~A grimy, grimace of a grungy summer day~

Good Morning!


let the un-fun sting,
as the ardor never begins,
forecast a grimy grimace of a lousy
day ahead, at best, a clouded mess,
just to differentiate between bereaved
periods of rain, that train you in windows~
avoidance, for a grunge gloomy invades
all six senses (including the brain)
where all are concatenated),
and you can actually feel
the pallor descending
from brow to the bow
of your container,
feet swelling,

and you
in addition
to avoiding windows,
put some towels out over
all the mirrors, lest your pallor,
ah,

too late,
the grim grimace of grunted day
arrived even before the poem
was conceived, I deceived,
once more, the bore drill
drives a tubular of
despondency into
my spinal seam

Whether Weather Wither Whine Wailing
*****-Nilly  Wade  Why Why Writer

Why, Writer?

what color is hate?

think hard, answer, not easily up-conjured,
obvious choices, careful be, exclude not, some voices,
no rush, think upon it careful, after all, hate hates variations,
it, as old original as the Garden of Eden

you desire answer, something quick, *****,
look to very nature of hate, so easy spewed,
after centuries of construction, yet, there is
nothing quick about hating, tho learnt early on

some variants of millennium length, eons short,
oh weep, at this great irony of ironies, hate is so
innate engrained, is it in the red blood, cells of the
white colored brain apparatus we all share?

unnatural impossibly genetic. don’t believe it.

hate is colorless like air, like clear water.
how else could it be so easy given, taken.
innocent innocuous is the color of hate,
easy transmitted, and never to be a vaccine

until it can be seen how we implant it within ourselves.


11:40pm
Sat Jul 11

”High agency goes beyond having a positive attitude or being optimistic, it involves consistently and determinedly pursuing your own goals, regardless of the challenges that may arise.  It represents true empowerment, where people take full control of their actions and the results they achieve”
<>

A newish term,
popping up with
semi-regularity,
that is not intuitive
until explicated…

by yours truly,
a youngish
septuagenarian,
an oldie term,
yet one which
the poet proceeded,
needed ‘the google’
to be sure the meaning
of same, is what it is…
and is a qualification
deserved, earned…

he speaks in tales, long winded,
that few have patience for,
but he is a high agent & don’t care,
and he believes in himself,
no what the cost,
spit and ridicule no longer affect,
his poems here for the asking,
ask and you will receive his
chilly shaky daily poesy in a pink
ribbon tied, for nothing says more
than he is high, when he gives freely
this words for your taking!

my father moved through dooms of love
E. E. Cummings, 1894 - 1962



my father moved through dooms of love
through sames of am through haves of give,
singing each morning out of each night
my father moved through depths of height

this motionless forgetful where
turned at his glance to shining here;
that if (so timid air is firm)
under his eyes would stir and squirm

newly as from unburied which
floats the first who, his april touch
drove sleeping selves to swarm their fates
woke dreamers to their ghostly roots

and should some why completely weep
my father’s fingers brought her sleep:
vainly no smallest voice might cry
for he could feel the mountains grow.

Lifting the valleys of the sea
my father moved through griefs of joy;
praising a forehead called the moon
singing desire into begin

joy was his song and joy so pure
a heart of star by him could steer
and pure so now and now so yes
the wrists of twilight would rejoice

keen as midsummer’s keen beyond
conceiving mind of sun will stand,
so strictly (over utmost him
so hugely) stood my father’s dream

his flesh was flesh his blood was blood:
no hungry man but wished him food;
no ******* wouldn’t creep one mile
uphill to only see him smile.

Scorning the Pomp of must and shall
my father moved through dooms of feel;
his anger was as right as rain
his pity was as green as grain

septembering arms of year extend
less humbly wealth to foe and friend
than he to foolish and to wise
offered immeasurable is

proudly and (by octobering flame
beckoned) as earth will downward climb,
so naked for immortal work
his shoulders marched against the dark

his sorrow was as true as bread:
no liar looked him in the head;
if every friend became his foe
he’d laugh and build a world with snow.

