Ferry Me

Ferry me, but once more.

The last ferry rides of Indian Summer,
Always arrives on schedule which is
Always and precisely, too soon.

Then, the imprisonment months,
Sentence, indeterminate.

A Grand Jury trial of months,
I, and my co-defendant,
My sanity, this time, the Oddsmakers say,
Won't survive the lockup.

The source perfume of driftwood words,
Very ferry distinguishing marks,
Sails and seagulls, diesel fumes and saltwater,
Sunsets and seagrass, flying fish and multi-mollusks,
The stuffing of my summer turkey, the currants of
Poems and dreams, sad-eyed longings...

Now,
Evidence used by prosecution,
Confession freely uncoerced,
I Am A Summer Man
Adjudged and convicted,
Guilty of Winter's Discontent.

But it is these last few passages,
Not of words, but over water,
The absence thereof, crush, ravage,
Worse than any grey calendar captivity,
Forlornly, I mouth silently, repeatedly,
Ferry me, but once more.

The course, straightforward,
Voyager, but a few minutes, but long enough to
Love it deeply, need it like a fix,
The mania of the mainland left behind,
The island, thinly lit, more shadow than real,
The approaching dark, shelters, comforts, embraces.

Perhaps, likely, I deceive myself.
No matter how the island comforts,
The brain always rumbling,
Can never make stop questioning,
Prisoner of 24/7,
But it is lessened, left behind,
As I am ferried away both,
In body and in mind.

Turn around.
Extend your hand to the slower,
Lift up the weaker,
For he who shall be first in life,
Will always be last.

The Quantum Poetry Theorem

from a long time ago,
a thousand poems a priori.

Dedicated to you, Albert Einstein and the cast of TBBT, special thanks to the OWS movement.,
But especially to the few, the brave, geeks who write poetry in word and in equations.

Scruffy, yet ennobled,
my own 99% invade and
occupy all my senses,
in my eyesight encamped

sensing opportunity,
the 99 demand
that each shutter eye snap,
all nominal exhalations,
every quantum minutia perception,
be live streamed,
direct tv to you

Everything I witness,
transformed into an
acoustic guitar rocking vision,
a levitation of poetic expression,  
set to a primitive three-chord
rock & roll overture,
and my iPad,
appointed Recording Secretary,
compiles exhalations as ecrivations

a preservation society of the verb,
strings of words emanating non-stop
within my head, from a guitar playing
twenty four seven, ironically,
expressed mathematically

Street strolling,
busy brasserie bar,
a Pinot Noir arrives,
a large pour of
stanzas and a
napkin upon to scribble

mind in ferment but
A Capella smooth cool,
my bossy brain requires
incident reports,
a "write me down, please,"
and

no matter how much I drink,
ain't anti-matter enough to
stop my eyes from seeing
every human interaction
as a poetic, probabilistic,
verbal equation,
quantum expressions of sensory upload

The brain revels and reels from overload,  
no mas, no more,
poetry fatigue incurable,
caplets and ointments,
string theory,
can't cure or explain
the compulsion I feel,
and the 1% of me
protests my
overtaxed mental capacity,
and

hear the, see the, masses,
the shouts, the placards,
outside my home,
shut it down, no one cares,
no one wants your transplanted mechanics
in their eardrums

Huzzah, found in my gut,
a Grand Unifying Theory
to coordinate, gauge  and harmonize
my internal asymmetries,
yes, a coupling factor required,
but still,
one equation that explains everything!

my fatigued, pointy, index finger
refuses to tap any more,
my Theory of Everything,
and my poetry, forgot, overlooked.
in my library buried,
black holed, forever silence-stored

Time and Place (To Say Goodbye)

You know where I am ensconced,
In my nook, in my solar system,
By the bay.

My love, my life's interloper,
Who divided black from everything,
My creditor, comes upon me silently,
Checking upon her investment,
This sneak attack, holy anticipated.

The music, unfettered by earbuds,
Plays for all who share the moment,
But it plays for her, specially.

When she arrives, Madame Butterfly
Fills the air, before extinguishing life.

When entering the Kingdom of My Lapland,
Time To Say Goodbye,
Con te partirò,
Fills the frothy air, that selfsame wind of yesterday,
Not just remaining,  but has grown stronger, carryover,
And the voices, my poetic entreaties,
All, have failed, to calm the blowhard's wrath.

No matter.

My possessions, few and final,
The music, my poetry, the sun bright
and my life, my love.

Of the moment, I whisper.
This, this precise spot,
In this worn down chair,
Where I gave birth to so many
Of my children,
Is where I wish to die,
When it is time,
Con te partirò,
Time To Say Goodbye.

"But not-today, my love, she orders."

In my heart I whisper,
Who can say,
But I smile and say,
"But not-today, my love,
But not-today, my love."

For if it were today,
I would not deny it,
For if it were today,
In the moment of now,
Its perfection, accepted.

For should to my chair,
She, solitary, returns,
She will have the music,
The sun's companionship,
The wet-stain spots where the tears,
I weep, at this, of the moment, and,
So many love poems,
And the comfort,
Of this one too,
And the perfect lyrics
Of this our song-to-be.

Morning Menu  - 3 in One Oil

The sky offered me pale blue as color of the morn.

The crows, caw cawing, a cacophonous concert.

She offered myself the possibility of coffee.

I put my hands between her legs.

I took what was,
Closest,
Not because of sunday-laziness,
But,
Because I could choose
The color, the sounds, the taste
I wanted.

And I called it
3-In-One Oil


http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/3-In-One_Oil

I love the taste of you in my mouth.

As a poet, call me amateur.

As a lover, call me poet.

First Poem of the Day


I don't sleep in p.j's

For they would get in the way.

I don't sleep in the ****,
That would be rude.

