typo of the first degree
meant to type passed,
better to letter the error,
write the poem you knew
was the one of the litter inside,
stewing & brewing in the internal
of you, regardless of the woulda
shoulda coulda of poetic eye~hand~brain
trinity of discombobulation…

we passed a 110% good-god-
another-glorious-day—perfect
in every aspect of deep respect,
lazing in sun and shade, no
matter, for the cool customer
of gentling breeze comforts
the global populace and each
draws comfort, deposits solace,
from the timeless day that slowly
slips inside us, a blessing for the
senses, that are inadequate to
praise it properly, ‘cept with a
nod of appreciation for the great
blessing that on us has been
bestowed…

we read, I write, bring her a
coffee unasked, for the chip
secreted by me in her temporal
lobes, lobs me a silent alarm:
snacks required!

we heartily dinner debate,
turkey burgers or mushrooms better?  
Bun, No Bun?
Salad ingredients  consumes a
de minimus 5 minutes before the
holy silence of our total environment,
soothes the phony discordiality of our
pretense, that there are two sides here,
not just hers, no matter what🙄
any diplomatic observer might
think…

the bunnies sense our presence,
emerging from the cool dark
of the shaded burrows dug beneath
our redwood deck, & get fed baby carrots,
that they pretend not to see until the babies
are summoned, from beneath the ledge!!!

the deck, that is now in its forty fifth year,
grows ancient stronger with a good annual,
steam blasting face lift, bettering with age,
keeping pace with the creatures resting on it,
just above the bunnies below’s steerage deck,
though the humans graceful age with no
artifices or outside help, except the air,
its salty flavoring, and the panoramic view’s
total encompassed comforting…

so the day passes, and it’s added
to our cull of perfection, distinctly
better than the day prior but who
can be sure, not I, for the poems
come easy, the music delivers delight,
the books read, additive to the engine
of the human body of know-more-ledge,
weighty matters, but zero caloric, and
thus, well deserved and served for dinner’s
chatter banter + desert with caramel M&M’s (1)

and the poet signals that the poem near complete,
and the trad sign off, today unnecessary, no need to query,

Where is Shelter?

for we are all a day wiser, and smile,
the answer before and inside us,
and the only open question remaining,
can heaven be better, and we secret wink,
cause the answer is. too obvious to we restees,
here, here is heaven, and go back to giving thanks
for our lucky stars…

My wife agreed to marriage counseling before the great divorce,
and of course, she picked the counselor.  This is it; one session, one shot at redemption.  I waited with bated breath for the day to arrive.
It did.  We met at his office, where hope was dashed to shreds like a ship
on a coral reef, like dreams of domestic bliss made of glass and shattered on the kitchen floor with no broom to sweep them up.
We shouldn't get lawyers and go to court.  We should have a funeral and sing, Rock of Ages, because divorce is the death of a family.

The room is nice and cold as ice, and he's friendly, boisterous, and bold, but here's the clincher, he wore an eye patch.  Maybe he had surgery or some type of injury, but everything he said was drowned out by the voice in my head that screamed, "He looks like a pirate, and no ******* pirate is going to tell me how I should have been a better husband."  I quickly scanned the room for a cage where he kept his parrot, which usually sat on his shoulder and sang old songs of the sea.  I glanced at his right hand, but conveniently it was hidden by the desk.  Now I was sure.  It wasn't a hand at all, but a hook, that he used to scratch his ***, or to spear the shreds of broken lives left over from a long day's work.  His hand was probably a casualty, lost on a voyage to a shark he tried to advise.

I leaned over and whispered in my wife's ear, "Where did you find this ******* nut. Long John Silvers?"  The humor eluded her like the sunken treasure did the old sea dog that sat across from me.  I swore if he said, "Aye aye matey."  I would smack him, and jack his ship, and maybe my wife and I would sail south to the Caribbean, not to the ride at Disneyland, Pirates of the Caribbean, but to the islands, where we would lie **** on the sandy beaches and drink Pina Coladas, or some other fruit-filled umbrella drink, until we were so drunk we couldn't see straight, and all our problems would sink like the setting sun into a brand new horizon.  But the old scalawag had no pirate lingo, so the hour came and went, our money was poorly spent, and it was lunchtime, and I was bent on seafood.

in my accustomed position
edge of deck, facing Northeast,
sun rises on my left, it’s  an
early barely warm,
a hopeful leading indicator of a
summer’s day coming resurrection

except? but! it is a windy 68°F
now redefined as effin’ freezing,
to an old navy man’s seasonal attire
well worn droopy and holey
t-shirt & shorts,
but overlaid, today in a wrapper-ed
of a wooly  blanket, purchased on
Amazon,
(whom neglected to advise,
that it will shed
like an eight year old
who has just
embraced the efficacy
the greatest of ease
of telling tiny
white lies frequently)

the ancien regime of erstwhile
(what is that exactly?)
better known as yesterday’s glory,
when pores poured forth streams
of coppertoned stories of
caramel vanities,
lead old fools to contemplate
perspective, something they do
with increasing frequency,
when
they remember
when
etc.

you dishonestly write of the vagaries of a 68°F perspective?  

a heaven for a mayday,
now a cursed starter, inhibiting,
predicting a wintery foretelling of
dreary dregs of a Great Lake
never-ending, graybeard
eternal winter’s sky
(sooo depressing)

and even though the
acorns of August(1)  are
plentiful. a surety that
back to school sales are
soon starting, i grasp my
summer vibes in a
tight forlorn of
yellowing old newspaper
wrapping of pleadings,
“stay, stay just a bit longer”

and though you would
think, believe, with aging
brings the perspective
to accept the changes
of seasons, body, technology,
and the wisdom not to write
foolish poems

but the Zombies defer,
making me deep recall,
the ones that got away
saying perspective is
a second cuz to perspicacity,

and even though,
“She’s Not There,”
reliving pain,
any many of the gone but
variety kind,
it is a necessary
to qualify if only
to be reminded
a necessity for we
old, only humans

no matter the degree
we live through our
perspectives