CAME the great Popinjay
Smelling his nosegay:
In cages like grots
The birds sang gavottes.
'Herodiade's flea
Was named sweet Amanda,
She danced like a lady
From here to Uganda.
Oh, what a dance was there!
Long-haired, the candle
Salome-like tossed her hair
To a dance tune by Handel.' . . .
Dance they still? Then came
Courtier Death,
Blew out the candle flame
With civet breath.

Like stars spilling from whiskey dewdrop lips 
Words streak across a midnight sky of longing

What proverbs may come from these whiskey lips For every lightless night spent apart For every unspent voucher to destinations we will never travel to
Find something beautiful
And don't let go
All things of beauty
Must pass away
Maybe one beautiful thing can stay

Hold tight the breathless moments spent dreaming in aurora skies
For every darkness carries the remembrance of the sun
How it left warm kisses upon fluttering eyelids 
In this way we too will find heaven

That undiscovered heaven whose patterns we have run through
and dimly remembered sun
the hopeless light that sits quietly
In the souls of the storm-born
That far
that distant
That's where the hurt is
That is the proof of love

We should legit organize our own Celebrity Softball Game.
Play another Poetry Site
Or Intramural.
Show America a different side
of stardom.
Rent a sandlot.
Wolf starting pitcher,
Soul starting catcher.
Eliot umpires.
Everyone gets an At bat.
Instead of hating on each other,
Play together as a Team.

This July, the thought and creativity that I would have given to a Fourth of July poem were reserved to help save a kitty's life. A frequent front-porch visitor, Princess knew nothing of "amber waves of grain," "purple mountain's majesty," and "rocket's red glare." Rockets shot high above her five-word world, that had little to do with patriot's dreams and everything to do with the promise of tomorrow. Right now, I am the only man in the world who cares about this cat's existence. The truth is I am just as stricken, and we lie side by side equally dying.

I recently saw something I wrote published in Poets online under the name Pamela Hope. Does anyone know anything about this person, or did I mistakenly write a famous older expression into my work? I don't recall that, and this is why I am reluctant to post any of my better efforts anywhere but in a published book.

Each realized desire only grows a new desire.
Fulfillment can never make you happy because desire is endless and fulfillment is limited.
There will always be the next want or desire making you unhappy.
Therefore, the wisdom of poets who transform desire into beauty.