I sleep in words,
Of different shades, different languages.
For when, I sleep, I sleep with
You.
When I write the through and the overnight,,
Poems from my dreams retained, for
You,
I must present them respectfully,
For that it is how they were written.

What the do I wear when prone?
That is something I won't disclose,
Until you come to visit,
When we will lie side by side,
Composing unilaterally,
Hiding nothing, naked in a new way...

It is as if I am alone in a sand desert
In my chair, of course,
(See the poor photo, the head inadvertent)
Bay watching the sunset perform,
Except for the gusting 25 mph wind,
Easy-pretend it is July Fourth.

The sun sparkles my customized
Fireworks.
This time I have the desert deserted,
The bay is empty, the few pleasure boats
Obeying my cease and desist request.

Just me, the water sun sparklers,
The wind, and of course, you,
Besides me, as I have countless imagined.

Our crooked dock
Finger points back at me,
Sagely saying, enough poetry for one day.

But the dock is always crooked jealous,
Unless I include him in my sunset poems
So now he is smiling, albeit crookedly.

Some of you have,
Spent a few minuets of your day
Writing/riding along with me on my
Fire engine hose of words dousing.

Water welled up at 3:56 when I
Asked for a miracle of my own,
After waking and reading your poems for hours.

Here I am scratchin out one last at bat,
After being
Mesmerized by your goodworks,
Wondering why, again, I try.

So now let us write a breakup stanza.

I'm breaking up with you,
Until earlier-than-dawn tomorrow,
Though I was but one of many of your
Lovers took and taken,
Now discarded, I won't take no
For answer.

My shirt shivers, my forelock whips,
The clouds have banked my sun,
The wind is stiff, brooking no weakness,
I am total alone, how to make you believe,
That letting go, is difficult, almost impossible.

Until when, when we kiss again,
The back of your neck is my map,
My tongue the bridge between us.

Per Your Request

Who am I?
See the picture.

The bell, an old ship's-tool,
Now an oxidized lime,
Legs, rust decorated,
Was used when her boy was small,
To call, home to dinner,
From the beach, a child recall.

Someday soon, used this way again?

It never failed, for the
Ringtones of that time,
Atomic, sonic, and unafraid,
Not PC.

See the old chair in the photo.
I am in it now, post-bed, pre-eat,
In a state of grace, prayer,
Close by, the bay, beach, and the Poet's Nook,
Your place, your adirondack awaiting.

Sunny September morn,
The coffee stays sun warmed while
Practicing my three r's,
Reading, 'riting, and 'rithmetic.

Reading your hard worked words
Writing appreciation thereof,
Counting my allures (few),
My failures, woo hoo.

I swear to God,
With a hand beneath my thigh,
Taking the Patriarchal Oath,
That I am what I am.
The words I scribe,
My truth, my dust.
There is no hidden story.

All you need is not hinted.
Asked and answered.

In the songs of my lips,
The scripts of my finger.
Need only read them,
From start to finish!

You know where I live.
You know my decades
Upon this Earth.

Every now then, I present my face,
With egg upon it.
Some of you, viewed, actually saw it,
And laughed, as intended,
For when gloomy, I stand before the mirror.
Start laughing.
But you knew that already.

You know of my children,
Theirs too, the kisses incessant I gift them.
My children, I hereby disclose,
One speaks to me not,
The other, somewhat.

This ****, this sadness,
is so rooted,
Like bamboo, it chokes,
And near impossible to uproot.

I have told you how
To dress for my funeral.
I have told you my lover's names,
The women with whom I have slept,
Sleep with yet today, yet again, tonight.

You know that unsightly bulge
In pocket rear, is a packet of
Tissues, past and present.

You know perhaps,
I am not religious,
Yet, not a prob,
Cause He and me,
Got an open line,
Chat regularly.

Saves a lot of time.

Of my woman,
You know too much,
For I have chronicled
Our adventures, mis- and otherwise,
Time and time again.

Told you, a poet in search of his style,
Though now I think simple verse, it be.

That I am a Summer Man.
That my mother died, but two months ago,
She gifted the pleasure of the word to her
Children, and the good hair gene.

My friends, named the few,
King Lear, Humpty Dumpty, Paul Simon
And a few of you, if you will take my hand?

Confessed that with each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me.

That I still ride a funeral train
To hold your special words warm and close,
That I have followed you across vast plains,
That I love your names, real and imagined,
Could write poem-pen about each one of you,
For I read your lines, and taste the unseen,
The lines unwritten, the ones in between.

Already been arrested for
Excessive poem writing,
For half my life,
Put me in jail,
Where I had no paper, no love,
When released from a loveless marriage,
The verse explosion was recorded on the moon,

But I ramble, unnecessarily, for as indicated above,
In Para 5, Subsection Jive,
All this is just a summary, a summation,
Of what my body has already served you.

There  is on thing I never told anyone.
I have a Nat-ional Anthem,
Which I enclose in the notes.
Like the way Willie Nelson sings it,
At my funeral this will be my dirge.

Reread this scrambled ramble,
This frittata omelette,
Not only the eggs cracked,
Me too, cracking up at this silliness,
Cracking up, his cracks creaking wider,
Because he can't stop,
Writing poems and
Laughing at himself before
The mirror which cannot lie.

In a few minutes,

Her alarm will ring,
So rise up, woman, go
To early morning yoga
To pray.

She won't realize
All night up, writing.

When in few hours she returns,
I will be waiting,
Hoping,
Anticipating,
She will show me
In the same bed where I write,
How to do some crazy body twisting,
In summary:
Pray, Love, Eat.

Two men, one poem.

This day, on this site.
Two men wrote to me.
One called me brother.
The other, an arrogant *****,
Called me little.

One shared his life,
With humility and gratitude,
That I lost it. Wept. Baby like.
Honored me with trust.
Swapped spit stories
That bled into my brain,
And a tattoo appeared on my
Writing arm, one word,
Humility.

