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and anyone who finds solace in the company of poets


Adorn us
with you writing,
run from the smug,
the pretentious non-believers
into the arms of poets
who awaiting
your new words
with the hard panting hunger
of true lovers

this is my simplest invitation,
Grace us with you grace,
with subtle signs kiss our heart places,
for poetry,
good and bad
has never turned anyone away

and never will**

accept this write
with permanence of ink on paper,
cannot be erased or taken back
mine, yours, ours,
ink invulnerable to
delete

here here, are the preeminent
awaiting all your attentions,
feed us, you poets,
rivers, railway stations, unfamiliar gods,
Missouri to Malaysia,
the images
we neglected,
too far away for our limited vision,
but that you saved,
as gifts of touching lips,
miners in the crevices of the soul

I thank god for the company of poets and the kindness daily,
they bring to hearts,
all I ask is,
more...
* Inspired by http://hellopoetry.com/poem/poetry-is-pretentious/
just a girl from Misdouri
The walls give way to time. There is no way to imagine the reality of words.
As I scribe I am watched, and the words erase.
There is no meaning in paper.

The voice that comes when I call is never wrong.
It is the reality underneath the paper, underneath the meaning.
Everything we live is a colorful spectre,
a patient expression of a Self we have just forgotten.

And Self is an alien being
riding a heap of slowly rotting meat.

The reality of the universe is that even the shadows live and watch,
and time does not notice your closed eyes and hands clutching your face,
as waves of reality speak to the third.
Only then do the eyes see.

I am versed in the deeper Color, in the unreachable Shape.
There is a world that does not know what it is to cry.
Time comes through your closed fingers.

Meaning is awake and self-creating.
The waves that come are not accidents but spontaneous meaning.
Space unfolds in words, in the minds of those living on its pages.
The page is not real.

Many things coalesce in the dance of nothing,
the beauty of the perpetual unreal.
Eyes are not needed to See.
There is a meaning in Light that makes itself known through the Word.

Everything is a record that closes in on itself,
and eyes are closed meaning that leaves
the memory of Sight, and were my eyes gone
I could still see the waves of time exploding from my self-aware Sight,
for I am the bearer of Meaning greater than Shape can express.

The excess of Meaning must be wrought on the Page,
on worlds of our own imagining.
There is a truth in the telling.
Automatic writing, divine moments of truth.
1.18.14 @ 8pm Pacific. ☉ in 29º ♑, ☾ in 1º ♍, dies ♄.
My Curator

I can't remember,
what I can't remember

new items arrive daily.
name of the restaurant,
where I ate dinner
last night

the name of the movie show
I saw last week,
the last place my glasses
went looking for me,
lucky me, only one key,
hanging around my neck,
easy peasy,
just trying to find which apartment
it's for

I can't remember,
what I can't remember

the first poem ever wrote,
the first poem ever loved,
written conceived while I ever wept,
cause
found some old ones and thought
hey, that kid is pretty good

I can't remember,
what I can't remember
when and how I knew,
what now you know
as well

what matters this, little

quote the kids,
last week is well,
so last week
or even better,
whatever...

yesterday, last week, last year
have all merged,
old men drivers, riding in the slow lane,
where the speed limit signs are reminders
go faster, keep up

the memory surplus, surfeit,
now purged, forfeit,
fear of droning,
my inspirations
grown decrepit,
forces desperate,
less than adequate creativity,  
trying to pour poems Beaujolais,
before they can age,
decant, evaporate,
poisoned by oxygenation
sour turning, stupid smiling,
cause I know you from someplace,
are you a clear and present danger?

I remember plenty
of glimpses and snatchery.,
but the incoming data flow
has strained my 50's circuitry.
these memories, onboarded
now a single product
of a mass hatchery,
all eggs are indistinguishable,
therefore they exist,
therefore I was once

electronic calendar
keeps my schedule,
thus my native personality
type A,
kept in line,
the pills work,
from time to time

so I am
where I was supposed to be,
a necessary
but insufficient conditionality,
pour justifier mon existence

the mission critical stuff,
the weave, the sensibility,
the collections of sensations
of another's hand
on my back as I write,
declining, felt their dying,
having arrived at the
skinny part of the tail
of the normal curve
of natural ability

alas,  alack,
too many poems dying stillborn

I have newly employed
a curator

sadly he (she?) will not
cure me,
nor save my soul,
tho he wears
a collar of white
around his neck,
and a stethoscope
over one wing,
a recorder on the other

his wage dear,
sold him my best jewels

Paying costly
for my Ponzi scheme
of reusing
words previously employed,
deeded ownership of the accidental newbies,
the old ones in the sewing box,
both now his property,
but at least, saved.

