Erase All Brinks

*The title and the realization of this poem, commissioned unknowingly today by Pradip Chattopadhyay.  This poet's banner is empty, no history, no philosophy of life, no self-aggrandizement. He lets his poems do his walking, share-telling of his steep and steppe plains, journeys through the poetic minutiae of the city street, the hallowed hallways of his plain people who speak in meter and rhyme.  Thankfully, he lets us walk in the footsteps of his eyes, letting us sink into the soft sands of his visionary visions.  As I commence this essay, unknowing where it will begin, nor it's inevitable end, I pray I do his commission, and him, the justice and the honor due them.

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Brink: the edge or margin of a steep place or of land bordering water; any extreme edge; verge;a crucial or critical point, especially of a situation or state beyond which success or catastrophe occurs.

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if we would we could,
erase all the brinks,
write but of the simple,
mysteries of men and their marigolds,
speak only of daily treasures so oft,
overlooked and left unpronounceable
as merely common

if but could, would we not
do away, dull the extremes,
unsharpen the gorges and the verges,
no melodrama, but only mellow,
let life be more than lurching from
success into catastrophe,
the difference tween the two,
only a finale tally

boring?
walk the precise precipices of the daily
with eyes open, there be enough small plates
to satisfy the gourmand's need for beauty,
comedy and tragedy, all well supplied

take the cancer-struck, the love-unrequited,
the grandpa's passing, the joyous adoration of new births,
these hillocks, un-green valleys, mountain ranges of life will
n'ere be ended and will beg us, nay, demand of us
write!

in between, and of the days of in-between,
far the greater, more the numerous,
keen and ken, sift the softer edges of diurnal
takes and tales of simpler majesties,
write me in meter
of the meter man
who totals
your usage of the world,
your measured presence here,
in words of watts and volts

speak to me of a hard week's pay,
the working man's lunchbox,
his rules of thumbs for living clean,
wives, who through endless henpecking,
remind husbands that they are beloved,
endlessly,
of sneezes and mustard fields

Let us erase all the brinks,
scribble me words birthed in everyday
inkblots, mine the veins of the wonders of real life,
put aside the cutting of woeful veins that bleed your
demanding need to be paid attention,
to right now

step back from the brinkmanship of the dramatic,
find the sensitivity of the sensible shoes daily worn,
use your talents to celebrate your talents,
there will be plenty days when the tally ends red,
and you will be more skilled, better comprehending
the special needs of those days,
to speak and tell of the uncommon,
if only we practice to
write, speak well of the common

my love brought
me tranquility.
my love bought
me tranquility,
in a Manhattan bodega.

late at night in my city,
everything is for sale
where least expected
in mini marts, local delis,
greek coffee shops, spanish bodegas
pizza parlors, hardware stores,
all selling
salves for late night salvation

purveyors of
differential equations of
differing soulful sustenances,
certain imports that will probably never be
for sale in Walmart after midnight

all, readily available,
twenty four seven
in my miracle Manhattan heaven

My woman,
mapper of the byways
of my ****** landmarks
worn broad~ways,
his-toric foot trails of tears,
lines of laughters,
even a
purported dimple
I call a crevasse.

a sole survivor of
a mother's birthing skill marker,
duly recorded by her upon my visage,
in my miracle Manhattan

She knows, as do
some of youse guys,
that my poetry is
water born(e) and water soluble,
but Peconic Bay always
ain't right handy,
so bring on a
substitute teacher,
a hot bath,
helps me to enunciate
my verbal visitations

my love brought
me tranquility.
my  love bought
me tranquility
in a Manhattan bodega.

pour the aromatherapy,
my love brought me
for inspiration into and upon
my liquid writing table,
"Tranquility,"
a summer garden aroma

It soothes
my bad memories,
the herbs salve
accursed ancient wounds
that will never
ever fully heal
or be forgiven

my love brought
me tranquility.

my graces restored,
this poem offered in
grateful appreciation
with unlimited adoration,
something,
maybe even the
very one thing
**that can't be bought,
even,
in my miracle Manhattan