“I cannot be what I ought to be, unless you are what you ought to be, and you cannot be what you ought to be unless I am what I ought to be.”*.    
Martin Luther King



tonight, saw a woman
dance to these words...

body precision pinpoint akimbo shaking,

testifying with every limb,
this be, a sensible truth....
the music of the words,

no music
but the words, uttered in his kingly voice,
that
was the only instrument present,
more than sufficient...


long after, the theater dark,

audience and dancers,

dispatched onto the

New York City dark despairing winter's icing streets,

I am tasting them on my tongue,

out loud as they should be spoke....


not going to essay, meaning plain,

not going diminish their simplicity....


but this I can say,

this will feed my consciousness,

a long time coming....
and I will be
that much
closer
to who
I
ought to be

~ for my friend and fellow poet
Rebecca Askew~

wherever that bench be,

I be

oxygen sweet, sharing mine,
preserving you, a necessary for me

for are you not
my very own Canadian
wild shorebird daughter,
my wailing
wild woman, kicking up dust trails,
driving across wide plains
with no-eye boundaries,
whose prayers and lamentations,
take me into mourning places,
and lift my eyes skyward

what is this,
the third, the fourth,
the nth,
poem you have extracted,
from oil drilled within me,
dug in my inky deeper places,
my tarred but oil rich sands

though our eyes have not yet crossed,
our embrace completely incomplete,
a millennia of words exchanged,
borders crossed oft,
no passport ever shown,
no visa needed,
when this will not sufficient prove,

I do not know

but with calm certitude

Michaelangelo finger extended,

when that last traverse

will be spent, at last at lasted,

the when or the wherever

this will be, a commencement ceremony,

I Know

that my spirit

you so well possess,

will come upon your request

bring your near,

no marble bench memorial markers here,

just life giving

empty Adirondack poet's chairs,

needing jams and jelly filling,

your name dedicated,

inscribed thereon, upon one,

be by my bay,

(forgive but forget cold, unforgiving Lake Michigan,)

by my bay, seagulls wail and squeak

airborne inspirations,

acting soully as watch-birds over poets-in-residence,

where words lap upon the simple shore,

for free-taking, warm lived life contained,

no talk of death, only cheating it...

This I know,

as well as the colors of

my blood, my guts, my words,

yours, the first words my eyes read this day,

this, my last belief, as my heart beats,

come summer,

we will write together side by side,

the windy invisible, indivisible

words composed,

be, that, our true *benchmark,

of lives well lived,

forever preserved,

death defeating,

you,
help me to
see too well,

so laughing shouting,

fine woman-poet,

**I know thyself

~for SB~


~


answer simple

in the
asking
is the answer...

now we comprehend true

ask

and ye shall receive,
for who could

ask

for anything more

sliced the thumb quite nicely,
a straight line, it,
the thumb,
applauded my skill,
turning bright infected red from
embarrassment
for me...and my minority complaints,
losing HD sight of the
big screen
of what matters

small woes and big-toes,
got ten times aplenty,
got lawyers and creeps
back in my life,
made promises that can't keep

so for sure
biblically cursed,
Job, and me,
losing parched perspective
under the tree
that gives no shade

dancing on that line called
"why bother,"
the other side of depression

forgetting again,
roof over head,
pizza in the belly,
can still stand up straight,
after a few vociferous
aches n' growls,
though the docs prescribe
what i proscribe,
i.e exercise, diet and blah, blah, blah, hah, hah

got her and got you,
goddess of poetry,
the mental health should be ok,
someday,
maybe even
the physicality

but not nut all of you,
not so lucky,
love the brave,
the courage true
those who ask,
when the time comes,
brave ones revealations,
shame me back to perspective

so do the thing,
some say,
call it the-right,

says I,
it's the no-choice
no thought needed,no praise worthy,
just
*extend the
balance,
bring back the
relativity,
share the
luck,
be as brave as those who
dare to ask

another Thanksgiving,
another voyage in the rareified
l'air au-dessus,
the air above,
next to, amidst
the satisfying but untouchable still,
the gray-white of the clouds of which we so oft
exclaim, and always fail,
to do justice by

this time the
turbulence
within
compulsion beating
compels this thanksgiving addition
to the compilation of airplane poems

the pointer finger tapping
out this journey's record,
a priori, gold leafed,
added, inscribed,
on the priory wall
of other journeys,
even before
it was conceptually written

the pointer finger tapping
upon your own chest,
calming the beating turbulence
ever present, a giving present
to me,
red wrapped

no whining!

