That is what poets do

They romanticize pain
They idealize the torment

There is solace in darkness
Which they craft to enlighten;

Lure with words
The forlorn is adorned
Guilt is charming
Mistakes rewarding

That part that is revolting
The best line in their poems.

That is what poets do

They embellish heartbreak
To cement the heartache

But as soon as they leave their paper
and beautiful words captivated readers

Life can no longer render
The adequate metaphor
Agony is agony;

There is no substitute for it.

Sitting down to a game
that neither of us knew how to play ..

I could be some relief
To Fantasy in chief
Commanding ships spur
And all who sail in her
I could twist and dismiss and insist
I could enlist opposition to resist what now exists
But I could not try
And inspire any real reaped desire
Only brusque verse or something wrier
I could not slink and hint and smoulder
I now think what I would evince is far colder
No feminine wiles
Just the end of the smiles
And the bell  of reality's child
Sounding loud to astound a man
Resiled from the myth of desires plans
Would a reflection of your own ***** affections
Of lip curled, showing familiar perfection
Of a tone deep, making lone directions
Be to Fantasy's fan planned infection?
Or does the candle light these perceived shames,
Setting the secret world of 'wanting' aflame?

**** plunging short black dress,
Maroon lipstick, just so,
Perfume sprayed
Just a hint here, here and also here,
Clutching the purse
she steps out;
Entrapment laid.

There he awaits,
blinded by beauty and lust,
not aware
the trap has been set.

A light brush of cheeks,
perfume inhaled deeply,
Smitten, trapped.

Coyly smiling,
this is too easy, she thinks.

I live in that
tiny margin
between
the haves and
the homeless.
It makes
an interesting
but precarious
life. There is
no room for error.
A bad tooth,
a dead car and
things can
fall apart.
But you learn
to trust your
luck and wits.
It is like a
long range
wartime patrol
where any
surprises
will be bad.
Even so
I like it:
want little,
need little,
be happy.
Poetry and
a great fat cat.
When I make it
to my next
social insecurity
check with
more than
five dollars
remaining
in my account
I am joyous.
There are
far worse endings.
Just an old monk
from the last
century
trying to
survive a while
longer yet
in this
strange new one,
just breathing
until I'm not
anymore.

   ~mce