(when John Prine met Tom Wait) The Drawdown Day

sun starts this day like a good one, hallelujah,
a June bug, sweet summer honey, praise-pinging
the lord for speckling the grass with sunlight breaches,
thru the standing tall oak trees branches banner waving.

go outside to grab me some rays, burn off some privilege,
two towels, one white solid as an orchid, fresh cleaned,
one joseph coat of many colors, striped, saying ‘looke here.’
Sun saw me coming, immediately call it quits. high tailing, gone.

the partly cloudy curse of weird light, making you squint,
that ***** the desire out of ya to do anything, only thing left
is to waste the day thinking all day about doing nothing, which
is the most tiring thing I’d ever done, cause there ain’t solution.

the devices crackle, hoot and holler, saying severity is a-coming,
thunderstorms from the city sent, 100-miles  traveling, straight to you,
should be there around about three o ‘clock, give/take, mostly taking
whatever solace hanging about, hope, loving and good expectations.

sure’nuf rain drops, big as overfed suckling pigs, ****** on windows,
silent tho, making sure you’d be looking why, thru glassine windows,
signal intentions to make something all-hell-to-pay, raising cain,
goodly cain which bytheby ain’t accidental, doubt? sub in pain.

ole lousy whether, does any of of this really matter?
ole lousy whether, does any of of this really matter?
I hope so, I hope not, that’s the trouble with watching
the wether or not, it just freaking hopeless, like asking,
where did the time go?


forget to mention the wind, which makes the wind even more pissy,
rattling my eyeglasses, not just the whole house, makes my beard a-twitching, the trees **** unhappy losing children from this war, all their drowned bodies, now field litter, casualties of a drawdown day.

the light weirder still, more aglow midst of darkening, you say gawd!
he ain’t nowhere to be found ‘cept I guess everywhere’s, which is the sameness as saying nowhere’s which is god’s **** good hidey-hole,
just like every animal that skedaddled hours before, also gone, gone.

how does a stormy day bring such misery and pain, and in my head,
saxophones wailing ‘hell no,’ but the heavens, shut up tight, no noise
getting in, only getting out, at my soul, saying you, you justshutup
and write about ***** for *****, women & men love-hurting and the

ole lousy whether, does any of of this really matter?
ole lousy whether, does any of of this really matter?
I hope so, I hope not, that’s the trouble with watching
the wether or not, it just freaking hopeless, like asking,

where did the time, the drawdown day go?

i am here
in interlocked imagery,a cascading of falling senses
a rapid kinesthesia, a  tumbling swirl of sensations
i outrun myself i pray
i corner myself i admit
i lead myself  
away from clamor, from bedlam
i do slow down
well, i try, i really do
from here,where the sea boils in cross currents of which ways
the tilted red buoy marks the spot
today it's only a warning ,not yet my grave
...small unsustainable rallies in the mornings
exhaustion by noon
its been a hundred plus days
of treading water
...i fight to keep pace
i practice and learn direct speech
there is no other way
but to reduce the matter further..collecting my strength
i will continue and not worry about my affect
how anyone might dare say
...please say nothing
simply to be heard
is enough
to be heard...to be heard
is all i ever wanted

Preamble: Compare and Contrast

compare and contrast,
the teacher asks us to
do this,
on a mid-term
exam and I am
                                  struck-up by a resonance combo, a commandment
                                  compare and contrast, somewhere an ineffable has
                                  ordered me to love poetry, in all/only honesty,
                                  in that uncertain way. without surcease.
                                    

                 ­                    functional verbs that a button pushed,
                                            a non-rhyme that sang out somehow
                                                “this is the writing life, this way, yours.”
                                    live and last.
  
with that single directive,
compare and contrast.
without surcease,
                   and your poem then,        has no The End.

Poet, can I reliably conclude that things are good, since you have stopped (estoppel) writing poetry?

~for her, whose muse has fled, but not to Canada, one more last time!~

<>

a writers block of a two-step dancing duration,
we stumble on her green light status,
she’s alive, she’s up in Canada, so
do the obligatory checkin in, checking out

and that It occurs my next question is
a superlative poem title challenge for
the lady with the eyebrow extensions,
and other ways she found to make me laugh

so for her, for me, and perhaps for you,
I commission myself with a task, knowing
not where this will demise eventually

can I reliably conclude that things are good,
since you have stopped writing poetry?

which is a ****** self-mockery cause my dopamine
levels are ***** high when Mercury is yet in
retrograde, my serotonin is sinkhole sinking
in anticipation of Saturn’s Return returning,
the solstice just passed by, my full moon
phase is super glue stuck in the fourth
house of/if the rising sun

if things ain’t *****, why write?
is its therapeutic healing power aside,
maybe, baby, one, or two, can one, reliably
conclude that things are good, now that
you have stooped to estop
writing your poetry?

