"I swear it's not to late"

a daily morning prayer,
given up to no one in particular,
spake with varying levels of
conviction and derision,
confidence, disbelief and indecision

this old standard,
in no hymn book found,
but mine own,
where. hostage-kept,
in some left brain corner stored,
from a well trod path place retrieved

curse-swears
this companion-in-arms
but not my friend no more,
mockingly full-on, these crackling, plastered,
cackling four white walls,
have long since
ceased the enumeration count of
this particular daily devotion's repetition

best left unsaid, they warn,
in case you weary tire of its utterance,
noting that even anti-hope
can also reverse spring eternal,
some things best bitterer~sweet remembered
by absence

and yet these words,
from some fissure crack peek, leak, then
gushingly screamingly escape,
"I swear it's not too late,"

**** these glorious sunny mornings,
demanding my acknowledging presence,
by accepting only this particular, solitary brief tribute,
as my daily surrender to the sun's yellowed blue
amniotic fluids freshness

so I sip my alone-coffee,
listening to the morning news,
that will be forgotten by noon,
but my brain thumps, the body thrums,
in the everywhere I seek to hide,
this cursed blessed almost forsaken but not yet forsook
un cri pour d'amour,
taunts me, haunts me, just say it,

"I swear it's not too late,"

~

<>


nearby distant,
the soft thrash of warm waves
lapping interlocking,
happily wet tongue kissing,
sun-oven precision-crisping
the Long Island striped bass
and porgies, at a surreal cooling
77 degrees

Pandora synced to his eyes,
shuffling freely,
by saying
we too see!!
playing for him,
Stairway to Heaven (Led Zeppelin)

poor, poor poet,
strains to brain drain one more time,
conducting an ogling googling word search
for those combinatory storied ones that
sailboat glide
all the while
wildly bursting with Pellegrino effervescence

compromising sounds sights,
to present
properly the balance,
to preserve
properly this moment,
peaceful alive for all times,
as poet has tried,
and failed so many times before...

the caw caw caw of the crow mocks the illiterate human,
for the bird calls it, in single sound perfect and
the human a laughingstock,
for not in his possess,
to capture this perfect moment
of human sabbath.

a Roman Saturn day of rest,
on this day that itself,
is perfection,
perfect for celebrating our common creation,
on a day that our
almost-all-agreed-upon calendar
is marked for us to
forte rest,
from an existence of just laborious

the chubby checkered cheeked squirrels
laughingly pauses,
watching, enjoying a poet's struggle,
mind boggle,
the poet's chubby cheeks
stuffed with discarded words,
all insufficient to capture
the absolution of
absolute beauty

bathing in the noisiest of nature's sounds,
all that contravene the silence of living things,
breathing prayerful thoughts that all
summary end,
with a common gesture of
forefinger upon the lips

a human acknowledgment of
utter obeisance to the forces
calling out by example

listen, see!

silently presenting,
this,
this!!

a day that demanded perfection

And The Hungry Ocean Spoke:

sea the human modifier,
each wave,
a dance choreographed,
a fomented friction, a whitecap invitation,
dispelling man made fictions,
repititiously reminding to:

remember, ascertain, fail, try again,
to reckon the imprecise place
you occupy upon this Earth
and be ever wave grateful

you-man, speck sized,
suffer tenderly these unceasingly reminders,
provisions of stiff winds,
soft slaps of gusting humility
coming from a roughened atmosphere

perspective, not selective,
sea how much loss I have
eons stored for you-man

has time's tenure insufficient
to yet teach you-man,
to the one conclusion bring,
kindness towards a living thing,
is the life's solitary methodology
to survive upon our shared principality?

oh desperately,
this hungry ocean, inquires:

what advantage does
your kingdom of the shore provide,
upon both the soft soil and the hard boil water,
doth not life and death mutually coexist
beneath my watery bounds,
yet killing for pleasure
here has no measure,
unlike your cursed you-man
internecine interactions

you, man, every-one, and each
a cornerstone, an etched mark so slight,
footprint in the sand, a shifting, imperfect, yet lasting,
molecular impression for all time

all time,
till the next second, the next air lifting, the next wave,
our creator's begging method of commanding,
surrender your Babel Tower's mortal arrogance

I am not human, yet I am modified.

each wave an accusation.

Oh Orlando!

what have you-men become,
infinitesimal but universal,
sparking containers of miraculous
creation breathing,

what justifications
do your bloodied solutions
that be no answers, provide?

here you-man
come once more to my irregular edges,
to replenish regularly my stores.
with your unwanted salted tears,
the sullied bodies of thy children,
mourning deaths you have fostered

Oh Orlando!

weeping, weeping,
even as your pulse's fury speedth,
every dance must end,
for to time subservient,
even as time ever forwards,
living men must slow weaken...

live by the sea,
die by the sea,
come unto me only as,
unruined mortals,
worn only by happy ending of
molecular disintegration,
the sweetness of time's decay,
a recording completed,
your resolute dancing resolved

come unto me
only from deaths
which one cannot void
but come concluded peaceful

Oh Orlando!*

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shakespeare­ Sonnet LXIV

When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced
The rich proud cost of outworn buried age;
When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed,
And brass eternal slave to mortal rage;
When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
And the firm soil win of the watery main,
Increasing store with loss, and loss with store;
When I have seen such interchange of state,
Or state itself confounded to decay;
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate
That Time will come and take my love away.
This thought is as a death which cannot choose
But weep to have that which it fears to lose.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Wild animals never **** for sport. Man is the only one to whom the torture and death of his fellow creatures is amusing in itself.” James Anthony Froude (British historian, 1818-1894)

~~~
June 12 ~ 18, 2016
Shelter Islamd

also inspired by Jessica Lang,
Choreographer

Dan Fogelberg – Leader Of The Band Lyrics

An only child alone and wild, a cabinet maker's son
His hands were meant for different work
And his heart was known to none
He left his home and went his lone and solitary way
And he gave to me a gift I know I never can repay

A quiet man of music denied a simpler fate
He tried to be a soldier once, but his music wouldn't wait
He earned his love through discipline, a thundering velvet hand
His gentle means of sculpting souls took me years to understand

The leader of the band is tired and his eyes are growing old
But his blood runs through my instrument and his song is in my soul
My life has been a poor attempt to imitate the man
I'm just a living legacy to the leader of the band

My brother's lives were different for they heard another call
One went to Chicago and the other to St Paul
And I'm in Colorado when I'm not in some hotel
Living out this life I've chose and come to know so well

I thank you for the music and your stories of the road
I thank you for the freedom when it came my time to go
I thank you for the kindness and the times when you got tough
And papa, I don't think I said I love you near enough

The leader of the band is tired and his eyes are growing old
But his blood runs through my instrument and his song is in my soul
My life has been a poor attempt to imitate the man
I'm just a living legacy to the leader of the band
I am a living legacy to the leader of the band

Songwriters: Fogelberg, Dan
Leader Of The Band lyrics © EMI Music Publishing