~ one more for patty m. ~

slept late after dancing with my devils, from,
from the wee, until a pealing pearl from the Earl of Dawn,
recovering from an intrusion~invasion~brain~regurgitation,
and it’s nearly 9am, sipping my first cuppa Hawaiian,
& woke to a repost of a ten year old wondering plea(1)

makes me think “This old thing,” poem, like a fav
frock/suit that still drapes perfectly, and yet draws the
***** admiration and drippy drawling yummy compliments,
gracefully, gratefully demurred with them three words,
& it’s 8:39am, Bruce pitching in with “Born in the USA”

recipe for a new thank u Gawd poem to make room for
a fast~break diet for an old man with a rebuilt ticker, this
very emission~transmission of a verbal politesse writ going
some where, cooked on a medium slow burner fueling dressed up seeds of heartfelt appreciation made of ancient oat grasses

birthing a poem~child of thanks to the Lawd for one more day,
opportunity, the five sense’s delivery gratitude and gratifications, and the desire to intertwine the sights, music, a crisp blue November Sky, the need to bleed brew these words into a fulfilling,
second moment mug, for the pearls and Earls

of poetic humans


10:01am
Thu Nov 2 2023

The “little” Art I Possess

~writ for, inspired by, and warmly dedicated to
Kelly Rose Saccone~

“So an artist does…They say that often when you fill your walls with art you often forget it’s there and you don't absorb its beauty, but I enjoy what little art I have everyday. Sometimes it is just the color or the passion that hits me anew when I look at them.”
KRS

<~>

long ago the new~knowledge,
“newlodge” came brewing~infusing me;
art was not capable of being possessed

my reversal~eyes opened
the senses over~fulfilling,
body sensations brimming,

for I was the container,
only in temporary possession!

the art, in whatever the day’s chameleon guise,
is the professor-possessor, I am the missionary~emissary
remaindered by-product,
just
the vassal~vessel

when to gaze upon a poem~creation of years ago,
my expected mistakes appeared, a wee pride,
largesse of satisfaction, but these are frailties,
weaknesses, human misperceptions,
human ill-delusions!

never

ever was a poem among my possessions,
it was “in-sighted” within me
what was placed in my cupboard,
stored by my sensual conduits,
mine only to covey, not to covet,

art that tempest resides in as part,
a parcel in of the entirety of your body+soul composition,
but “out for delivery,”
seeded, stored & carry~birthed, given forth,
in a completed quantity
that’s so grand,
it takes five senses to truly comprehend!

it is pieces, a child of you,
recombinant,
you the birth sac,
how could ever be assessed as merely

little?

you are better understood to be a translator,
a temp~progenitor,
taking what all of nature and human experience
has installed on your inner walls, and then dispatched,
by you, gestated and unhesitatingly dispatched,

and when gift unwrapped from the plain brown paper of
our now orphaned belly skin,
it is to be hallelujah greeted,
for you, artist, translator, poem~mother,
have done you job, hallowed and sacrosanct,
and now the renewed giant emptiness,
will soon,
needy to be refilled, and
retransmitted once more:

this is no little, limited, mean feat,
your gifting is
beyond any words that limit,
no size constrains,
no words,
neither sufficient and insufficient,
you, are in loco parentis,
you’ve take what you/we are given,
beyond sizing,
and it seizes and is seized,
until you give it away
completed

and that is the grandest art .
inseminated within you,
true artistry!




7:42am
Fri Oct 27
2023

Where Is Shelter?

depends on the location of the storm…

so oft have I queried the gods and you?

Where is Shelter?

to which, my response, while surrounded so well (!)
within
my moated island circumferences redoubt,
always was a simple:

“Here, Here is shelter!

But so human, thus so prone to delimited vision,
always, we scan the skies outward, fearful of
the hurricane and storm that approach,
from without, appearing, and the brewing
sky’s danger is visceral~visible to the naked eyes,
when,
it is disguised within the chambers of the
body, festering, until it is pestering, and
shelter, sadly, is not injectable, transferable,
easy remedial, and the hunkering down
with four walls not the solution, for the walls
themselves are damaged by decades of
waves of innocuous gently lapping that still
erode igneous granite(1) and fissure the self,
this secretive, enemy insidious…

so it comes to be, that my own daggers have
pivoted, the pointy dangers pointed outwards,
well entrenched in their own defenses, now targeting
the whole of me, my outer walls breached, and
fired upon by cannons of cells, a treacherous
attack, bombardement par l'artillerie et les drones,
of the Fifth Column (2)…

so once more, say no more, but ask the brief of demand,

Where is Shelter?

the answer is as of yet to be decided,
but the forces
arrayed for and against
are equally determined!

W.S.

You Are the Texture

…………………………

~ for all of you,
you, you poet~



Impasto

“is a technique used in painting,
where paint is laid on an area of
the surface thickly, usually thick
enough that the brush or  painting-
knife strokes are visible.

Paint can also be mixed right on
to the canvas. When dry, impasto
provides texture; the paint appears
as if, to be coming out of the canvas.”


<1:47pm>

Cut & Paste

is a technique used in poetry writing,
we refer back to our visions, heard words,
the eyeful, the earful, scents, the reads read,
all in the mind’s palette blended, thickly, but
the merging fused, every word~in~coloration,
it is unique, reincarnation, copying impossible.

The imagery, cut and pasted from thy heart and
soul, upon canvas, your poems~pieces each appear
as you-are-texture, you becoming out of, you, the canvas.

<2:04pm>


Postscript*
………………

it is not lost on me that the
scars, our words,herein,
we note too frequently, almost casually,
are, can be, the selfsame
words/painting-knife
employed
for our first and foremost
canvas we utilize,
is ourselves…
our bodies, ourselves