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  Nov 2015 Joel Frye
not got poetry within me...

have searched and sought,
found only dry bones
and hollow whispers

mirages to a soul that sighs.
mirages to a soul that cries...

bones that clack and clatter,
whispered words that natter
and scatter and dissipate an alarming rate

my ear aches, my heart aches
and those bones, do break...
and shatter

mirages drift, mirages drift...

as i sift and seive a tired mind,

yet no poetry do i find....
Joel Frye Nov 2015
people, stop killing
each other for god's sake; then
we will live in peace
Joel Frye Nov 2015
the simple knowledge that
you are
will nourish
the stony soul
my heart
takes tenuous
Joel Frye Oct 2015
He was a simple man of simple words,
or high-school girl with broken heart who thought
they had a message, or a call, or not.
Arriving with a sense of the absurd,
a bittersweet purview on life and love,
together with a gift for nuanced phrase,
appreciating how the language plays
upon the mind and tongue, they rise above
the well-worn similes, the tired cliches
for days, perhaps for weeks.  Then comes the time
when human ugliness shows up to flay
the budding poet.  The evidence of crimes
committed: smoky circles, nameless gray
reminders of whose gifts they took away.
A tribute to those who have left disheartened or disgusted.
Joel Frye Oct 2015
fighting a
words and worlds
are brewing
Joel Frye Oct 2015
in whispered words
you sing along with
the song of my heart

unconcerned with tune
or harmony
a simple chorus
in unison

the reverb swells
as the presence
you and i and love;
with Spirit
adding contrabass
more felt than heard
  Oct 2015 Joel Frye
Nat Lipstadt
measuring the small pieces of daily endeavor,
the small bites of how I stay a survivor,
taking each moment and weighing its value,
upon the scale of my cupped hands,
living in ounce and grams,
deferring the pounding poundage of
what ails, haunts, curses us to an
existence of forever indebted dementia

in downsizing life to first cup morning coffee,
a passing sensation of another's hand grazing,
a message from a friend that brings tears and joy
so much that there is no distinguishing either,
this is is how I get thru the onerous calculations
of all that I fear.

in a small fist of
firsts and seconds,
I grasp and hold on
till the next one comes along,
my next handhold on the sheer cliff with no top,
that we are forced to conquer with our first waking breath

and I thank anyone who cares,
anyone who understands simply
these words, the small comfort therein,
when we acknowledge as we are loath to do,
that the permanent curses of our lives,
cannot ever be erased, nor put or washed away

but from a new flowering, a ciel blue
tapestry colored, happy tainted
withe pure white cumulus,
in the photo of my grandchildren entwining,
in my backyard garden in a city of concrete lines,
in overlooked surprises under the bed,
these are the amuse bouche, the little tastes,
the amusements upon our tongues
that give me just enough to hold on and wait,
welcoming the next one with even slower measuring
so that I can log just one more stitch of hope upon my skin,
a teaspoon of, an eighth of a cup extra,
of comfort, of the pleasures of existence

I think of long ago captures, old poems,
and write this and them down
free formed
as they come,
waiting not for any editor of life
to improve. upon them,
from and in their own cracked shell
I see and share,
the nut of value within

sometime I guess but do not upon it dwell,
that we will see each other once again,
and when in taking each other's current measurements,
measure ourselves not
against each other
but our growth within and
for each other

and now I sip my coffee and weep,
a grown man,
writing in the dark,
of loss, of love,
of lost sons,
of the
colors that demarcate dawn
as the time between,
between black nighttime bitterness
and the fresh yet to arrive, works in process
that will uncover and soon tremble in their delight,
and say another day to come, another
to measure and savor,
one more instant
in your mind that proved
can measure

6:42 am
Oct. 23, 2015,
by the early morning light
of a New York City palette
I write this for the poets and friends here who have
welcome trespassed upon my heart with
their sadnesses, joys,  losses
and in  their sharing,
make me measure better and desirous of
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