red glasses suit you just right
and, here, in loud silence of thought and thought
our tongues curl up to fitful slumbers
still sky secretive, chapped with dawn,
nightly gowns suit you just right
but, here, when old moon buckles after long nights’ wanderings
and you stir me no more
I wonder if I will mourn
still, rose serenity will be your name
but I wonder if I will mourn
when marigolds no longer open at your touch
and if do
do so lazily
when hours go by and days then weeks go by
without sweet gusts of you
gentle witchcraft of your swift glances,
and timidly bubbling stews of mine
still, some bits or more of stench
in strange hours of nights will sway
and drag me back back back
and I wonder if I will mourn

an itching, tickling fear it is
that these bees will feed the flowers one day
and the honeyed ache that I have come to like
will be blood and bone again
red glasses
red glasses you will soon replace, and
these words will be yours no more
nor mine, nor mine, oh,
how tearing the future— yet

how cruel the present— yet how cruel
we
you will not talk
and I sneak away into thought
then the spells wait and wait, and the bees
I will myself to forget

I can always fit in,
But I’d rather stand out.

It is not worth it
If I’m not happy.

After a fine early dinner I had
fallen asleep in my easy chair.
The house was hot when I awoke.
Stepping outside onto the porch,
the valley was bathed in golden
departing light, our Hazel Nut
orchard was alive with dancing
leaves of fluttering green, like flags
of a million tiny ships upon an ocean.

The cool brisk breeze from the West
off the sea embraced me with it's
invigorating freshness, I breathed
deeply and smiled as perhaps only
an old man can within such a realized
moment of absolute peace and perfection.

Isn’t it strange
how in this brief exchange
of the creative impulse
we gain
a certain kind of intimacy
with each other
yet we never
smell each other
shake hands
breathe the same air
put up with personal idiosyncrasies
and off-putting voice inflections –
all the things our friends and loved ones have to.

Yet here we occupy hearts and minds
many of our friends and loves do not know
with such closeness, interiority, and connectedness.

What a strange and magnificent gift!

With hearts on the line
weaved within stanza

a poem becomes present
love bleeding, love forever.

Combinations, badly put
Assume dimension, found afoot,
The very stuff of human kind's
Ability to see ... whilst blind.

For instance, take the last four years
Where insanity drove dulcet fears,
Keelhauling reason's rationale
Beyond the realm, beyond the pale.

Consider this, Sir, if you will,
Fascination's trough of swill
Where every man beneath the sun,
Under the pillow, keeps a gun?

Intriguing how, across the globe,
Despite sophistication's robe,
Pandemic rages forth, unchecked,
To foolishness's disrespect.

Futility of righteous flame
In seeking absolution's claim
By whispering in hallowed ear
Thy Catholic sins in shades of fear.

East / West drowning in distrust,
Wall Street terrified of bust,
California's deep disdain
Of climate change's promised flame.

Some you win, some you lose
Wisdom depicts those who choose
Sink or swim, the game decrees,
Observing mankind on his knees.

Combinations, badly put
Assume dimension, found afoot,
The very stuff of human kind's
Ability to see ... when blind.

M.
Foxglove, Taranaki NZ
12 July 2021

I have today grown old.
I was never told,
Make every day count.
I counted days,
Missed some years,
My advice may fall on deaf ears
To those who know how to live their lives.
Everyday. Everyway.
It's not easy.
I recognize the mantle
On my children's faces;
See them counting milestones,
Running theirs through the paces.
How do I tell them
Count every day,
and not count every day;
But make every day count?