One composes a poem, in a singular fell swooping,
the words, previous, unknown in that particular order,
are felled like trees in a ****** forest, newly saddened,
an emptying and simultaneously fulfilling sensory battle,
a dressing and an ******* and the
poem (again) writes itself

This literary body, literally is birthed with realized labor pains,
actual aches, a pulsing pursuing, and you dare not
stop to fix an errant knight of a typoe or an out of placed
CapitalizatioN, lest the streaming be broke, mind's momentum
be disturbed fiercely feared, lost to the vagabonds that
exist solely for the express purpose of denying your self-expression

One such poem, written yesterday (1), reminded me of another (2) composed, years ago, inspired by a ferry trip returning home, an ode to an old dear friend, a lover of the fulsome of life,
who had recently
passed away

Twelve years passing, yet well remember,
the utter urgency
of its composition, the purging of the sorrow,
and leaves me bereft, very sad,
for after writing thousands of scripts,
like a ****** obsessed,

feeling in the quietude of a sleeping household,
soon to be tumultuous with morning to and fro
runnings around and about, a/k/a errands,
wondering
Where and Whence
will come such a poem,
my next fix(ation)
a desired damnation of emotion,
and fearing its potential
unhappy origins

5:39am
Wed Jul 23
On the island
In the sunroom,
shushing hesitation
with chest pounding,
mouthing my forefinger
in puzzlement, befuddlement

A follow on poem to 'In the Sunroom (Suicide)"  (1)
writ many years later...
~For MWK~
<>
A stray thought. a burring burrowing, thorny tawny:

A wish, yet to get, but vetted for each of us.

This within, this redoubt, a contemplative oasis,
my indoor poet's nookery rookery sanctuary
each one, each is, deserves, all, one such,
a place holy filled, with lice and dirt of a life,
strained and trained for emission and transmission
of the best of the worst, and the triumphant emergent commission of
our individualized most excellent fresh best

where crumbs of apple crisp pie solidify, vanilla bean ice cream
melt offsets the oven heated warmth, and from this interactive
contrasts combative,
a poem pie reborn, newly disguised, familiar words,
yet unheard and before this very never,
went unspoken and now goes forth
svelte and unbroken

rhymes of yore, forgot from a before, but making up the walls
of the here and now,
a sunroom to spread out the lit lights of egress and entrance,
of fire door no exits that now are chiseled closed,
lock in, lock up, and somehow, one, stills to learn from
the stilling quiet solitude.
to penetrate the prostrate kneeling grinning grief,
how to expel and spell the words
that grant
relief

visit my sunroom, though no fiction.
the sun rays *******, create the friction
of that which cannot ever be withered nor contained,
and your mouth opens wide and a poem birthed and delivered,
pastiche paste composted of truth and dreams of fiction, fine diction,
with a shrug, a smile, a satisfaction extracted extraordinary,
you garner moments of satisfaction but cloud cover returns,
and the process of sunrise exposition recommences,
and one revisits the elemental sequencing of
all the predecessor pain, but this time,

for gain, for gain,
<>

written this sabbath Saturday
12:38am EST
Sat Aug 2
2025
in the sunroom,
on Shelter Island

"wish everyone was loved tonight
And somehow stop this endless fight
Just a chance that maybe we'll find better days"

Better Days by the Goo Goo Dolls
<>
Yeah yeah. Dating myself.
Some reason find myself listening to the GGD,
(A less embarrassing initialization)
Heard it a thousand times,
Classic easy listening rock.
A sweet wish, everybody knows, ain't gonna happen>
But, In my hand, a -perfecta summer day,
Steady sun, genteel sea breeze, low humidity,
The insects tolerate a shooing away, go easy and disappear,
House empty, everyone doing something and
You know where I am, tip~tapping on my iPad,
Yup, in that room, where poems are fan circulated,
And fall, freely, from the wood ceiling directly
Onto screen, my only job, to screen
The screen for typoes and other such minor inconveniences

There is no time to calculate,
No time to measure, no errors to complete that can't be undone,
And To mourn,
And the Angels have come in silently,
The day so fine, their human side,
Returns for a sun tan and the heat that heals
Burns, wounds, fissures, and even stalling
Out the growth of the bad cells our bodies
Con~tain;
They do not run nor hide,,
whispering I am too pessimistic,
And the Day will bleed into sunfall,
With colors sublime and god designed,
And if ever there was an evening
That the possibility greatest that
tonight
Everyone could be loved,
Even me,
Even you,
Even us,
The air has harmonies in the air flow,
And tonight, will be the time
When we all remember with a sly grin.
that we commence by loving oneself,
And then cell splitting,
and saliva sharing,
following tears and sweat,
and cradling arms
will entwine
Only Love Poems