One boasted of his beans.
His bean counting reads.
Analyzed his trends,
Predicting by Christmas (!),
He would have this many.

His **** poems he informed,
Would be published.
What need did he have
For punk-u-ation,
His rants, his **** stream of words.
Better than mine,
Just cause his stuff I said,
Not my cup of tea.

What a crazy place this place.
Holy and *******, sided.
Humble humble, always humble.

He invoked, this arrogant one,
God's name.
Not knowing I talk to Him.

So I rang Him up and said,
How did a little peenus-genius
Find his way onto this
Holy Place, HP, of kindness.

He smiled in brevity.
Did I not create both,
Angels and devils?

I love God's brevity.
His commas, his question marks,
His pointed punctuation.

I love that He could create
A man whose sight of
Me, unseen, but found capacity
To love me in ways
Undreamed.

Because I peered in to the man's reveal,
Saw quality, value,
Saw humility.

So of arrogance, I said,
I would write.
But it is of humility
I will sing,
Of loving human kindness extraordinaire.

Of weeping endless.
At the joy afforded me
To read so many lovely poems,
Here.

If my poems never see the
Imprimatur of a publishing house,
It matters not,
For I have seen a human being
Weep real tears reading mine.

I have shed rivers of my own
Upon discovering yours.

Humble, humble.

If it is glory you seek,
You will find it,
All alone. Mastur-bating.

Me, I live here, in the midst of a
Good Company.


Sept. 7th, 2013

This miracle.

More than once.
Stay up all night.
Troubles, worry, my closest friends.

More than once.
Stay up all night.
Reading your poems.
Wondering.
Why bother.

New names, millions.
Endless, a beach.
Talent that mocks me.
Enfeebled, why bother.

I am ready to say.
Enough.
I am tantalized.
Where come us all?
So much talent to design,
Word combinations that
Astound.

I think.
Never write a sentence.
Longer than five words.
Simplicity.
Modesty.
Let this be your.
Memory.
Record.

There is no place.
In this mirrored world,
Where selves so easy slashed.
For arrogance.
There is no place in poetry.
For the arrogant.

More on this later.
Now, I am knee-floored.

Crying. Begging.
Turned my eyes
To the mountains.
From whence will come
My help?
My miracle?

September 7th, 2013

3:56am

New Moon Melange

(for Harlan Rivers originally,
and now for Aparna,
who reminded me
how I used to write
in the golden era of
seven years of plenty, so long, so ago...)

                         <>

The softest cotton,
Wears ever softer with every use.

Contemplative introspection,

Like digging a castle & moat in the sandy beach,
You dread and joy, the knowing,
Incoming tide will arrive destructive inevitable,
Yet fill the moat, protect the kingdom,
Till is undone and returned to the blocks of minuscule,
Grains of sand.

Answers found, maybe lost, once more,
Necessitating questioning, non-stop processing,
And a rebuilding tomorrow... Pas de choix

But softer each time, easier with practice.

Even if convoluted, it is still a revolution.
Like twelve new moons, recycled.
(occasionally a lucky thirteenth appears)

Some of us are special chosen,
To essay, to assay, the condition human,
With a rock axe, tiny slivers chipped off,
And yet new moon stones uncovered,
needy of Cataloging,
introspection,

You can change the day,
The month,
The moon twelve, thirteen times,
Hell, You can change your **** hat,
But don't fool nobody,

You are one of the special,
You job to paint the verbal paintings,
And to ascertain the meaning interior.

For in doing so, you do all of us service.
For your eyes see it ever so differently,
For you, task, paint and reveal each
New Moon’s Melange,
your unchosen gift.
to you

(Dedicated to Stephen E Yocum)*



You who have spent time on this planet,
That you can count your annual growth rings,
By just employing a combination of
Fingers, toes, eyes and nose,
Stop and think, after reading on.

Forty years on, what are the words, the titles,
The honorifics that you would like to see
Next to your name?

There is a yeoman Yocum in our midst,
Who has collected a few adjectives,
The sum total if additive,
Is a resume most complete,
One you should envy!

Able Friend,
Lover of Dogs and Humans,
Gentleman Farmer, Decent Photographer,
Spinner of tall tales, woven for his
Grandchildren.

A writer, a poet,
He says "a would be,"
I say, one who attempts,
Puts his name on writs public,
Is no would-be!

Who here would dare disagree?

More than all this, unlike so many,
Grateful for everyday of life,
Even those ****** full of strife,
And who served, a grunt,
One of the proud, the few.

I salute, you, and call out,
Attention Poets, Marine On Deck!

But no stuffed shirt ,
A man of soil and earth,
Who can laugh at himself, and write,

"My driving experience feel greater,
Would be to speed down the road,
Behind the wheel of my little Red Racer,
Completely **** naked,
And of course,
Feel the wind in my hair."

It is easy to be some things.
It is hard to be many things,
But it is the hardest, and the best,
When you look back,
And laugh out loud, admit,
The funniest thing you know,
The one that keeps you sane,
The one-thing, hardest, and the best,
Is to laugh at yourself.

So stand attention,
Go to the mirror,
Tho you might not like what you see,
If you focus, and really look tight, squint,
Do not be surprised,
If, in a few minutes,
You burst out laughing,
Especially if you do it in your
Birthday suit!

Maintain this perspective,
Forward and retroactive,
And then perhaps,
You will be able to write
These words...like he did!

Where upon, sheer elated emotions,
Of this my journey of self discovery,
Began to sink in and I started to cry.

There are times is one's life,
when lessons are taught,
When almost no words
need to be spoken.

And the best teacher's are
our own Brain and Heart,
Comprehending, embracing
Life's many shared Lessons.*

Marine Slocum, Stand at Attention!
There are Poets saluting you.

Some men woo
With diamonds and jewels.

Some with trips to Paris,
For Le Weekend!

