nay, have I the resources nor regrets,
to drop tears, since we have never met,
my rutted dial,
into the foul winds have faced.

many hours my fingers have paced,
                                  upon the keys, when
should I be found upon my knees,
my eyes may as well be dim,
chances of meeting you, slim,
oh but for wonders of tech, and oddities,
have I not caught a social media disease,
if I have want to be anywhere but here,
it is with thee there.

whether coasts west or east or overseas,
York the New and Land of Port,
or some isle somewhere with a dialect so rich,
eight by eight so to speak,
or near the heart of the where I live,
or land on some place in Village Central
you all see right through me, my riddles,
my rhymes, my prose sometimes,

is off the cuff with no shirt sleeves,
tis a rant that is not to rave about,
playing child's games,
some say shame shame,
in this adult world that fills me with Awe
and Wonder, tortured by questions to
which may not have any answer.

yet I celebrate,
each waking hour,
each breath in and especially out,
and when rest takes me low,
my dour moods, make it easy to pout,
yet.

Yet,
I will celebrate,
with music, though sounding like
tin cans and strings, with a few pebbles
thrown in,  I will not sing,
I will celebrate,
with movement but not dance,
for the two flat feet, that slap
like flippers make quite a flap,
I will not dance,
I will celebrate,
with no instrument,
my fingers and my ears, bent and deaf,
are tuned to different spheres,
that are both flat, fingers
lifted too many cold bridge parts,
while the ears heard too many
explosions, and rifle reports, bang, bang
So what do I celebrate...?

Each waking day,
and the dark of night,
every day of work,
until I take my leave,
each sight, eyes see,
about which to write,
not old but older,
a hardy fool and more bolder,
willing to waste money, no contest,
just foolish fortitude,
yet let the celebration begin,
there is no code for when
you get old, for I see myself as young,
another year comes close to closing,
another day births my hope,
my apprenticeship,
may time pass slow,
so I may learn quick,
so celebrate with me one day next
week, don't write me off yet, for
I have no stories in print.

for M*

never been good at it,
picking jobs, careers, wives,
was not one to
outline the steps,
to goals I could not
speak or define

so I bumped this way and that,
knocked down, dusted off, and
meandering, restarted and may,
unexpectedly,
have to do it
once again

once grooved,
let myself be fooled
by myself,
the best ole fooler I trusted,
that my track,
breeze to the back
was bumble free, straight,
planed and planned
and though accidentally,
what the heck

of course it never is...

you could write it all down,
the before, the softer,
the after, the harsher,
and the middle muddle
of visions hazy,
when you are too lazy
to engage

and to those of you
who see it clear,
on yellow pads and blue lines,
write down step one and two,
god bless you

Know though

there is no such thing
as free and easy
from the curves
that come up fast,
so fast that they
strangle you
near to death
or even past it

you can't imagine it,
I know, you can't,
and those who can,
likely no longer need to imagine it

but when you dare do,
clench eyes and make that ugliest rare bird
come to front and foremost
come to mind, you make it
fly to disappear,
to rarefied air,
where it,
you beg stay

and you do some good,
stupidly think you've collected
celestial brownie points that will
preserve and protect,
but in a flash bang
they have expired
just before the when you
needed them most

so go about your business,
but make no mistake,
others are going about it too,
their surprises the kind that
long term planners call disruptive

sure be sensible,
have a nest egg, a will,
good neighbors if you can,
top off the liquids
that life requires to
make the machinery run silent

work hard, pay attention
to the subtle changes
in your environment,
even hurricanes have a season,
and may you have a
go-bag in a closet,
gas in the tank,
for those days that are the
inevitable
works-in-process

but the only long term plan
that will you true require,
the one thing that will
save your neck,
chance you a chance
to defeat the unforeseen,
is not of paper, steel,
or money green,
it is character

I won't define it. You know it,
You make and or destroy it.

every day set some aside,
climb into night bed,
and recall the empathy
granted and given,
and from that,
build your own storage unit
for it won't be a mere rainy day,
but hail and volcano that will
leave you questioning existence

justify why you daily breathe,
and then exhale,
and say,
I go on
for I am of worth

this is long term planning,
survivor's insurance

This the only way to survive,
the days of reckoning
that you cannot reckon,
the days of wreck and tumult

but if you possess
character,
you will go on

ok, ok
what is character?
why it is that exact moment
when overwhelmed by the tumult,
you acknowledge that nonetheless,
you have the what and the wherewithal
to make it better
for someone else.

ex libris,
from the library
of my vocabulary,
draw a slender text,
old, yet untitled,
needy for a birthright,
transforming unlined, unwritten,
into a flesh and bloodied word concoction

there are many similar such,
empty volumes,
on my mental bookshelves,
literary clocks that
have yet to commence ticking
from floor to ceiling,
from soles to mind sight,
their patience untested

this book, these words,
are ex-me!
for they are a
welcoming,
a thank you note,
a hello,
all of which can only be extant
if in the mind of a receiver

as I compose, I own,
as I post, I disown

they are more than shared,
more than gifted,
they are ex libris:

briefly my own,
but now wholly yours...