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All the poems I wrote for you
were fond hyperbole; your hands
were not the saving kind and you
tasted nothing like the sea.
This is now.
The sheets yet to cool and the sun yet
to rise, I've already practiced an easy
goodbye– but seeing you wreathed in
sheets, sleepy, pleased, feels unkind when
you're just a dream I have sometimes.
On thirsty days
I curse the sun,
kick up dirt and
beat my drums
and call the rain

(it always comes.)
 May 2017 Joel M Frye
r
Some nights I shade
my eyes
from dark dreams
like a broken hawk's wing
stuck in the hot tar
of a back country road
when sleep seems
like a long ways to go
in a bad war
and desire and desire
and desire like a fire
in my bones
won't leave me alone.
I The Hard Part
~ be a good friend

II The Easy Part
~ write what you feel
12:00am April 5, 2017

The Underground of HP

~
I do not joke

underworld, underground,
a subterranean nether-land,
a dark net
of a peculiar type of
wonderful human trafficking

all pathways are Venetian style,
each traveler rides in a tricked out, camouflaged gondola
of their own reckoning and design,
upon "rivers of good company"^

***"dude - ain't no such thing I seen
on o dropdown menu
provided by the House of York***

you are correct and yet, you are
correctable.

the way in
to this far more real world
than the surficial one
where you currently reside,
but only half alive,
is where poets speak
in the pentameter of plain english,
exchanging kindnesses and
magic tricks, tidbits of loveliness,
poems of sheerest nylon delight

their private revelations,
their second skin
home to shared state secrets
that are close guarded,
confided confidences, confident completely,
that nothing can rise exposed to the glare of the casual observer,
the accidental tourist,
who writes but
of and for the occasion
for self-glorification

the way in you ask?

don't make me laugh.

no one will extend an invitation -
memberships do not exist
you must invite yourself.

look to the frescoed, vaulted Vatican ceiling,
see the Creation of Adam,
a single finger-extending,
breathing life
when touching his/your reciprocal,
his/your creator

this is the way, the way in,
to self creation.

make the reach of your life,
stretch your soul across the terra firma of invisible terabytes
with the touch of a single fingertip

down below is where
the super stars reside,
who count not the vanity of quantities of cheap likes,
but who delight in the
rivets of insights,
well hid in the spaces between
line and letter
and dark secret messages,
trafficking in the best of
humanity, kindness

expose yourself, accepting your self
welcomed you will be,
accepted.

down below is where the real work gets done.

the realization, the actualization,
where the top of the tip
points down, the crown,
of the inverted pyramid

where poems are the
blood and stuff,
the kisses and the touches,
the ***** and the
opening into the berm,
the root, the stem, and the blossoming
of the real world of HP


^https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1913140/in-the-river-of-good-company/

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1915543/how-to-be-a-successful-poet-on-hp-in-two-parts/
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