Some with furs.
Ugh,  might as well get them
A pet,
The fur that keeps on eating.

Me, a city sophisticate,
***** my tolerance to the
Sticking place, tween my ears,
Put on a brave face
And say:

Babe,
I love you so much,
For your birthday,
Let's go
Shoe shopping.

Wisdom for the ages.

Six Straight

The old cowboys of  TV fame,
Were straight shooters,
Who carried six shooters,
Sometimes two.

When I grow up,
I want be a  six straight cowboy too,
Six straight hours of sleep,
Or dem bad poems all dressed in black,
they're a gonna shoot me, holy dead.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The youniverse is getting smaller

The you-in-verse is getting smaller,
My poems, shorter,
Hemingwayesque, see!
Why use two words,
Whenonewilldo.

Warmer, too,
Somehow tho global heat
Ain't reached my woman's
Hands or feet.

When you touch my GPS,
It stands ready, at attention,
Always opens up with a prayer,
Directions to Home,
Like I said,
The you-in-verse is getting smaller.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lend Me a Tune**

Wish I knew how to
Compose some love lyrics,
But can't carry a tune,
It seems that the music
Must always comes first.

So with conceit and disbelief,
Wrote words and shot 'em into space,
Hoping they'd pass thru galaxies,
Maybe a comet tail,
Find a Songster who will strum them
Into perfect, into complete.

I ain't unhappy that all I got
Was the lesser gift of
Humming words to myself,
Ain't dissatisfied, but wish they
Could be ratified, by the music
Of a voice reading them to me
Or fingers tapping, happening them
Upon the ivories upon my chest,
The chest that needs exploration.

So let's make some music
Finish these lyrics jointly,
When all finito, pointedly
Take our co-sing-song,
Dance to it with our bodies
Sing words the whole night long,
And please baby,
Don't tell me to shut up so you can sleep....

Whitecaps coffee-white, a bay frosty.
Sails, 99% white,
Always, gotta be one, black or blue,
Freaking tradition-breaker

White man with white baby,
In a white onesie,
Astride his daddy's tummy,
Dad, he ain't dressed warm enough.

All these observations recorded,
Taxed and paid for, with dandy words
Floating by the nook, overlooking
The whitish sandy beach mapped
As Silver Beach,

Where I pray.

Whither white led?
A summary of twenty writes
In four labored days,
A poetry *****,
To say anything else,
Too little, too more.

Overstayed my welcome,
But a white cleansing accomplished,
With look-backs submitted, got some debts paid,
Bills marked overdue, resolved.

The children unblemished,
To new schools and new troubles,
I can only inky-dinky-rinky worry.

This fall is the season of produce or die.
Of these things I don't joke.
If I get pasteurized, won't be a good thing.

This my style after all.
Simplest, to the point where
Poetry is a luxury,
I can't always afford.

Plant a Woman

"When a woman plants a tree, she plants herself."
John Muir

See the photo, on a stone walkway in a park on an island, somewhere in New York State

Years after first encountered,
Returned this day, purposely,
To trod this bricked-path
Where a solitary brick, these special words carved.

This brick, a patient lady-poem in waiting,
Required a search-and-locate mission,
To verify my memorized eyesight,
Freed to release these words,
Years in the forming, from whence first espied.

When a woman plants a tree, she plants herself.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Much less than obvious,
Import of said statement,
Complex, notes, scents, questions...

Perhaps this is the thus, the why,
Why this po-effort, somnolent, yet disquieted,
In recesses, drew lines on the wall, with one line
Slashed across, for every month,
It gestated, unborn, but not offering to die,
It did not come effortlessly.

I am seed of man,
Planted within woman.
I am a tree of  iLife ,
My seed planted within
You, iReader.

I am as much woman as man,
Perhaps more so...
Wrote you, told you,
I Speak Woman^
Perhaps more so...
Even better than man.

No shame, I rise with the dawn,
To bake the bread,
Alongside her, her secrets, she has, need learning,
Her bread, raisins, cinnamon and secreted inside,
Wisdom of loving kindness.

She scatters seeds with recklessness,
Who can know where wheat will be needed,
Someday, her children exiled?

Forest investor, tree planter,
Futures she sees, where others see but wood,
I follow her lead, for I cannot but fail to
Prosper, when on paths tread,
Formed, excavated by her footfalls.

I give her rubies,
I give her gold,
When I ask where it be,
She laughs and says adorning the tongues
Of the hungry and in need.

So I give her more.

Indeed, I plant my seed inside her daily,
Let her plant trees as she desires,
Her forest, the refuge of my old age,
So she plants trees, as I
Plant a Woman.
Thanks be, that her trees,
Come from her *****.

Now I understand Mr.Muir.

July 3, 2011


These were the orders of the day,
issued by admirals
who monitor the lanes surrounding
this sea island and that now include
my desolated, desecrated, heart waves
that wash ashore.  

With beacon searchlight,
high powered, prowl,
be a coast guard on the bay
of humanity, following wakes,
intersecting misaligned paths,
undoing crisscrossed roads
on a plane of water,
forever search,
permissioned only
to never cease, tasked only to:

Save the young ones.

For there is no cost
we will not bear,
take our mind's light,                
our speech, the music from ears,
the fiber'd essence of
our tissue-thin life's weave,
but let us be, leave us,
to save the young ones.

Leave us not becalmed, baffled,
broken, discovering
what sound we make
when our throats are
grief engorged beyond bound,
so leave us the young ones.

When we fail, what it is,
I do not know,
how to name it, cannot,
for I am forever
star gazing, star lost, confused,
with every breath ruptured,
my own value to wonder,
and on and on to ponder:

Is there no end to the reservoir
of tears that accompany these
spilled and spoiled thoughts,
stained kisses on paper
where ink and saltwater connect,
and lay upon the surface of
memories that can't be blotted,
never be replaced or,
cry out, cry out,
be added to?