I cannot write
the name of what stands between  
you and I,
tween tip of tongue
and visions of past,
but future visions, pace taken,
they will survive
should they arrive again

you reader, you are
a familiar face

are you not my
savior,

My Curator?

10:45 AM
Sept. 3rd, 2012
Labor  Day
Let us not keep our secret,
secret any more!

Thousands have read your poem,
from your tributary, they have drunk.

So I am re posting once more
to remind grandmother,
so many
you,
adore.

I will not stop
till ten
thousand new admirers
have you paid homage.
then I will
              post it again.


~~~~~~
Oct 6, 2013
The Banyan Tree (A Tribute to Sally)
I am a man, grandfather to four.
Adherent to the same religion,
Poetry.

Breathing through mine eyes,
Exhaling carbon words,
That with time and pressure become
Poems, verbal musical notes upon life.

Each motion, from tiny to grand,
A capsule of expression,
That if examined under microscope,
Familial DNA, interconnected tissue,
Discovered, tho logic says,  
Time and distance render impossible.

But this is a diamond
This is a writ to be slipped
Upon the finger, the heart, the essence,
Of the only Banyan tree I have hugged.

This poem but a fig,
In the cracks of kindness,
The crevices of caring,
It has slow germinated.

You dear, Sally,
My host,
A building upon I can lean,
When wearied spirits uproot
My surficial composure.

Your seeds carried from east to west,
By a fig wasp, a bird unknown,
An ocean voyager, of indisputable vision, strength.

This seeded messenger, word carrier,
Supplanted in me, and your pupils,
Whose very names breathe poems,
In others too, like me and so many,
Seeds to become new roots, but you,
Our Host official and forever
Planter of trees of loving kindness.

You already know with love and affection,
I call you Grandma Sally,
And when you ask, beseech,
I cannot refuse.

Together we will will banish the sad,
Acknowledge we, that life's ocean,
A mixture of many, even sad, a necessity.

But I promise that will turn it into
Something simple, something good.
For you have asked and I answer you
Right here right now - your wish,
My objective, deep rooted like you,
Like an old banyan tree,
Your roots spread far, spread wide.

So some eve, when to the beach, to the sky
You glance, smile, no matter what, troubles dispersed,
For the reflection of you, seeds, full fledged trees now,
Bending skywards, in search of your rays of expression,
Your maternal wisdom rooted, spread so wide, globally,
All over this Earth, is visible from your
Beloved Philippines.


---------------------------------------
In her own words..

I am a widow,
with five remarkable granddaughters....
all beautiful, intelligent girls.
It is such a waste not to write....
each morning that unfolds is filled
with things to write about....
the people, the birds,
the trees, the wind,
the seas,
everything we set our eyes on,
they are all
poetry in motion.
Life itself is poetry,
I always have pen and paper within reach.
My past experiences are a
never-ending source
of ideas and words for my poems....
I shall write until time permits me,
"til there's breath within me."
-------------------------------------------------
A banyan (also banian) is a fig that starts its life as an epiphyte (a plant growing on another plant) when its seeds germinate in the cracks and crevices on a host tree (or on structures like buildings and bridges). "Banyan" often refers specifically to the Indian banyan or Ficus benghalensis, the national tree of India,[1] though the term has been generalized to include all figs that share a characteristic life cycle...
Like other fig species (which includes the common edible fig Ficus carica), banyans have unique fruit structures and are dependent on fig wasps for reproduction. The seeds of banyans are dispersed by fruit-eating birds. The seeds germinate and send down roots towards the ground.

The leaves of the banyan tree are large, leathery, glossy green and elliptical in shape. Like most fig-trees, the leaf bud is covered by two large scales. As the leaf develops the scales fall. Young leaves have an attractive reddish tinge.[6]

Older banyan trees are characterized by their aerial prop roots that grow into thick woody trunks which, with age, can become indistinguishable from the main trunk. The original support tree can sometimes die, so that the banyan becomes a "columnar tree" with a hollow central core. Old trees can spread out laterally using these prop roots to cover a wide area.
moiety: a half, an indefinite portion, part, or share.*






          writer                                   ­  reader

             can't have one without the other

normally don't fool around with linear spacing,
there but for the grace of god the words come a tumbling
so fast I plant them down in rows as is customary

but when it comes to that moiety times two blues,
when you've been up all night laying down tracks
and nobody has read you latest histrionics,
you wondering what for do I gig this gig,
