Waves caress my feet,
ever so gently,
wind murmurs words of love
to me,
the sun kisses my soul
so warmly.

Within this ocean of affection,
my thoughts tremble,
but my heart yearns
to drown deep,
lost in the ebb.

how much poem can
one propose, compose & dispose
of in an Apple watch timed
inchoate incontinent inconstancy
tide-pool of multiplying amoebic minutiae
of a single minute

can you cram a lifetime of
an everything
without filling
the centrific center,
the holy totality trinity ethereal of
birth ~ life ~ death,
one
entirety capsular
summary?

Not I, derided He,
124 drafts accumulated
of a life
heretofore and a
thousands poems scripted
and a thousands yetto come
hereafter!


If only,
I could have loved it better...

a hand without a palm,
a smiley face with a ----
for a mouth, a
headless horseman who
passion rides country roads at night,
but sees no one and no thing

the title is a poem's crown,
full of hint and mystery,
an encapsulation of a poem's
source and origination;
do not mot~send us little pearls
unstrung, for the beauty
so greatly
amplified, when their lustre
is so
great fully magnified
when
strung together in to a lace necklace shape,
clasped by the overture of
the meeting of
the beginning to an end

the title is a mystery, a provocation,
a first bite intended to arouse,
a first kiss upon a neck that tremors
our souls with unanticipated shivering delights, and an ending to which we return with sighed satisfaction, and the cloture and aclosure, and a smile of
ah, I get it!

entitle us to the puzzling delight
that a title hints at what surely will
follow!

~for old poets every where

I'm a short burst deep sleeper,
the woman is a restless wild eyed story telling schemer~dreamer, who drives at night
in fourth gear,
shaking the bed,
with dreams gone wild,
crazed & crazy intermixed stories unhinged but always
real life related

most by morn forgotten,
'cept for the truly bizarre,
where scraps of unbridled unbelievable
remain for head shaking disbelieving

i sleep in clumps,
four hour sessions and thus oft
bear witness to her
charcoal activated dream states,
where physical reality intersperses,
i n t e r m i n g l e s
with her dream life,

when she wrestles with an
unreal
dreamed restlessness;
my fingers find an exposed
body part, arm, shoulder, tummy,
and steady massage a message
from my fingertips to her
brain,

mantra: it's ok, it's alright,
and return her to the safety
of a deeper sleeper,
so the brain can do its work,
washing away the unrefined,
needy for distilling,
overnight cleansing,
of unwanted memories
which generally works

in the thorny morny morning
she gets a questionnaire
and 9/10,
has no recollection collection,
my magic prophylactic
fingertips, each tipped with
a inked smiley face,
look up at me,
know-it-alls,
smirking contentedly,
"our work is done here!"

Nay, May 25
2025
writ by starlight

First Official s u m m e r Saturday,
weather personas correctly (!) advertise two hours of
sunny morning before the clouded
vanilla parchy brow of the sky
occludes any May
summertime fantastical notions

Sun low in the eastern sky crests at
acute angles,
and spills rays thru the tree'd
frothy cappuccino branches, which
under the influence of drunken
substantive gusts, shakes the rays
on the bright green lawn stage, casting a huge patchwork of shadows, and it's easy to conceive
many tall giant ballerinas dancing in a chaotic disharmonious modern choreography

Perhaps it's a Parson's choreo,
more likely the akimbo nature
of the motion motif,
a Body Traffic concoction

But the sun is gone by 9:30am,
the green stage is now just a
plain old green screen,
the shadowy ballerinas banished,
and my hand held porcelain mug,
frames the denuded scene,
only the invisible wind remains
to say:

oh it's you human,
back in para-dise,
did you expect perfection
of hot sun & hot coffee
awaiting your return?

East come, Easy West go,
this version of my true unheated coloration disappoints,
but I wait in on/no human,
said the triumvirate,
that rule the sky,

on this island of perpetual sunsets,
we do not guarantee a seating
of matched sets,
but visit with us tomorrow,
with poem praiseworthy,

and then,
again,
who ever knows?