How many sad poems.              
must yet invade my fingers,
ripping my mask of reason off,
making me unhappily familiar
with jagged edges of the sea,
each drop - a tipping point
into places I wanted never know,
a rendering reminder of
these days of disorder,

Save the young ones.

The golden girl, is not lost,
The Canadian Plains transversely crossed,
Destination unknown, but her dust trail,
Her goldenrod writings, take my breath away,
Her stories leave me incomplete, inchoate,
For I drink her trust, drink her dust,
Yet thirsty left, pleading, more.

Simple verses, blessed be the uncomplex,
But the visions, the glimpses,
The sightings, in and out,
Are celestial of, in, and on
This planet shared.

I will walk with you to
Henry's Isle,
You, with me, on the beach,
We will ford Crab Creek,
When the tide is low,
And repair to The  Poet's Nook,
Where a moss stained Adirondack chair
Awaits the Poet Prince,
Your poems carved into
It's soul, it's arms, it's back,
Giving comfort continuous.

This chai, this chair, this throne,
Reserved for the lyricist of our lives,
The shedder of light upon the special,
The seconds, that fete our senses.

I await you arrival.

Tender this serenade, this overdue apology,
For having not thanked you properly
For your living kindness,
Yet my words, insufficient, compared to yours...

Poems are where you find 'em

Find 'em so easy,
It is not my fault,
Don't always spend hours on my craft,
Rather add 'em to the vault.

Like somebody once wrote,

"No matter that plain words are my ordinary tools
With them I shall scribe the small,
Cherish the little, grab the middle.
Simplicity my golden rule.
Write they say, about what you know best,
Surely in the diurnal motions,
The arc of daily commotion,
Do we not all excel?"

So if I saw my lady in half
To make her and you laugh,
Is that not still a poem, tho,
Half-assed?

Don't be angry at me if poems,
-They come at me at all angles,
-Crunch like shells neath my flip-flops,
-If your face moves me,
-If your angry bird poems
-Make me crazier at 2:00am
-Come in between heartbeats and ******* breathing regular
-Come with cloudy milk in my tea, biscuits stale
-Come from my machine gun brain that fires
so hot, they replace the barrel every 5 minutes
-If no good, too bad for you
-If I don't obey the rules
-I don't got
-Gee, all I did was write down in words
-What you made, presented to me
-And cared about

For,
Like the kid said,
"In the arc of daily commotion
Do we not all excel?"

That kid, he knew, what I mean to say,
But he said it so much better,
Someday, wanna be like that talented kid,
Like him, like me, when I was younger,
And an even bigger fool.

1:48am Sept. 2, 2013

So I took my hand,
And at her waist,
Tried to saw her in half.

Did not succeed 'crept to make her laugh
At my silly notional ineptitude,
At my usual lack of "handiness."

Seems in this instance,
Tho I failed, I proved an important principle!
The sum of the parts are greater,
Especially where the tickling is along the
(Mmm what rhymes with greater...ah!)
Your celestial equator.

They are risen in the East

The coffee, the tea,
Needs brewing,
The poetry, needs R&R;,
(reading and responding),
The garden needs tending,
Milk and biscuits, purchasing.

In the West, the sad and those who
Labor not, stay up late, to "celebrate"
Labor Day, and I, cross times zones,
Embracing their kin and kindred commonality.

See you all, saluting, elbow straight, 45 degrees,
With words I wash the eyes of the newly reborn,
East.
With words I wash the feet of the restless,
West.
Shyly, I embrace one and all,
And I text you both my children,
I am home, come home,
I write for you both, I write to please,
I write with abandon,
I write to comfort, to extend my reach.
I write as a second best embrace.
I write to you, for you,
You are with me, I, with you,
No matter the time the day,
The season, the calendar's reminder,
That we are day older,

I write to you, for you,
You are with me, I, with you,



12:30am where I am.

Past the green copper bell-ed,
Thru the the single trees, un-felled.

Do you see that solitary-sentinel chair,
Empty? No, not.
Can you not see the sweep,
The vista, the poems hanging about,
Ripe for the plucking from the quiet,
Nestled in the soil, on the wings of gulls,
Who do not fly, but let the wind keep them
And their cargo, standing-still, in place,
Awaiting my attention, my need.

You read less and less,
The more and more I write.
It's ok, I understand that.
Blessed to have found the spot,
Where the poems make a crowd,
And the giving is good and healing, easy.

A long as there be ten righteous,
The Lord acceded to Abraham's plea,
***** would not be destroyed.
I am less demanding,
For I am just human.

As long as but five,
Acknowledge the caring,
Lick my wounded words like vanilla,
Is that too much to ask?

If but one finger points and marks it
Read, is that not sufficient to let this
Battle be ended, tween ego and truth,
Pride of craft, and, weak craving for attention-no-deficit?

If it be, that only the sea grasses, rooted deep, sway,
On the beach, a few feet from where, the chair spends its days,
Clap their hands silently to
Acknowledging the harvesting of the words,
That too will be noise enough to satisfy
The Lord who tendered them, all this, to me
For safe keeping, and giving me no choice but to write,
If but to honor all words, and their creators,
Each and every one.

Mine own selfish cares distract.
Perhaps making me, too late

I hear, I see you are in a place,
where questioning is the new normal.
You know there here be,
legions, armies of people,
whom you have touched, cored.
I am one,, who has floated on your river,
And was bettered for its cleansing.

Whatever it takes,
whatever I have,
beseech you,
beseech me!

Made Half a Bed
(Third in the bed-making series)


In the interest of efficiency,
Made but half a bed,
From the male perspective, brilliant,
Why do, what must always be undone.
Come evening tide, I will to bed,
My kingdom come, just a bit faster
Than my beloved's.