fingers asking what's the point of ink staining
heart bugging you, never satisfied, even alone,
needs somebody to know, a status update,
a poem unread is a sin my maybe friends,
so if you should you trip over a stumble ***'s poem,
good or bad matters not, when you read, you complete,
so dying on the vine, untouched, incomplete,
be the first to have moiety times two with it,
the first read is the like the first kiss,
a certification of what is called
po-moeity carnal knowledge

a half, an indefinite portion, a part,
when shared, whereon it be writ-read,
your place on heaven and earth insured,
when you seal someone's else's deal,
I'll know and I'll be putting that checkmark
in my assignment book, and if you should go so far
to press the little red heart, my finger I'll crook,
and install you as co author of the words
a po with no mo
            is half a dream half remembered

tired of singing the moiety times two blues song,
*** going, go forth and like it,
the Frenchies they got style,
when reading a po-mo they like,
they call you up on the phone and ask,
voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?
which is French for moiety times two blues no more
 Jan 2014 Katy Laurel
Dana E
(If I were writing this to anyone else, especially and most probably a woman,
it would go something like this:

I would like to unfold you one layer at a time;
I will peel off clothing
until I hit bottom
until there is nothing between
my hand and your drumming heart
except trembling skin.


But writing you right now is different; those soft words would feel forced, fake, hollow and pretty and attractive and wrong. I can’t tell you why but I know my heart has a song of its own
for you and if I get it wrong you know you can laugh at it.)

Do you know how overpowering you can be?
Do you know what it is to draw a breath,
one tiny insignificant breath,
and feel my entire body throb to
                                          touch you?

                                                           ­           To run my fingertips across your skin
                                                                ­    (not necessarily gently)
                                                         ­                    to press my hands into your skin until the impress -
                                                               ­                   like a flower pressed in a book -
                                                                ­             remains.

                                                       ­           I don’t want to peel your clothes away from you,
                                                                ­ slow and confident and assured, (not right now).
                                                           ­     There isn’t always confidence in want, is there?

I’d rather tear them away from you,
                                                  quest for your beating heart and the shape of
                                                              ­            your hip and the long line of your spine attempt,
                                                                ­          with my lips on yours,
                               to take your breath and make it ours.

                                                          ­      My hands are hungry;
they feel empty, grasping, needful.
                                                      My­ lips are wet.
I love you.


(I ask what I am saying and I wonder if this is weak: I want your body against mine.)
this is over a year old now. haha.
 Jan 2014 Katy Laurel
Dana E
in two days there will be eight -
no. nine children spilling in
and out
back in again.

maybe they’ll build a snowman
in our backyard, this yard
that is our own we have it
we claim it we want it
it’s ours alright

in two days the snow might have
melted. gone. vanished.
in two days we’ll see
our house full
of people, my people,
not really our people
not really mine

I did leave them.
they were mine, though
back then when there wasn’t any our
no our house our yard our life
family, this one, ours.

back then I yelled
washed dressed
hugged ignored
tugged at

fit into the sum total
fact of ten children,
two parents,
assorted pets,
God.
 Jan 2014 Katy Laurel
Dana E
We the transforming people stay up
   too late on this and that;
   we'll take just one,
   we have a plan
   this is how it works

But then we change our minds
   like we knew we would,
   take the just one more and
   go go go out of the late nights
    and out into the glaring sun

And then again and again,
   wake up and ache,
   our muscles reminding us
   we have to let them
   breathe slow sometimes

Thinned out, when we eat
   we find that we've forgotten how
   and we've forgotten how to feel
   the taste of genius without sweet
    running down our throats and we've
      forgotten how to stay
stagnant, s t i l l.
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