two white coffee cups*

reveal every sip,
mark every drip,
the metaphorical  staining
of the man and the woman
in bed
on a Sunday morn,
each sipping and drip drinking
from white mismatched coffee cups

unleashes his tear ducts;
he sips the tear drips

now the coffee tear-infused tastes
just like a stained life,
a metaphor realized

~

dusk brings a chill
o’er the ocean,
this secret stage
where twilight fades
in regent haze;
transformed, replaced
with slow drift,
swirling, mist
softly rolling in.
above, the sand,
a salt-washed beach.
a brimming tide
awaits release
of curtain rising
far above, and there,
like bio-luminescence,
she shimmers in the ether;
ancient existence,
always with us,
seldom seen,
her light serene.
a fresh emergence
each moonless night,
a shimmering of colors,
like a nightly bow
an arch of
color-filled delight.
though this night rests,
not drawn and taut,
exuding peacefulness;
her horse in all its glory,
feeding in her pastured stars.
drawing, telling
children wonder-eyed
of her richness,
of her treasures,
loving, storied skies,
light years in the making.
her curtain lifted,
these moments served,
to but a few.
a sacred showing
to our breath-taking,
memory-making eyes.
hovering in her milky skin,
she dazzles, beckoning;
her adieu at sun’s return,
at our rising disappears.
awaits another
night's re-appearing,
her celestial flow
like a river of
imagination, rippling,
much to our surprise,
a gifting
to awakened eyes,
never captured,
only living on...
in memories,
in moments raptured.

~

*post script.

inspired by Mathew Newman,
of Mathew Newman Photography
who captures the night sky so skillfully,
of the milky way rising above the pacific ocean
along southern oregon's secret beach.
his name for the photo that inspired this,
"Celestial Flow", of course.

sorry, i am not permitted to include links
but simply add www. to both these below and you will find what inspired me:

facebook.com/MatthewNewmanPhotography/
or
matthewnewmanphotography.com/wp-content/gallery/gallery-1/CelestialFlowWeb.jpg

~~~

how to cook a poem/poetic theology

so many ways,
but one favored

after oh so many trials
after oh so many errors

taste tastings, plenty,
some good, some feh

some inspired, some liared,
but it's the process

the methodology,
that becomes your
poetic theology,
of

how to cook a poem

slow simmer,
as if it was
a hearty filling stew,
with the red wine,
you flavored,
for style unique

stew
over it,
add pinches of
contradicting adjectives

icy hot,
bland spice
and not everything nice,
bitter herbs,
fatalistic flaws

make it
to
make the left and the right
side of the brain
argue and engage,
let it taste of the foment,
of unease, disease,
and the
coming to terms
with the
alternating au courant currents,
of fashionistas

don't forget
the final seasoning, the finishing
reasoning,
the perfect certainty
of momentary
peace

uncovered, derived, home grown,
after a thirty years war,
and the
perfect uncertainty,
you still aren't sure,
which side won
and why

some fry in nastiness,
some broil,
flaming to burn away,
some boast to roast
of the average angst
that breathing
seems to
require

some peel,
some imbibe the raw,
all get sorted

for even what
writ in haste,
all sourced from ingredients,
taking years of seconds,
in the assembling
the trial and error
the preparation,
required for living a life
cooking poetry

~~~


every word I write is a tribute


now listen here,
let's clarify the inescapable,
what this tribute thing means,
cause what I'm doing here,
ain't exactly clear

everything we write,
is only a watery-encapsulated
reflection of our lives,
which of necessity,
will always be messy

what the heck does
this guy mean.
when enlisting
this shady word,
tribute?

at 3:10 in the AM,
tribute is dressed in its
more defy-nition sinister,
a bad news speaking cultural minister,
who never fails us
by reminding,
tribute originated
as the nasty kind:

"any exacted or enforced payment or contribution"

every **** word
that I've written
is a **** tribute,
an exacted, enforced, wrung from,
payment
of a pound of flesh,
Shylock's variety pack kind

I'm not bitter,
a touch angry, perhaps,
even brave, ok, unafraid,
to admit, overall,
got it pretty ok

but that I still struggle
to get that satisfaction,
in everything minute and daily,
the tiny and the tremendous,
the cost production load only goes
unicycle upward sloping,
this crisis crazy we call being
alive,
and to you,
who keys and ken
my meaning well

herein is my good kind side
my paying
tribute
to you, your courage,
even me, periodically,
for awakening and walking
into the unknown outside,
and giving it up
in our travelogue of
shared poetry

5:48am
Jan. 21, 2016
NYC (aboard the stationary bike,
paying tribute for forty years of sinning)

he, hardly fit,
sleeps fitfully

he, like a baby,
up and down at 2am

the cerebrum racked,
like a street *** so needy,
for a low caloric,
non-alcoholic snack

pickles - the almost zero solution,
dill in particular,
or even the slightly bad boy cousins,
the buttered variety

so in his customized original
100% sleeping skin gear,
standing in front of the shiniest fridge
gleaming,
his unfortunate reflection somewhat
steamy,
indecisive, which, his pickle, to to choose,
which to eat, completely complete,
to celebrate his dietetic restraint

so she, the yoga ballerina lioness,
finds him upright but not uptight,
leaving him in an awkward
so to speak, poem, pickling,
naked and speechless,
as the mouth is fully engorged

and on point
she summarizes
most eloquently,
the ****** and the crudités and the et. al.,
with a succinctly pithy observation:

"ah, I see (me wincing),
still crazy after all these years

...and other stories