Advantage poet in the tie-breaker,
Because while you still must undo
Your girly-stuff, my side prepped and ready,
So I am ahead 30 - Love,
In the last match of the day at
The Open of US.

How much do I love you?

When you are asleep in our bed,
Takes ten minutes for me to
Slide inside, you to undisturb, you would,
Laugh at my pantomime, my Charlie Chaplin ballet,
If you were to accidentally awake.

When your dreams disturbing,
Groans and shrieks, moans and mumbles,
I greet you when your eyes final-fix upon me,
With no questions, only kisses for both,
And a new poem for you on top of our coverlet.

I love you resting me, when you, beside me do rest,
Then, together, we are always at our best.
I, your soldier, woodpeckers, deer, sent on their way,
Today, five geese invaders, ahonking, dispatched,
Lest my woman's dreams become enmeshed.

How many compositions have I written,
Rhythm and rhymed to your contented breathing?

Amazing grace that every day when we are on
Our island redoubt, there is no doubt.

There is us, always us, and for each restful breath,
Encased is a new and different way,
To answer this question that I pose to myself.

Tho first of many interrogatories that will pass from my heart,
Yet, when mine eyes open to see the sun of your blonde hair.
I have only answers, no questions, no doubts.

September 1st, 2013

Always use the best you have...first

That what she says, when she makes us breakfast.
Then the next best, and the next...
Then life will always be curving, on a tangent of the finest line,
Linen before cotton, cotton before paper.

She brings champagne and fresh orange juice to our table,
challah so soft, we could lay and love upon it.
All I have to proffer, tears-of-the-saddest of souls and some
scribblings, and a philosophy of fear, hoarding,
lest the day come of none,
when I have a true zero.

She smiles.

She says:
Nonetheless, I think I got the best of you,
I am-contented, for now,
for each new last poem you surrender up..
will be, the best you have,
and your eyes see poetry continuously,
your poems reveal your courage,
that which I recognize, that you cannot hide.

August 31

All is revealed.

Look at my photo.
You see the solitary Adirondack.
So oft writ, it is almost yours,
From which I ply my craft.

Sentinel, overlooking the bay,
Looking for poem invaders,
Need prisoners to do the hard labor,
For I am on duty, elsewhere, peripatetically,
A new tour of duty to family.

See the coffee mug,
The contents, a warm hug,
For though it sumer still,
The sky and breeze beg to differ.

I think time is nigh,
To close this chapter,
A few itinerant thots yet rumbling,
But the rush is gone, like my contented season.

Wise men do not deny perception,
Grown cold, my warm invitation,
Perhaps, I injusticed you with repetition,
But I left you a motet for comfort.


And hints of an address,
In case some enchanted evening....

What poem will you wear, when first we meet?

How will I recognition-you,
when you transverse my land?
Unknown our faces, our voices,
Only silent words electronic exchanged

Will lantern, it be: one, if by land, two, if by sea?
Will your ID badge, passport stamped and state,
Your chest bear a witness-sign?

The Arrivals Board flashes:
                    une poétesse est arrivé
                    eine Dichterin ist angekomme
                    a poetess has arrived
                    una poetisa ha llegado

Will there be a haiku in your hair,
A limerick exposed by raucous grin,
Or just ten words
allotted for your entire visit?

Desperate to locate
Urgent to sensate
Matters I take
Into two cupped hands,
On the shoeshine stand
Climb and recite-shout

Know me by my words,
Know me by the lilt lyrical
Of my American accented,
Canadian Tongue of my mother

Know me by my words,
Carved by time on my forehead,
Poetry is the blood of this fool's soul,
Hear me, find me, look upon me slamming

Poems are the thorns in my palms,
See me crucified, bleeding stanzas
Upon my shoeshine stand cross
Recitation resuscitation welcoming:

Benedicting Gloria, Gloria, Gloria

But if this should fail your attention to secure,
Or the TSA unappreciate my second coming,
Look for the crowd gathered round,
A man of moderate height, in a tall hat,
Beard scraggly, looking sorrowful
Reciting the Gettysburg Address

Either way,
Should be easy peasy to find me,
Grab your bag, off to short-term parking

This is how an Americana poet meets n' greets
Arriving poetess from a foreign land

Is there any other way?
------------------------------
Postscipt
Alas, five years on and I know in my heart
that you are not coming...

Motet: an unaccompanied choral composition with sacred lyrics; originated in the 13th century.  Suggestion: look up on YouTube, the Hilliard Ensemble.*  Jewish tradition says that there are 36 righteous souls on Earth, whom for their sake, God preserves the planet and its inhabitants.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Motet II

August 2013

Last night,
I lay with God,
Again.

We made love inimitable,
As if it were the first time.
The music of purity, voices ensemble,
The only commonality.

Afterwards, heaving, sweaty, in bed,
He reminded me that I had already
Written of the motet, long ago,
But permission granted to
Love it, write of it, once more,
As I He, and He, me...

Because after-all, the motet prayers belong to Him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Motet

Nov. 2010

Ce soir, I am prepared, My Love,
hopeful of being worthy,
diminished before all,
rendered and prepared,
transported and train-spotted,
prostrate and yet risen.

The motek-sweet motet wings me
heavenward to more than relief.
Grace, grace, I am both,
becoming and becalmed,
drowned and delighted,
entwined and unwound,
compost but composed,
invaded and imbued.

These voices doth
wrack my fibers,
seethe and contract,
my internal power plant
implodes, heart attack.

Glorious generations of singers,
O woven voices that harmonize,
your motet is
umbilical to my lyrical,  
calming chemical reaction,
I am servant and
you are my server,
uplift, calm and provoke me.

