you cannot wish love into existence (or how it came to be)*

came and was asked,
make us a star.

smiled and whispered to the
mother night belly black and
and their star,
unequivocal was given

came and was asked, for a cooling fooling breeze.

smiled and whispered to the clouds,
rush past us faster and shed us thy ease
and so refreshed,
gave up hands high grace salutes

came and was asked, why be alone,

whisper for her
to love you

smiled and whispered
this I cannot
nor would I want to do

came and was asked,

why be alone,
whisper for you
to love her

smiled and whispered
this I cannot
nor would I want to do

whisper what you will
but love
is a wondering and a wonderment eternal

a perpetuity of never knowing,
perfect surety is not love

it is a why without an answer,
a question's question imperfection

why you love today,
maybe a continent different
why you used to, or first to,
and tomorrow's raison d'être
as yet undreamt, unrealized,

you can whisper many things into being,
but beings in love are motions special,
and entitled to a category special

admixture of reason and lust,
hunger and thirst,
needy to be needed
needy to be giving,
the balance whacked,
constant change its formulae
called vagaries, chemical imbalances,
e-motions

should I whisper,
call out for love,
making it so,
there would be no why,
without the why,
what worth this be

so when you do whisper

I love you,*
admit it is a question
and an answer simultaneous,
it is a whisper of certain uncertainty

The breeze is forceful, but not stiff,
it is the tropical storm's long lasting,
Arthur's lingering kiss goodbye,
(like the ones taken and given at airports and train stations,
volatile, wild passionate)
the breeze is anything but stiff,
it flexes, gusts, whipping sleeves,
coffee coolant excellent

the waves are rollicking,
revealing their white underwear,
but wise sailors say no thanks,
the bay pure, no vessels surface contaminant this morning

the sun apologizes for its yesterday absence,
claiming the aquifer cried out very thirsty,
so it took July Fourth off,
but now the water table rising,
the sand colored soil dark, rich, wet,
the grass cleaner, greener,
but the lawn, branch littered,
the wounded of the weather wars

the sun, a bit embarrased by his absence,
waits patiently for that odd fellow
by that dock, in that chair solitary,
to do his best poetic explanation well enough,
so that all summer rainy days will be
past and future forgiven

and the odd fellow taps and tends
to the living crowd surrounding him once again,
recalling he once wrote of leaves frothy waving
like cappuccino foam, and was that not
years ago and how could that be?

though the atmosphere is modest agitated,
the poets heart now, leavened and levitated,
for rain must have its due day,
purposeful, somber, serious, endless repeating,
(some say cleansing, but not he)

laughing at himself,
outdoors he writes
differently,
lighter than air, crafting careful
a single sonnet of suntan lotion odors,
and natural songs of bass drums in ear thrum,
and one thought alone,
criss crosses repeatedly,
yes, that one,
"wish you were here"

and he goes inside to get fresh coffee,
greet the woman sweaty fresh from yoga.
she delayed, the ferry captains paying obeisance
to the self same breeze,

but the seagull observer,
stands in place of the odd fellow's guard and watch,
during his temporary absence,
bulkhead posted, cawing in his stead and on his stand,
in seagullese,
which the poet speaks oh so well,
mantra chanting the poets
and the breeze's refrain too,
*wish you were here

The Whys of My Briefcase

don't know where you keep yours,
mine, immediately resigned,
to my black briefcase

the bills I cannot pay,
the notices that I knew
would unfailingly come some day,
the letters to my children,
signed, sealed but never to be
delivered till much later, maybe,
by someone else's hand

and so,
I carry my briefcase
every day,
an appendage human,
opens only for additions,
never any subtractions,
many reminders included,
for letters previous posted, sent,
and stamped~marked
past, way past, overdue

the authorities demand satisfaction,
at the very least they want my
whereabouts

the doctors asks,
what's wrong,
you never filled that essential
prescription~poem I wrote for you,
that was even writ legible
so you could not deny its
existing urgency

that **** briefcase is so heavy,
tempted to chuck it into the Peconic,
but it was a loving gift from her,
not realizing that I carried no case,
just so burdens invisible
were imagined lighter, or extinct,
but easily ignored

where do you keep yours?

the forget~me~knots that you
don't want but can't crush
legally or courageously

when they open that unhappy pandora,
they will wonder why nothing was e'er said,
but they won't ask twice, but understand,
for who among us
does not have a black briefcase?