Spirit's everywhere:
wind, cut through me, cleansing me;
sun, blind my ego;
earth, absorb, accept my wrongs;
water, carry me, reborn.

Did you not grasp life
so hard that you strangled all
the joy out of it?

the next great poet
walks among us

without a halo
or unearthly glow

she might post daily
or he might write in bursts

they might be ringing
up your groceries,
or making your
non-fat double decaf
latte with splenda
(smiling to themselves
and saying "why bother"
under their breath)

mostly they stand
bodies distracted
by making a living

and watch

so their poet's eye
can record life
in a way that
makes some sense
to their souls

Opened Frye's Paving
Company...specializing
in good intentions.

exactly one day and a lifetime ago
you stood before me with your lips hung ajar
awaiting my kiss, with you eyes lidded low

at the age of eighteen how'd we possibly know
one moment could reach so impossibly far
exactly one day and a lifetime ago

if i knocked and walked in and recaptured the glow
of our love in your heart, it would not have been hard
awaiting my kiss with your eyes lidded low

one kiss in one heartbeat would alter the flow
of our lives, of our dreams, what we were, what we are
exactly one day and a lifetime ago

we meet again, smiling a pleasant hello
you lean in and offer a cheek from afar
awaiting my kiss, with your eyes lidded low

One universe over I kissed you, and so
you took my hand.  I drove you home in my car
exactly one day and a lifetime ago,
awaiting my kiss with your eyes lidded low.

Hot steamy shower
allows the words to simmer;
poem on steamed glass.

Email change locked me
out from my own words; glitch is
fixed, I'm home again.

I was known for an
operatic clear of throat;
a Flemish tenor.

Naked, moaning softly, bathed in sweat,
jaw agape and panting. Such a sight;
a perfect beauty I'll not soon forget.

Charming evening's prelude to a night
where passion grinds your voice to feral growl,
jaw agape and panting.  Such a sight.

The gentle purring now belies the howl
from shattering release that takes you whole
where passion grinds your voice to feral growl.

Your strong yet silken legs enfold my soul,
as you recover life from petit mort,
from shattering release that takes you whole.

No need to contemplate what's still in store,
I'll hold this waking dream until we sleep
as you recover life from petit mort.

Tomorrow's work and worries all will keep,
I'll hold this waking dream until I sleep.
Naked, moaning softly, bathed in sweat,
a perfect beauty I'll not soon forget.

Empathy: watching
someone draining their venom
without sampling it.

Most of my tries to
be funny end up being
self-defecating.

The couplet's first in writing villanelles;
if you desire your work to be its best,
a singleness in purpose always tells.

Of course, the open has the hook that sells,
your reader is seduced to read the rest.
The couplet's first in writing villanelles.

Your second line resides in writer's hell,
the rhyme-rich ending word must meet the test
and singleness in purpose always tells.

Pentameter iambic works just swell,
but matters not, as many will attest.
The couplet's first in writing villanelles.

Last stanza rolls around, the poet's well
is nearly dry, their muse under duress;
a singleness in purpose always tells.

The final lines! Relax, and sit a spell,
enjoy the glow of formal poem's success.
The couplet's first in writing villanelles.
a singleness in purpose always tells.

"and who might you be?"
he asked in a voice
hahdah than a newenglandbed

"just a fellow poet who was read
your poems in fifth grade
and fell in love with words"

"a )poet(?  why of all most the amazing
things on earth would you
want to do that?"

"it never was a want"

whispering words not yet created
humming all forgotten lines
the unborn, the unfinished
cradled in loving arms
the arms that hug the sleepless
and hold off desperate pursuers
apropos of nothing, comes unbidden
as you work, as you drive, as you sleep
at the worst times possible
nothing handy to scribble down
dictation of the gods
whispered in words not yet created

Turkey is spot-on;
guess I found my calling as
a master baster.

General Tso, rice,
shrimp eggroll, two potstickers,
*** of jasmine tea.

Sapphic poems call upon mathematic
skills, as meter meted out over three lines,
groups of two feet followed by three, again two,
                              ending with five beats.

Even this old formalist, prehistoric
in his method, limps along through elevens,
just like playing Jethro Tull, Lynyrd Skynyrd;
                              seven-four, five-four.

Hear the roar of dinosaurs in the tar pits,
stuck in sonnets, villanelles, rhymes and rhythms,
sinking slowly, praying for preservation;
                              creative fossils.