My father moved through theys of we,
singing each new leaf out of each tree
(and every child was sure that spring
danced when she heard my father sing)

then let men **** which cannot share,
let blood and flesh be mud and mire,
scheming imagine, passion willed,
freedom a drug that’s bought and sold

giving to steal and cruel kind,
a heart to fear, to doubt a mind,
to differ a disease of same,
conform the pinnacle of am

though dull were all we taste as bright,
bitter all utterly things sweet,
maggoty minus and dumb death
all we inherit, all bequeath

and nothing quite so least as truth
—i say though hate were why men breathe—
because my Father lived his soul
love is the whole and more than all

A companion poem to:
When Love Grows Old [1]




a differing perspective,
liking the eye opening
view this occluded,
cloudy closed Saturday,
a morning gray, early days,
it comes with opportunities
aplenty & new word combinations
in a new world awaiting a Magellan
I spy discoverer, and
we
two
have more than 150 years
existence tween us and that
makes me grin, because I anointed
her to a new position yesterday:
Chief Technology Officer

the very expensive machine
that supplies us with energizing
fresh plasma, clean blood invigorating, without which
we could nary drag our antiquated
bodies to the next day,
got on the phone, dialed an
800 number,
stuck het hand deep into it's gizzard innards, and released the
machina from it looping flashing
display of displaying its non-cooperation and its message that
It was unwell, abd she operated,
and made out coffee machine well
again



snd gave us this Sabbath, a reason to be thankful having righted this
left footed poet to a younger
poet boy~man
again, a gain!

"Don't Pick A Fight With A Poet"
by
Madeline Peyroux

When you're walking on the street,
and the people that you meet,
make you want to start a big fight,
'cause they talk as if they're so right.
There is one thing to remember,
in case you haven't heard:
You can **** a mighty emperor,
but you cannot smite a word.

So, don't pick a fight with a poet.
Don't raise your hand on a whim.
Whether it's wrong or it's right,
there's a lesson in life,
and to learn it, you have to give in,
cause the poet knows you can't win.

When you're twitching at the bar,
No one knows who you are,
and you want to prove them all wrong,
you think you are so strong.
You can try to make them listen.
You can try to be the boss,
but the storyteller is the one
who calls the toss.

So, don't pick a fight with a poet.
Don't raise your hand on a whim.
Whether it is wrong or it's right,
Whether it's wrong or it's right
there'll be a lesson tonight,
and to learn it you'll have to give in,
'cause a poet knows you can't win.

Over there in the corner with a Cheshire grin
making rhyme out of broken hearts
cryin' the hymn.
And two tokes from a good time,
a toast away from fist flying,
congregating the world
with a paper and pen.

Don't pick a fight with a poet.
Don't raise your hand on a whim.
Whether it's wrong or right,
there's a lesson in life,
and to learn it, you'll have to give in,
cause a poet knows, you can't win.

Madeline Peyroux

<>

she raw whispered, edginess deep in her throat,
combo of delighted annoyance coated in
wary weariness of she-wanted-wonder,
what he wants that I can keep/take?

my untold secrets he knows how?
needy aches unsatisfied uncovering,
his knowings creates unfamiliar needs,
accentuates secretions of secrets discovering

did not ask for revelations without no resolution,
how dare he tense me in private places hid,
my properties aren’t his, my neck, eyes,
tonguing my senses is crazy senseless

this schema, this tracing of a figurine,
braising my body in his, its own sauces,
while perfume of mine unrequested are mined,
taken away in railway cars to his treasure houses

left utterly gagging and gasping
to hell with him, unbounded gone,
to heaven by him, I went bounding up,
giving me that everything I never desired

but only knew him as the my-mysterious,
tales unwritten yet tensed in the familiar,
poems elucidating, all that I didn’t
write, knew,  but never uttered

now, now! all are freely spoke aloud,
outed, foundering, highlighted and now
decomposing me, I’m honestly betrayed by
what he calls the sense, the knowing of the unknown




Friday, March 6th, Twenty Twenty,
2:47am

I was never told about the sorrows

Bill of Goods,  after 5 beers confesses
that ‘hopes and prayers’ was his boss’s construct,
making a ***** business, an easier swallow

the born babies soon forget the special instructional
video they watch before departing for the lower earth
that reminds of the bi-polar nature of  being human

the script pre-provided each descendant gets rewrites,
because of choices, false described as free, yours, for
there is nothing free in the decisions, each costly difficult

did you ever wonder where the next line comes from?
create it, you mislead only yourself, because you were
told about the sorrow, but just forgot, too too painful

no plea here tendered,
long time are we past
the boundary of cooling
cooing brotherly tenderness

