“it’s the time of the season
When love runs high
In this time, give it to me easy
And let me try with pleasured hands”

Time of the Season,
Song by Zombies
1 9 6 8
<~>
was 18 years young,
when first heard these words,
now in my-eighth decade,
times is both
plentiful
and yet delimited by the onsetting sunset finale,
but
and so are the
accumulated  dictionary of word’s available,
that I command,
legions, armies, corps,
all to command,
to properly say…
yes,
it is the
Time of Season

come to the. lean sheer clean paper single sheaf,
with no agenda,
perhaps to just amend an overdue,
thank you

these pleasure hands
have always been
greedy,
for the sensuality
that stroking fingers command,
the contextual sensuality
is far greater than you ordinarily
stop to think about…

but I remember
every face, every cheek,
that I have stroked,
think upon it!

the soft curvature of the skin’s mellifluous
shapely contouring to you
your pointer
finger,
thinking simple
nothing finer,
more pleasurable,
totally expressing
the emotive bonds
two human can share

mother trains her. children
with a deeper understanding
how love is simple,
enduring and stronger than
any time’s decay could contemplate
despoiling

and to those women I have
adored,
whose thieving stole my precious loving,
I
thank you,
for your taking was a giving to me,
making a whole person
understand than to be whole
was to be parted,
for two are the greatest
one,
an equation that proofs
our experience
that though solitude
inspires
our greatest creativity


is is only because my eyes are
infused with and for
love
aspired and  gained…

these hands,
more powerful than any other *****,
the eyes may have its
but will never touch
your child, your women,
your sense that giving up
yourself,
is an enehacemnt
of all you are,
a single finger
surveying the face of a beloved
is an electric shock
that soothes and satisfies
simultaneously,
unique…


keep those pleasured hands,
fully employed,
bring pleasure to the world,
so that others will understand
it is now or never,
a line drawn upon
a beloved
is
poem only you,
can write

75°F & Alive & Minding the Perfection

morning mindfulness,
surrounded by perfect,
once again, may it be
forever this-a-way

I have no idea what
I’ve done to be so
blessed; and I repay
with gratitude in this
psalm hymnal, poor
though it may be,
it is genuine, poured
from within the open
confines of all I have
learned, earned, & burned;

75°F & Alive  & Minding the Perfection,
the color contrast is  an overwhelming,
an all encompassed scheme
makes neighbors,
even,
total strangers greet each
other like beloved brothers & sisters,
this heaven is infecting,
an infectious breeze of the
stillness of early morn
born and carried in our cell’s walls,
strong are the nuclei, and this
memory, this poem devotion,
this ttributary of words
flows with slowed ease,
and the
troubles are banished to the
back of the pack,
tho the line be long,
the golden oldies music
banishes them to a temporary oblivion
and within a totality of solitude alone,  
momentarily,
my heart,
fulsome,
yes trite but true, is crazy
overflowing,
I’m in danger of loving everyone,
for to not,
would be
criminal
if it were even a
possibility

if i could snap my genie fingers,
beware, I’d summon y’all,
a global contraction perfect,
to convent/sit beside me, your presence
welcomed with a hot beverage,
a cooling drink, for every one
always get what they w a n t

*and
yea, yeah, yeah
this is a forever & always,
only  a
love poem…

The World Requires Edmund Black’s Random Acts of Doughnut Kindness (1/36)

Edmund!


a friend mutual on HP
sent me your poem below
asking me to respond appropriately,
close the tale, he said,
and that I would understand,
thinking by being marked,
I had some expertise in the matter

perhaps you are unaware that the world
exists only because there are at least thirty six^
righteous men on the earth and
personally believe,
there are more

who they are, a well kept secret,
but secrets tend to leak so...

only one,
Mr. Edmund,
employs a dozen doughnuts
(chocolate frosted)
to follow through
on the most important
commandment human
love thy neighbor
with a dozen holies

I’m told that like certain loaves of bread,
a dozen doughnuts
now have along with
wine and water
a place in the repertoire of the selector of the
thirty six

which needs noting,
a dozen
is 1/3 of thirty six

sometimes the answers are in the wholes of the holiest!

<•>
Edmund black
Jul 15

My Perfect Morning

The climate in the
World may change
But it will never
Change me
not for a moment
I truly have the most
amazing  life ,
Couldn’t be any better
I get up every morning
Next to  this gorgeous
amazing woman
Get my morning kiss
Maybe a few morning kisses
in my open mouth
If you get my drift
Cause you know I’m in love
Sit back in the back patio porch
Listening to Mother Nature’s  
Performance
while reading hellopoetry
Few minutes later
I told my lady  I had to
Go run  some errands
Not realizing yet
What’s up ahead,
Arrived and
While in line at Chrispy kreme’s
A little boy about 5 years of age
Loosing his mind over some
Chocolate frosted
Mother and father told him
They couldn’t afford it
They were only there for coffee
Little boy started
crying hysterically
My Heart Cries out for him
And chivalrously I’ve waited
in line right behind them
Just couldn’t allow
That to take place
I told dad if it was okay
I would love to buy the boy
a dozen chocolate frosted
He accepted and gave
me a hand shake
Mom teared up and dad
wouldn’t Stop thinking me
I hate seeing good
People like this
But anyway,
What an awesome moment
A moment of love sharing
And here’s the most
Amazing part of
my early morning outside
Of my morning kisses
I got the longest hug
From the little man
A handshake
From dad
And a kiss on the cheek
From mom
What can be any better
Than the life I live
I do what I want
And it’s mostly
Helping other people
That’s all that matters.
Having meanings in
Other people’s lives
Fulfills me ,
And what more
Can I say ,
My perfect
          Morning

I live life
For the inexplicable
Moment
Life is love and love
     Always gives
                    ALWAYS

”You going away with no word of farewell
Will there be not a trace left behind
Well, I could've loved you better, didn't mean to be unkind
You know that was the last thing on my mind*”
Tom Paxton
<>

the lyrics get caught in my throat,
of Tom’s guilty confessional,
so instead of voice emitted,
the letters and words
fall to the ground en-
capsulated in tears
multicolored,
the salt & &pepper
coloration of sad regret
for the multifold &
man-I-fold
mistakes
recalled in black & white graydations
of reflections of loves lost that yet haunt
and now honored, at last, 
 with their very own
words of
farewell