I promise myself,
to promise you,
cause if this be,
the best poem
I ever write
(why not, could it not be this one?)

a small prayer shawl supplication,
shall not be marred,
with plaints and requests,
visions and incisions,
the beseeching distaste of
be and re quests,
this one simple,
even, and as always,
a tad odd like me

I am just an ordinary Joe,
flying over the middle,
the country, the real one,
no megabytes
amidst the real,
a few hundred other supplicants,
gaily glad on a mostly
head-phoned, protected silent passage,
over water, land, rivers, and family clans,
all engaged and presaged by
calendal X marked to make ,
a Mecca trip,
a Jerusalem western walled, holy mount,
which ironically is for me is
direction relative,
that bastion of flesh and sinners,
the city of tan men
and salt pillared women,
the City of Miami

whoa, real turbulence
makes the typos egregious, plentiful,
and the body sways,
left to rightly,
the poem is compulsed
urgent flown to completion
(amazing the shaking and the stirring,
to the point of locating the airbag)
perhaps, he thinks, someone in this
airy residence doe not want this prayer
finished

enough.

"The Prayer~Poem of Seat 25D"

Dear Deity of Whatever Name:

We humans peculiar to some places,
set aside a day, this week
for being superlative,
for looking inward and do
quiet summary addition,
employing organs,
as many as necessary,
noses and toeses external,
organs invisible internal,
a counting to make,
to number what we are,
isolating the better reasons,
why our existence justified

we do it in
foolish human ways,
as is our nature,
human and fools interchangeably
one and the same

So this one man counts
his words, ever careful,
ever plentiful,
and utters grace,
the Bene and the Blessing,
quiet inside,
his fellow airplane passengers
holy unawares,
that he is praying for them
simply saying this

May each one pause,
even for a second,
and collect the moment,
understanding,
that thankful is a
but half a notion,
incomplete unless
it is given
away to another,
by making it
selfless

for Kitty Prr*

there is no boundary,
Mason Dixon Line, 49th parallel,
uptown, downtown grooves,
separating human from poetry,
but there is living, daily scorekeeping,
push/pull of taking each breath
in a right mannered way

sometime you gotta dig a ditch
to learn to climb a mountain,
pay dues and even get paid back
for living in a wrong mannered way,
which requires laying down of the pen,
doing shovel ready projects
needy for completion,
yet-to-be plans needy for
formulating details,
forethought and caring, putting the
poetry aside,
on top of the dusty piano

sometime you gotta drink it black,
pass on the milk, cream and the sugar,
even if the waitress just brings it,
pour ice water on top.of your head
just for yourself alone
the how-to-cleanse the eyes and head,
sometimes you got to let the
poetry stand aside

sometime you have to open that
black briefcase^ treasure hoard of
all things soured and soliloquy of
missteps and judgement errors,
letting the
poetry stand aside

sometime you gotta do the laundry,
rediscover the bottom of the sink,
watch the washing machine movie screen
picture making,
asking for its very own poem,
but you know this day,
gotta let the
poetry stand aside
and you stand up
and climb,
straighten up,
back creaking,
joints cracking,
first find the place to rest the body safely,
and when the chores of living crossed off,
then only
ready and somewhat good,
dust the piano,
dig out pen and paper
from the kitchen drawer of miscellania,
and let the reign of poetry
rekindle the Phoenix's ashes