Another
brave soul
capitulates; here be
dragons.
Everyone
faces their
greatest
horror
in good time,
just so long as they
keep on
living.
Many like myself will
not be deterred,
opting to embark upon a
pilgrimage of pain.
Questioning what
remains in my
soul
thickens and sets
up my
very blood
with
xanthan gum.
You're next, o
zealous one.

Some years ago, I begged for firmament,
a lasting place of honor in your skies.
As days of disappointment came and went,
I learned forever's promises are lies.
Still fighting finite life, impermanence,
this chunk of astral rock would never learn
time's atmosphere is entered only once,
and we glow, white and screaming as we burn.

The cold of space interred within my bones
means any source of warmth is welcomed now,
including immolation.  
                                         Had I known
the entropy our years on earth allow,
a reckless plunge would sanction fiery end:
The shooting star is blessed and not condemned.

Whose words these are I think I know.
He's on another website, though;
He will not see me shopping here
To snitch his words for me to show.

My readership must think it queer;
I post ten thousand poems a year.
Between the copies, pastes and likes
I've barely time to chug a beer.

They give their addled heads a shake
And ask if there is some mistake.
The others call me out, a creep.
Who cares? They're just a bunch of flakes.

Their poems are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have villanelles to sneak,
And lines to own before I sleep,
And lines to own before I sleep.

Pawing through
the dusty box
of memories,
well-covered now
with a thinning coat
of gray hair.
Rummaging,
setting aside years
better suited
for a Goodwill bin.
A few keepers;
but must pare down
the hoarding
and prepare
to travel
light.

Burnt-tasting breaths hang
near the back end of my throat;
toxic good riddance.

One Monday morning let my lover lie
in warmth and comfort of the tousled bed;
the busy bustling world shall pass her by.

Sunny and insistent morning sky
is keeping covers pulled about her head.
One Monday morning let my lover lie.

A sleepy snuggle, smooch upon closed eye,
absolutely nothing need be said.
The busy bustling world shall pass her by.

The toaster ready, coffee standing by
to clear her mind and wash down breakfast bread.
One Monday morning let my lover lie.

There'll come a day when she won't have to try
and keep up with the worker-drones. Instead,
the busy bustling world shall pass her by.

Today, the radio's insistent cry
called her to rise and shower; off she sped.
One Monday morning, let my lover lie;
the busy bustling world shall pass her by.

the Belle of Amherst -
because she'd not stop for death --
her poems still breathe

She plays her games
on her tablet
in the living room
with the TV on
for noise;
he sits quiet
tapping at his keyboard
in the spare room.
She's put a load
of laundry
in the dryer;
he has pizza dough
rising in the oven.
Warm uncharged atmosphere
of peace aerates
the real estate in between.
Its fertile soil
allows the grandchildren
to set roots
undisturbed
by domestic drama
and tween-age traumas.

The iambs in pentameter will dance across the page,
But in fourteeners limp along, with extra two feet left.
Once in another lifetime, writing sonnets was the rage,
The iambs in pentameter would dance across the page.

It seems the sonnet-writer now will only show his age
As more and more write free-verse, leaving formal poems bereft.
The iambs in pentameter will dance across the page,
But in fourteeners limp along, with extra two feet left.

Some day
I'll flirt with Andromeda
staying just beyond
the length of her chains
take a hard right
at Orion's belt
insinuate myself
around Draco's tail
and join my clan
of Ursans
who no longer
point northward
on my passage
through
to my next edition.

to whittle away
the extraneous, slough off
dead skin which hides the
one who will not force a change,
not compress, contort a soul

Too late for farm living;
must tend to my sustenance
in the spare bedroom.

Thanks to all who read
my work, who shared and followed.
Made an old heart glad.

open swinging door
oscillates gently in spring's
warm and moist respirations

hyacinth's odor
wafting in through the screen door
on reminiscence of you

Your receding steps
echo upon my forehead
like dripping torture.

Drops of memories
patter down gently, wet your
unused pillowcase.

A gulf of unsaid
endearments erode the shore of
common happiness.

Silence, like water,
a universal solvent:
breaking down years of
bonds which held us together,
watching love spiral away.

