Grace Before Meals
Sunday afternoon, a year ago.

Early but late afternoon, end of July sun still high enough
to provide a loving and kind warmth through fractus clouds,
But doing double duty and
Supplying continuous eye candy via
riots of razzle-dazzles glistenings upon the prima facie of
my friend, my boon companion,
my bay.

Sitting on a weathered Adirondack chair,
grayed like me, a solitary outpost,
our third Musketeer,
it so belongs where I find it, in the corner of the yard,
hard by a white picket fence and footed by
an out cropping,    
a patch of wild grass uncarpeted, we are aligned,
the chair and I, in so many ways,
we accompany each other
beach-facing, one unit,
designed by man but
nature-made of, and signed by her in a cursive, gentle script as follows:

Quiet, please, for this is
a place of our mutual
quiet contemplation.

These regal chairs are tinged with green moss stains,
as I am tinged with silver streaks
so we laugh at each other
and we laugh together,
delighted to share
the grandeur of the pleasure of
the exactness of this precise moment.

The bay claps its waves
in honor of the symmetry
of the trinity of man, wood and water,
a more perfect union

My woman calls to me,
supper is ready and
I smell the onions and the raisins
and the love that singes our shared salted air

With deep regrets and promises solemn,
Adieu, Adieu my friends, bay and chair, sunlight extraordinaire,
wait for me!
This poem but my R.S.V.P.
an oath of return sworn,
for I am man, placed here only
to sing the praises of my earthly delights,
my truest friends,
I sing of thy grace,
Grace Before A Meal

Liars and thieves
full of selfish greed
found the need
to butcher and feed
on every inch of my integrity.
So I repay the fee
with eloquent misery
and conjure poetry
calibrated for the annihilation
of my enemy.
Yet in the end
the truth be told,
the greatest enemy
is me.

Games

that landed on the chalk mark
you could see all the way from here
but there is no actual field of play
the games are built on fear

it hit the very top of the net
and bounced and that isn't fair
but there is no hardened clay or grass
and there is no painted square

it landed west of the foul pole
just ask these people there
but there are few real spectators
and even fewer really care

it's when you pretend that you are real
and your thoughts are so sincere
then you vanish your heart safely tucked
so very far from here

games have been around for a very long time
they are as old as the human race
it's so hard to understand
when they're played right in your face

like you don't matter one little bit
hey so you'll never see me again
that makes it so easy to bend the rules
and I thought you were my friend

no peanuts popcorn or ******* jacks
not one single special prize
you feel quite fine lying to me
while you look right in my eyes

the first to score a touchdown
or the first to touch home plate
I sure hope you feel better now
you've closed the entry gate

so the games will continue on
a new town another face
you might tip your hat to the crowd
on your next trip to first base

Gomer Lepoet...

Seven New Poems for Seven Days #2: Hover^*

My Children:

Ancestral homes oft possess,
a unique scent, product of an atomizer, a memorizer

Musty time, the odor of
faded and shadow,
hollow, yet hallowed.

Somewhere along the road,
a residence transforms from home to
shrine-storage unit-hospital room-tomb-records depository.

Dust, expired perfumes,
the sweet odor of crumbling, yellowing books, disinfectant,
stale medicine chests, years of furniture polish, sabbath candles.

It is my smell -
the parfumerie of my history, a customized blend,
a commissioned work in 1964, entitled, more accurately, emitted,
"Her-Story."

Photographs, memories, and paper scraps
my very own Preservation Hall Jazz Band.
Yet the most potent firing pin for historical retrieval,
the molecules of scent.

Soon all will be dismantled, discarded,
just plain dis'ed.

Confused and disenchanted,
my departure orderly but, in a disordered fashion.
unable to seed one last kiss upon your forehead,
nonetheless, surreptitiously enter your neurons
though my entity, away, across the miles-wide Hudson River.

For three days, I will hover invisible,
implanting myself once more,
slapping your mucous membranes,
transversing this pathway, an additive to your cells, nuclei,
where my markers always reside.

Adding one more ingredient to your inner vision,
strengthening the formless structure, my altered state.
This odor, keep close, fresh, no becoming musty too, my scent,
the last of your senses knowing me, a true keepsake.

Hold me close and hold me fast.
This one last magic spell I cast.
This one last magic smell I set fast.
You cannot hold it, but it will cradle you.
You cannot see or touch it, but when contact comes,
You will see me, hold me, as in the days of your youth,
When you loved me best,
And I, you.