reason has been Joseph sold into slavery,
nary a Moses, who talks to God, is answered,
be seen or heard, to reconcile the divisive souls
of our fratricidal words

a morning’s reflection,
soon to be gone, passing,
of two pockmarked differing clouds,
scratching this morning blue drenched sky

a white, rotund cumulus rose,
one gray, rough, tumbled, worn,
ill tempered, of rain possessed,
but both clouds, each purposed

but this Sabbath day,
as this pale land reopens,
to bitter cries, minor rejoicing,
wise counsel, foundering, ignorance prevailing

forbearance, a weighty silence, circumscribed,
daytime highlights, disregarded, heads closed,
nowhere to found, just, a colorless pallor, a rasher
of fratricidal words

<>

i know you got a gazillion on your plate

know that i think of you often

how u r doing

juggling  just a few huge

balloons,
(that when the kids slap them up to the ceiling)
metaphorically meteors don’t travel in any foreseeable future path,
you’ve coulda predicted

be well.   and if needed,
      just ask

there is no river
without the shores,
two hands guiding

no left poet
unless a right,
to believe in

let magic dragons
all the live long day,
sit upon my shoulder

whispering bad jokes,
always showing off,
with whistling fiery

demonstrations,
still there, old man’s
boon companion

didn’t wake to write
this, but Puff nudged
me awake, his heart

so big it lives, loves,
me still, always will,
for the little poem boy

could not dream, now
that history leaves its
handiwork tell tale signs

upon his carriage,
but look closer,
twinkling eyes, yet scheme

and my dragon licks
me wet face, every Morn,
and I tuck him in every Eve

he is my friend, my better half,
and likes this poem very much,
watched me write every word

dragons purr, laugh out loud,
at their own jokes, makes me
happy, because old men die
happy contented knowing that

dragons will always tell jokes
even when a little boy lover
must go

thank the maker who knew
that we did not require a
trained eye to love, appreciate
the reading of a poem

no the untrained eye still
leads the words for dispersal
to the other senses to ingest,
invest, instigate the insight
insides, to be moved by the
gifts of piety of poets, whose
eye see the life poetic and
command any all words
to train us to better understand
what it is
how it is
why it it
where it is
feelings word flowers
of that which is undeniably
essential

why when we compose
on matters urgent
oh my love

are we not provisioned with
beginnings and endings,
opening and closings?

We know what needs to be said,
the symmetry of butter and bread,
but how to begin and how to end,
these difficulties, not easy to comprehend

how to get
to the heart of the matter,
the door to the hallway
leading and departing
to
the front door entrance,
to the front door exit,

don’t know the words to begin,
the words to end,
which way does
the door open or close?

so read this, please, sit beside me,
while you place your fingertips
on my lips
and encourage me to
just say it!

might surprise, but among the few
in my posses, my oldest,
frequent
visitor by night dream and
    occasionally,
a summit by daytime scream,
why of course,
referencing the Angel of Death…

now for safety reasons,
we have never met
face to face,
(nor have
you and I)
but we are in
frequent communication
these latter days, though
our friendship began
decadent decades ago,
in my teenage years…

Dec. 2024

this woman is my destiny,
so much to believe in,
she loves me when the
world disbelieved in the:
the who,
in the,
we~hope,
of a
we~too

on the fusion continuum
we slide, on playground steel,
shiny, hot, not caring, playing
grown up~maybe, one behind
the other, gleefull  shrieking &
screaming upon falling into
a pile, a jumbled unity, of
tumbled older bones

now decades later, we play
at forever, when we early morn
seek out the empty places,
and play once more, now shoes off,
but slip~sliding full of
undignified noises at the top
to the
all~the~way~down,
we wake up
tbe neighborhood,
and once in a while,
people cone running
to see who are these noisy
usurpers identity, and we
climb up to the top,
lungs expelling a shout,
     ”so much to
          believe in!”

even alone,
there is a very good reason.
wordy and *****,
a competent compelling
concupiscent duopoly,
like
bed and head
all go together.
so well

you can be in bed
with another person,

and yet,
it is loneliest place in the universe.

You can be alone in
bed with pieces of you.
aflame, experiencing the
consternation of sensation
that the whole world is watching
but even you know, it’s a lying inlaid lie

is there privacy in bed?
always, very possible. just not something

      you should write a poem about