Sing out loud God's
ephemeral, unpronounceable name,
cover me with the fame
of His naturity,
love me with divine kisses,
release unto and within me
the essential oils,
oils by which we breathe,
ancestorally transfused,
oils once called the
blood of the soul.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In my past harmonies of poesy,
you shared, lost or just deleted,
tribute unto tribulations human:

I recorded, ven diagrammed,
sorrowed tales of souls waylaid,
debts foreclosed, dues unpaid,
tales of non-fictional agonistes,
suffering a tutti frutti of sarcastic
Earthly  Delights.

Wrote writs re some poor souls,
Prado preserved,
by threading and dying,
on a cloistered tapestry
woven by Adonai worshipers.

With those selfsame oils,
they painted anticipated memories of
Heaven and Hell,
the ones of which I write,
far too oft.

But this night,
In my customary hour
when inspiration is my only tongue,
in the lean hours after midnight,
afore dawn's orangerie of
morning skyed break fast,
I am risen, nourished and
uplifted by the motet's synthesis,
by what I hope to see,
by what I wish to hear.

For I watch,
porched and perched on rooftop,
in the company of
urban spelunkers and debunkers,
all of us desperados,
differing reasons for despair,
yet together,
a human minion-minyan of ten,
we search Jerusalem,
from the Battery to the Cloisters
for glimpses, hints of human angels,
the thirty six^
ministering to the
homeless and dreamless,
to us all.*

Ce soir, I am prepared,
hopeful of being worthy,
diminished before all,
rendered and prepared,
transported and train-spotted,
prostrate and yet risen,
the motek-sweet motet wings me
heavenward to more than relief.

Grace, grace, I am both,
becoming and becalmed,
drowned and delighted,
entwined and unwound,
compost but composed,
invaded and imbued.

Reveal, reveal to me the identity
of your ministering angels!

As the thirty six preserve me,
motet me on eagle's wings, and
return us to you Lord,
that we may be returned.

Renew our days,
as they were before,
when the motet
was bright, organic,
in each of us.






----------------------------------------
^www.neveh.org­/winston/wonder36/36-08.html

613 poems in my inbox.
Will read them all,
Each and every, will be
Unwrapped and refolded.

When I am done,
there will lovely be
613 more.

God needed six days to create the world.

For the love of poetry,
I will do it in all in one,
For I owe it to you,
For trusting me with thoughts most
Sabbath Sacred...

August 30th 2013

The trouble with glass
Is that there is none.
Though crack'd, distempered,
From either side, you see through it,
Indisputable, the other side.

The trouble with love
Is that, even though like glass,
You see it clear and through it
Into your lover's eyes, yet,
Love by definition, cloudy, starry,
blinds.


August 30th 2013

In a strange mood - see/write art



in a strange way, disorganized but straight on,
light tinted magenta, issuing, in frothy large pours, from my mouth,
knowing what to say, and the meaning too,
I can more than walk, can write, on water,
where all can read weeping, Mary-miracles of seeing, living words,
themselves, on light waves lapping in a
shifting rotunda vision, color reorienting spatial senses.^

in a strange, strange stitch, seasonal spirits and witches,
Chagall, Baez, Dylan Thomas, Donovan, Richie Havens
doing their knitting in my brain, from Montmartre to the Midwest to Monterey,
painters and poets in lockstep head-messing with me,
imperfect clarity but still one voice,
see/write art,
so went and caught the wind, going gently into night
to banish the hodgepodge of uncertainty from inside out.

knowing well you don't understand fully, but jumbling tumbling
verses are sliding off my rusted tongue as fiddlers fly above,
roughened words, hewn from a paper cup, spilling diamonds uncut, imported from Sarajevo, Montparnasse, the Lower East Side.
wretched me, in the hour I first believed, this amalgamated conception conceded,
seceded from my mind into your palate for a tasting,
tho neither drugged, nor deaf and dumb, just slammed poetical-like, this write is
all I have to portend is your affections, your attentions, to yours, am beholden.

a *****, well respected man in daylight,
the hidden references accuse,
woke up to see Wednes-day Caesarian born,
askance glanced at the prior passages of the night before,
when my palate clefted,
when eyes chose not to distinguish
between right and lefted,
in the nightlight,
a ***** man disrespects language convection/convention,
and lays before you activating stanzas and his mind, prone,
but always the truth, speaking,
the visions, leaking, mind to eye,
recombinant, into our minds eye.




^ http://www.guggenheim.org/new-york/exhibitions/on-view/james-turrell


Rather than write extensive notes on the many references, inspirations in this poem, if there is a line that intrigues, ask me

Three poets were walking down the street
Arm in arm in arm, in a state of grace,
A holy state of silence, all in an entranced embrace.

For as they gazed upon the earth's gifts,
Each called words to the fore, healers of rifts,
Each saw the same bounty, but oh so differently.

Lest their words collide,
They strode the streets smiling, undivided,
Chained by their tripartite touch, speaking nothing.

Smiling quietude at all the blessings observed,
They sensed each others's flow and struggle to serve,
To make the proper précis, of the universe within, without.

One saw thrones and rivers in the sky,
One fed us visions of his gardens, and the bird's tales,
One wrote what he saw, in words plain, as best he could.

What they could not see, not one,
They were a singular trinity, the world better for
Their gracious acceptance of the notion
That each one, saw the other as the poesy superior.

For poetry, if it is anything,
It is humility.


9:24pm
August 27 2013

(Inspired by and dedicated to John Edward Smallshaw, and his "Spice")


I am a summer-man,
Because I'm blessed to sit by the sea.
Let it and the other two Musketeers,
boon companions to me,
Sun and Wind,
erase my discomposure as I
reside in the Poet's Nookery.
Let them have almost
all that troubles,
but not all.

I am a summer-man.

On the bay, on the beach,
I see birth, I see death,
osprey nests, carcasses of
mussels and horseshoe *****.
This, somehow reassuring,
the cycles,
this circularity,
the tides and inevitability.

I am a summer-man.

Student of languages seasonal,
Peaches, plums, cherries, poetry
and loving Woman.^
This, the  summer alphabet-soup
of my multiple tongues.

