The breeze was calming, & so very still
That the sweet new blooms were proud.
Languid pull, in a curve, neath a shroud,
Their sweet leaves by sweetness stems,
Crowns  that keep those astral diadems
Caught from the budding tears of morn;
And clouds were fair, so wispy and borne
Fresh from the clear beck; they still slept
Upon azure plains of sky; and then crept
A faint buzzing among the green leaves,
Born of a sigh that that quietude heaves,
For not the dimmest stirring in the scene,
Of all the umbrage that lie o'er the green;
Was seen as yet, such Joy
such solace did bring.

So undulating shadows fold before glorified Pan,
Below amongst the reeds, the cold river he swam,
Goat hoofs a-thrashing as the lilies of gold ran
Afloat like a boat, boring holes he thus began
Woe made music, thru the reed he did blow; and then
No time to waste upon this date, O the scattered bann!
Go on a-laughing did he thus goad, saying to ev'ry man,
"Know this is the way, O the only way, since gods began,
**! to make sweet music, they could not succeed." And
So thus he used the reed to make a melody, which then
Old Chaos became New Order upon the riverside land.

What separates us? Is it merely distance? Or is it something more? I am thus. You are such. I wear on my heart no sequins, it is on my sleeve worn... sweet & sore.

That lonely ash by the stream, sweet and tuneful did it seem, with chirping, buzzing, and melodies vast, shielded me from the sun's bright beam; and shade my eyes it did sixteen summers passed, lent it's shadow amidst the gleam, of rays over brilliant in their cast. But now, somehow, I made my way back to the scene, and some storm this season last, felled that lonely ash, that lonely ash by the stream.

It's available on Amazon for $3. Kindle edition only. 79 color pics of my Digital and traditional Art. Lots of Abstract and Nature works.

By avenues vague and secret,
visited by devils and regret,
whither the Wraith of Manes
stands firm and tall and reigns,
thither in the dark acres stead;
and like a vapor inside my head,
lingers there to haunt and spread.

Abysmal troughs and a great deluge,
and rifts, and dens, and silva's huge,
with silhouette's none can recover
for the weeps that pour all over;
ridges plunging into Nevermore,
into waters devoid of any shore;
swells that spasmodically aspire,
upsurging in welkins full of fire.

For in my soul regrets are legion,
but it's an irenic and placid region-
because the wraith which did haunt,
is now seen as wispy, thin, and gaunt.
I wend my way straight through him,
and I refuse to ever again view him.
The Wraith of Manes is now banished,
from terrible dreams, now vanished.