Ginger candy bits
slowly build fire in my mouth,
quench fire in belly.

why a poet?
because a poet
hears the words
which sing the
purest harmonies
because a poet
paints their portraits
in pastels
of phrases
because a poet
dances their agonies
into leaps of faith
and pirouettes
of passion
because a poet
sees
the beauty
in the commonplace
and captures
the moment
in a snapshot
of ink and white
because a bloodless world
cuts itself
a thousand times

and the poet bleeds

Your words slink around
my legs, purr insistently,
nuzzle at my hand.

My problems reduced
to lengthened days, shortened breath,
what to feed grandkids.

Some people are
insightful; many others
merely inciteful.

You get out of life
only that which you Putin.

teasing sweat
from every pore
of your body
you writhe against
invisible bonds
your limbs held
by my voice
and sensation alone
I will torture you
gently with sweetness
till you vibrate
and ring out
like a struck gong

We lust to defile
the same wily wanton muse
of words, you and I.
There's no jealousy involved;
she'll take us all in at once.

War's anguished madness
held in impossible chords;
*****'s battlefield.

a tendril of tenderness
creeps up the fortress wall
undoing slowly years
crevasse by crevasse
rooted between rocks
lifting hungry leaves
toward a fecund feeding sun
strength in patience
striking no heavy blows
crumbling barriers
with subversive
embracing
love

My unrelenting guardian of the years,
to claw the scales of blindness from my eyes
won't spare the consequences of my fears.

Bankrupted soul, emotional arrears
will send me seeking you in anguished cry,
my unrelenting guardian of the years.

Removing self from lover's touch come near,
avoiding agony of being passed by
won't spare the consequences of my fears.

A draught of venom cloaked as cup that cheers
is snatched away before I drink it dry
by unrelenting guardian of the years.

The flaying of my own back, copious tears,
repeated penances all gone awry
won't spare the consequences of my fears.

When called upon for strength, he will appear;
should I refuse the help, he'll let me lie.
My unrelenting guardian of the years
won't spare the consequences of my fears.

Beautiful, brutal,
"...our business is rejoicing...";
strings being tortured,
trumpets scream in agony,
tympani broken at end.

Music with values
added; not formulaic,
mathematical.

a tender shoot once felt the sun
beneath its snowy comforter
and dared to peek a tendril out

the promise of an afternoon
and sun's love on its eager face
bespoke a need for nourishment

despite mistrust of fickle wind
with wolf of winter prowling still
the stripling brazenly rose up

and winter gratefully stopped by
to drape a coat of ice upon
the startled stalk who sought the sun

who hadn't time for warm caress
in early February dusk

To be sentenced
to a year and a day
of life
because one must
because others have tied
their lives to you
because you have
the only job

to plod forward in faith
alone
because the thing with feathers
was crushed beneath
the branches
when its perch fell

is to exist;

it is good to live once again,
to feel the soul branch out
and green,
and hear hope
chirping at the feeder
re-hung in faith.

Ghosts
©1984 Joel M. Frye


There are ghosts upon the platform
Standing cold and still and pale,
There are ghosts upon the platform
Waiting by that long-gone rail.

A woman on a suitcase,
The porter in mid-stride;
Two kids, an old man watching
For that train they'll never ride.

“Hey, Grampa, where's old 99?”
“She won't come through again.
The interstate's a-rolling
Where we used to catch the train.”

There are ghosts upon the platform
Standing cold and still and pale,
There are ghosts upon the platform
Waiting by that long-gone rail.

The steel canal, it nailed the lid
On Mr. Clinton's dream.
The iron horse died of drowning
Underneath an asphalt stream.

There are ghosts upon the platform
Standing cold and still and pale,
There are ghosts upon the platform
Waiting by that long-gone rail.

“Hey, Grampa, where's old 99?”
“She won't come through again.
Six-ninety goes a-rolling
Where we used to catch the train.”

There are ghosts upon the platform
Standing cold and still and pale,
There are ghosts upon the platform
Waiting by that long-gone rail.

A voice may open doors to corridors,
dusty and untraveled creaking floors
which lead to vast and unlit recessed rooms,
shut down tight, their vacancy assumed.
Should you have the curiosity
to follow, know you this: the voice will be
your unrelenting guide, compelling you
through portals from until now you withdrew.
The voice will still the recoil of your mind
and weave within your thoughts and intertwine
into a past and present tapestry
of dreams and fears spun with realities.
Colored with your rapture, tears you spill;
the cloth is yours, do with it what you will.