I am a summer-man.

Sancerre and Pinot Gris, super cold,
Paul Simon, Nina Simone,
with proper aging,
getting  hotter,
Salsa and Afrikaner hints,
super louder,
Even "Still Crazy After All These Years,"
that-who-wud-be-me,
chills outer.^^

I am a summer-man.

When ever this lad's writes appear,
it proves once again,
there is no truth that his  
name was once Dr. Seuss
In a prior life, even if
each is signed by
Ogdiddy Nash

I am a summer-man.

Disrespectful of the calendar,
if I can, try to make
summer season stretch-marks from
May to October.

I would add April,
but the IRS is already
****** at me.^^^

Though the cherry blossoms of May
now gone away,
the lilies of June
arrive, but but for a week or two,
soon, like my mom, withered away.

Acorns in August^^^^ have arrived too swiftly.

This summer, beloved,
and love of summer,
deep-rooted.

Season of my Peter Pan Poetry Galore Festival.

A love,  incapable, impossible, of ever
growing old, ever growing cold,
it cannot wither.
It is summer heat reminders exposed,
how it misses its man,
that hide in the flames of
the teasing, popping, reminding
Winter fireplace's crackling popping

Made the bed backwards

Just to hear your laugh,
I'm in the shower pretending not to hear,
Your return, your reaction,
But my grin stretching to the bedroom.

Afterglow, After-all,
All of us need a new perspective,
From time to this time.

But our life straightforward.
Got my eyeballs ******* to the
Solid white line
That we drive along side, behind,
Safe and sound.

Even when I park my poetry illegally,
Even when the pillows face an empty white wall,
We lie beside each other,
Straight on.

Where do I get these crazy ideas?

Remember when you picked me up on the internet when
You knew me by my anonymous moniker,
Still Crazy After All These Years?

Never changed, never will cause

I be who I be...

Stop that kissing, feed me, please!


10:21am
August 24th 2013
Postscript: came home,  I came out of the shower, we chatted, casually remarked, I made the bed,, she replied, yes I know, then she  looked and then hee haw hee haw hee haw nonstop 3 minutes.

God took my soul

This morning.

In the poet's nook,
Ye old adirondacke chair, turned about face!
My back to the bay,
In order to feel the early morn sun kisses
Excavate the approaching fall chills.

I don't possess any more the skills,
Making images, that take your breath away.

All my poetry plain spoke, another trademark.

Simple verse what I feel, what I see,
What I know,
Like Jason sings,
Almost out of words.

So the sun rays enveloped,
Speaking in tones dulcet,
Thru them into my pores,
He spoke, a song for the soul,
Is simple words, just like mine,
Oil and spices of passing over,
They, his troupe, poured,
Cinnamon and myrrh, oil of balsam,
Upon my tired head.

Child of mine,
Needy for you,
Needy for a poet
To sit besides my throne,
On my right,

In need for someone who sees
Just like me, the extraordinary,
In the everyday things that populate
The earth, the kindness of loving,
The planets, the loving of kindness.

You, yeoman job done and done.
Poems drip from your eyes,
Glory, Glory, Glory,
To man to woman, their
Shapes unique, their foibles, amusing,
Understanding that the pieces
Do all fit.

Needy for your-perspective to give to
Another.

It's time,
Close your eyes,
For your journey,
To new places,
Where you will lyre us, we-who await you,
Our daily poet-writer.

Your love is now
Our responsibility.
Your responsibilities, now
Our love to tend.

Just bring alone those
Pocket tissues, used and new,
That you always carry,
To wipe the tears yet to arrive,
And the ones you shed,
Even now,
As we begin
All over again.

~~~
8:36am
August 24 2013

Sleep, but a dream...

(For Me, whoever she should be..)

Sleep, but a dream...
And stopped dreaming so long ago.

Nowadays, grab a quick nap,
Between love and responsibility,
Not much time for much else,
Like sleeping, like dreaming,
'Cept writing, which does not give me the option,
Of doing without...

7:09am
August 24th 2013

She took my niece,
Made her, her-daughter.

Two of them sippin' coffee
In yoga clothes,
Watching sun-rising over the bay @
7:00am, on a Sabbath-Saturday.

She took my niece,
Made her, her-daughter.

Life, a puzzle, a jig saw dance,
Just found, right now, the right spot,
As I espied them, this poem,
Product of a momentary glance.

Another poem, another piece,
When,
She took my niece,
Made her into Her-Daughter.


7:02am

August 24th 2013

No. Yes. Maybe.
A little.

YesyesYes...been in love with you since kindergarten,
When you asked to keep my pencil,
Offering me marriage in return.

Thot it was time you knew.

Some memories make you seem more foolish as times goes on,
The smile, wider, deeper, and the regret...harder and harder


6:50am

August 24th 2013

Dog Tired, Bone Tired, Dead Tired.

all in, beat, bored, burned out,
bushed, done in, drained, drooping,
exhausted, ******, fatigued, fed up, flagging,
just about had it, indifferent, knocked out,
out of gas, pooped, punchy,
ready to drop, spent, taxed,
wearied, wearing, wiped out, worn out
plain old zonked.

there are only two words, for which there are no precise, exact, synonyms.  

To mind, they flash instantly,
For they are the constants in the equation of life.

Love

Responsibility

Man, can they make you tired!

But they are constants, so we accept and pray for ourselves
To accept them both with

Equanimity.

5:45am
August 24th 2013

No one try's to sell you anything,
Everyone keeps giving themselves away for free.
And know what free is?
One-half of

Freedom.

I keep telling myself to take a break from poetry
loving,

But then life
And you, insert yourself
Into me,
Pincer and Fist,
      
I am ****** once again.
I am broken once again.
Poetry patches me up, sometimes....

But any addiction is bad, even poetry, even caring.