for yasaman yohari
salute jahari,
jewel flowering faithful in our desert of the quiet misbegotten,
where more most eyes closed by sandstorms torrents of...

this child Jasmine girl, oh!
how I adore her happiest melodic smile,
eyes are opening, gleaming black dots so white bright,
explicitly explicably mystery perfect,
either could substitute for our shared sun master,
or our shy, face changing, hiding traveling moon

listen so carefully to the melodies
of a tired old man, why, no idea,
it has no literature, can paint no drawings,
yet somehow, his yasaman heart blossoms
pricked to revival, renewal, at your devotion,
deepest affection
so a bargain struck

the old gent,
wise in the way of words,
gladly will tutor you in an  
accented peculiar New York English,
if you can teach him how
a brother can - to- for-
a sister, a family,
love with joy brimful pure,
an added recompense,
I will take her Persian name as well

all my poems are prayers on a good fun-Sunday

or a piece thereof;
wishes or curses,
longings, hopes, and a boatload of
'wouldn't it be loverly'

absent tho the conditional,
the if -then continuum,
no promises or persuasive pressures,
deal making sort of pointless
as words are directed internal to the
stew, the mix of matter and sensibility,
that seems to try and semi-govern me,
my own game controller Xbox apparatus

risen Sunday morn church in bed
first poem prayer issued,
a prone proclamation:

let me always allay
the needs of others owed
before mine owned

I like it,

maybe I'll call it commandment #110,
which means got all day to come up
with a couple more - good fun-Sunday*


 6d Nat

bring her an ensemble,
brioche and cafe au lait
'À la manière des Français'

an unexpected surprise,
on a weekend

the messenger, me,
recommends  le dunkin',
insertion of the bread into
the morning liqueur pre-sipping

"I don't like wet bread"

she states officially,
in tone strident and reproving,
even gravelly gravitas-aly,
and to me-self, inside thinking,
softee softee...

what other dark secrets doth this vixen harbor?

march 26 2017 10:11 am

 6d Nat
SE Reimer 


a crystal cradle slowly falls,
from an indigo sky;
coyote’s distant howl,
blends his primal song,
with the whoot, whoot of the owl;
desert minstrels, keeping beat,
with cricket and cicada’s chorus.
above, a dark horse grazes,
in a field of ancient stars;
and below, encroaching mists
gather in the waving grasses,
crouching... waiting to devour,
all who venture near.
the endless whisperings,
of the brook, stream of
ageless waters, tell of tales
of distant ice and snow,
far above these thirsty plains.
aurora’s blend their magic,
their enchanting flame,
dancing in the rising ethers;
mesmerizing sleepy eyes,
a shepherdess is lulled away;
transported by her distant dreams.
dawn’s approach she fails to hear,
’til it's much too late;
when songbirds of the desert,
now seated in this orchestra,
sing her sleeping soul awake.


post script.

watching the set of a cradle moon on a late night return from the rolling hills of Central Oregon’s high desert last month prompts just enough lines to keep these images alive, until i am able to give them complete thought and words this morning.  aside from fatigue, i love driving at night.  197’s winding crossing down to the Deschutes at Maupin and then it's descent into The Dalles beside a wide Columbia; these, and my longing to be home beside my wife, keep me from sleep driving, alone with my thoughts and imagination.  though rare to Oregon, there are times of year when the aurora borealis pushes its way far enough south to be viewed on moonless nights.

flexing flummoxing freaking insatiable pleasuring


didn't write these words
some other me created

woefully admit l,
in them, yet, I believed
in them,
as a piece of my soul,
once removed

wearily confess I,
the absence of flummoxing, infuriating confusion,
understanding instant with perfect illusion,
what they mean
the flexing of insatiable pleasuring

of the why
now, one more added,
the mystery, one molecule lessened,
the irrational irritation of the princess pea in my soul,
the flexing flummoxing freaking insatiable pleasuring
of writing

only love poetry

april one 2 nought seventeen

“I can calculate the movement of stars, but not the madness of men.”   Sir Isaac Newton

I can, but only of my own,
the orbits of the stars
within my envisioned mind,
this anti-expanding universe
this black hole of anti-matter
collapsing inward, the gravitational pull calculable
where I, madman creator,
am the sole witness mine self-destruction

I summon fate, luck, random numbers to the dock,
but all pleadingly state it wasn't me,
"I was somewhere else, had to be,
you cannot see my mathematical probability,
ergo i am definitionally
not capable of being guilty-
my orbit of madness
non transferable to you-mans"

who then can I blame?

for-seen poems every where,
upon on every face lay dime store words of bad novellas,
awake to work in dread,
return from it more deadened
and the piety pointy poetry pills
refusing to cooperate,
and the madness equation
has too many answers viable

what shall I title this poem?

oh! woe is me and woe is thee,

this noble, royal but blighted line,
this now benighted House of York,
its reign hath ended,
its famous, familiar format felled by an
enhancing, advancing Tudor technology blade,
and now lays bloodied in Bosworth Field,
both Richard III and
his Boswell biographer,
Sir Eliot of York,
no more,
unto history's flocculent dust of bones and
lost manuscripts
now forever

the lathe of mocking shouts of
"Long Live the King,"
cut the fingertips still searching too many
pull down menus,
all penned in a modern
faint hearted font

these guides,
some above and some below,
their exact location discoverable
only by the pain of new childbirth,
not worthy Maestro,
of the indignity
of trial and error

'pon my soul, these menus,
alas, give no guidance intuitive on
how to save this, my newest folio,
in the lady-in-waiting status of

history is a usurping, scheming Mother Queen,
seeking power advantageous for her own issue,
but new bloodlines gain ascendancy inevitable,
but this focal turning point,
came upon us yeoman folk unannounced,
like a medieval black plague slaughtering
our poetic composure -
why were we not consulted?

hath England not taught us plainer folks,
the singular lesson of tradition,
the value immense of retaining
what has gone before,
that all hallowed must be kept,
and some changes
turned aside,
another cheek of change,
must be refused!
'tis no accident of fate
that the Crown Jewels
in the Tower
do reside,
the selfsame place many other
Kings and Queens
were Tudor dispatched to meet a bloody end

the smiling, soothing sayers
gentle the troubled masses,
with whimsy and whimpers of
"this too shall pass,"
and promises that the contempt of familiarity,
shall soon enroll and enfold
all untended and now untenured objections

but my memories yet mourn the loss of
simpler times and a simple place that welcomed an Ameddican
back in nought '13, and where he has placed his trust
in its servers and its Yorkshire servant to keep his
thousand plus poems pillowed safe

so no more changes,
by your leave,
do not forget the no longer mighty Tudors,
were themselves felled by times childless ravages,
no more emendations,
if you please,
lest these hoary hairs mine yet turn,
a whiter shade of pale

surely undesired,
yet one more revolution
from these formerly
English shores to come arising,
haunting thine
venerated palaces of poetry!

seriously, I like the new format though I must say finding my way around on a small iPhone is not trial and error, but trial by fire!
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