God I hope so otherwise I’ve embarrassed myself,
wisely forgot to dedicate this you-inspired-silliness
(by name, gender, bio markers, tribal incantation)
with a serious undertone, and
a writ of estoppel attached,
but you know already this
ones just for you,
and your many
toddler children
to whom you
attend to daily,
as they draw
strength from
sun and rain,
dark soil and
you.

natty

p.s. always use your turning signals

when you’ve written too many poems
vaguest of recollections of the prior,
having not seen many for years,
till someone drops one on my path in a
wave-by-remember-me, did I write this?

all I know, all I’ve learned from this long gig,
the best poems from my fingertips that came
tap tap tapping, were the ones, the provocations,
driven by loving the poetry of others, or those
all about others.

my eager meager ain’t much to write home about,
but when your stuff is a trigger, gotta figure,
there’s a bottle in the ocean that just hit me
on the head, messaging me go forward,
pay thanks to those who evoke, yeah, provoke,
new spillages of inspiring gratitude for
relocating my New Moon Melange^

yep that’s it.


so is there
such a thing?
as re-remembering,
just knowing
my name is hard
(you understand),
the inspiration
oft forgot,
so I write it all
up and down,
insurance so to speak,
for re-remembering
when you stumble
on it, wont’t fumble.


yep that’s it.

read his stuff
https://hellopoetry.com/r-2/

n.b. nowadays I write here only in praise of others,
as the rewards are far greater than any of the meager
stuff I got  laying around.

a poem for his summer soul-stice
<>


self-confessed to the priest, we us, both, meeting
in the confess-******, wee needy for a solid projectile
purging, me, cause, I’m a plagiarist of inspiration

**** it every time a ce r tain poet writes,
its a sock to my multi faceted square sided~head,
discoloring my eye shadow, my maskara crazy running,
frustration, admiration, mortar and pestle pounded

into a white powder of unadulterated adultery with a
frothy topping of a jealousy muse laughing face, at me,
cappuccino made from bitter herbs and pink sea salt.

in eight lines the man accomplishes
what would take me eight, eight full
poems, even then, not coming close

still failing to retake his brevity skills,
his summer solstice way of seeing,
by keeping the dark away,
by inviting the dark in,
making it under duress,
spill the beans of his life’s
ironies, some hellish,
some not, all well kept,
in Georgia granite stoney face.

the softest steeling of words that irritates
me into a fine frenzy... what’s the use,
point made, in how he undresses
the eyes
into just outright gasping,

and that is the only
permissible comment emoji.


______

r

Her verse
I need to taste the salt
of her soliloquy
be drunk on the sobriety
of her verse
those words she writes
behind my eyelids
makes me want
to crawl inside her skin
and listen to her heartbeat.

Midnight, bright moon,
breeze slightly soothing
the heat of day.
Scent of fresh blossoms
perfume strong in the
garden air.

Crickets in fine tune,
as are the frogs,
performing their endless
concert of night music.

Reluctant to let it go,
the day is ended now,
nearly indistinguishable
from the days before,
or the one tomorrow.
Retired with too much
time on my hands, days
bleed one into another.

What did I accomplish
today? Not much by some
peoples measure, not even
my own. . . But for one,

Spent time with my youngest
grandson, we talked in earnest
of things that mattered to
him, concerns and fears,
12 year old little boy things.
I listened, cajoled, advised,
shared some mistakes and
stories of my own youth. We
laughed, oh how we laughed.

He hugged me upon leaving
with tears of happiness and
relief in his eyes, told
me he loved me, twice.

Just a small encounter,
yet I believe he will
remember, perhaps
even be a little inspired.

For me brief sweet moments
invested, filled with precious
renderings of this wonderfully
special wholly worthwhile day,
not at all wasted, or the same.

As sleep pervades my thoughts
I will recall and cherish his laughter.
Perhaps tomorrow we will do it again.