Mysterious are this site's ways.
The "poem-less leavings" of a post
I had, several days ago, deleted
somehow ranked higher in "degrees"
than my recently trending "Only Melancholy
Is the Music"--which I believe to be good work.
Once, when a member received that Front Page
Flame, it was cause for personal celebration.
Now, apparently, it represents the beginning
of needless, extended humiliation.  I've deleted
"Only..."

Mysterious are this site's ways.
The "poem-less leavings" of a post
I had, several days ago, deleted
somehow ranked higher in "degrees"
than my recently trending "Only Melancholy
Is the Music"--which I believe to be good work.
Once, when a member received that Front Page
Flame, it was cause for personal celebration.
Now, apparently, it represents the beginning
of needless, extended humiliation.  I've deleted
"Only..."

into the humid
wild iteration
of summer, these
hours
summon humans'
special
power to remain
clothed,
pores covered
and it goes
against
our grain
not to get naked
in the rain
or not to cuddle
the whole family
in one cave
in one room.
it's too humid
for the latter,
ancient

into the wild
humidity,
the hours
are scattering
now,
the fleeting
mood of sweat
and harvest
closing in,
skinny dipping
in blue waters,
sleeping
on the banks under
the stars with
lovers
is soon
to move

to another realm,
the fall of autumn
and the furs
we'll wear, not
ashamed
to be covered
and spooning
bedding partners
is welcome.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of summer shines;
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,
Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade'
When in eternal lines to Time thou grow'st.
       So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
       So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

that fair thou ow'st; the beauty that is yours
thou wand'rest; you wander

You have called me
"a good listener." This
should not, however
lead you to believe
it is my preference that
you never shut up!

The neighborhood in which I grew up
knew nothing of political correctness
or, for that matter, common civility.
English teacher across the street
had to have half his colon removed;
wasn't long before most neighbors
were referring to him as 'Semicolon.'

— The End —