an instant coffee poem scribbled
on the back of an iPhone, and mailed
to the motley crew hanging in these
environs

my request, your bequest
<>

never had an article of clothes
that required a hem to be tailored,
but you my daredevil darlings,
bring me now
you &  yours,
a hem of thy choicest choosing

that I may taste your dew,
this and thus
enlivened,
I will love you,
far more than forever,
beyond my overwhelming
incarcerated capacity
to absorb,
but to exist and seize
the dew of your souls,
each an adrenaline ephedrine
shot to our mutualized brain
~
our soul’s temporal abode

the meaning plain!

you too
will forever be
within
the unlimited scope of this script
on the universe of the internet,
far longer than any intimate moment
we could share ,

a sensory
beyond the physicall

I beg you
please!

9:19 am
Thurs Sept. 12
two thousand and twenty four

~for Maya~

(8/12/24)
never put off the important stuff
till tomorrow, defined as 202five,
first tend to the existential jive,
after all there are harvests
that need bringing in,
bills that need to be paid,
or yet to arrive,
and them older ones, children demanding
an installment to keep them happy’n
currently hip

the weather vane ventures an opinion,
another option, hard to discern, for the
vane spins wildly as almost undecided
as a teenager dreaming ‘bout which girl
to prom-vite, or a seven year old confronting
30 plus favors in the tuck shop before picking
the craziest, the most colorful,
& worst tasting,
then dropping cone et al, on dad’s ****** brand,
new sneakers

putting off poetry till the next year’s almanac
agrees a day off you need,
to seed,
to cede
for yourself, a practical decision
that any farmer could at arrive,
tho probably better things need doing,
****, even sleeping as there is never
enuf  seconds even for that, cause something
always needs fixing,
and

I ain’t even mentioned the vagaries of the
full time occupancy of worrying bout
the witches in charge of discharging
crazy unpredictable Canadian weather

but there is something that needs tending,
use those soil stained fingernails to unburden
the weights that don’t go away, just because
the body too tired to talk to the soul, cheat
sleep, scribble down that single verse that
the chest can’t get rid off, that rhyme in
your puzzled mind, as to what comes next,
and then the rest will follow; which
one you ask, me smiling, the one that
already burnt a hole in your breast,
complaining bout their orphaned status,
and looking to be one of the kids who get
luckily adopted

but what do I know, probably all wrong, me
with no plan on how to survive beyond T+1,
the way markets taught ya how to think
about additive time, a day at a time,
but still find a poem for you
squeezing itself in between his very different
list of worries that never quit, making those
hailstones falling in his can’t-sleep-either brain,
rising with the Eastern sun to pen
crazy poems about humans he’ll likely never
meet…

postscript
————-
his favored Persian poet penned, (1)

“We are often in battle,
So often defending every side of the fort,
It may seem, all alone.

Sit down my dear,
Ttake a few breaths,
Think about a loyal friend,
Where is *your music,
Your pet, a brush?
…
Now pick up your life again,
Let whatever is out there
Come charging in

Laugh and spit into the air,
There could be holy fallout.* (1)

~ for spygrandson ~

with deep affection


https://hellopoetry.com/spysgrandson/


<>

I am en~titled
by him,
commissioned by his exacting wording
of this poem’s titular naming,
all my previous attempts are failures,
over designed, too artistic
for his modest self~reckoning &
bearded demeanor,
they demanded
denial with
request for
simplicity of an unflowery
reckoning,
a clean shave,
so to speak…



a potholder of simple design,
a modest picture self-drawn,
but his stories are
sorties tall,
he draws you in, worthy draftsman sketches
of words, tales short, poems complete,
tales so sweet, of characters uniquely complete,
and you think,
can they not be fictional?

and you know they’re no such thing,
ok, maybe,
some taller and a few perhaps dreamed,
the big characters of those
giants of simple men,
whose deeds were not mythical,
ok, almost mythical…

but truth of the humans of the hammered and nailed tough skin,
who built homesteads in the
plain, in mountains, by rivers that snaked,
unmapped,
except on their hearts and feet

the humans,
that made up
the raw & naked bond holders of
these United States:
bonded by character to the soil and
its curvaceous dancing topography
from
& of the center of our country,
but with eyes keen enough
to stretch from
coast to coast,
to see to shining seas

yes, true,
the grandson be he
to/of an almost mythical man,
and so took thus
his penned name,
the grandfather, a real person
of whom stories are yet told,
for no one can be sure
that & of what deeds
this spy did,
on hostile, unfamiliar,
continents,
but the photographic proofs,
I have seen…

His blood thickened by many infusions,
a cross cultural experiment,
happily not unique,
just **** rare

but enough of this;
read him,
let his
tongue take you to
the unfamiliar,
a literary Ansel Adams,
who never saw the plain(s) men & women,
unworthy of being forgotten but
forever being
celebrated


ask him for a potpourri of his short stories
of war, the bonds that men forge in combat,
tween the dead that still live on and
the living,
who have unreadable dead spots within,
they carry their dying glances,
their dying wishes,
and who are honored by him
in his continuing recollections

with walking stick in hand,
even if going outside
to “just” measure the snowy depths,
he leave markers and trailers,
for us to recall how to weep,
from love and pain,
from following generations of his
beautiful blonde
children who are poster models for
the traditional all american imagery,
but thriving within,
with  his
wanderlust, his mixed fiery visions,
and acting, singing out dramas
befitting their inherited
visions…

<>
here
I cease,
here
I weep,
at the impoverished words
scrivened in haste,
through tears of pleasure
intended to give honor
to this man,
who cedes me the pleasure of his existence,
and enhances my world
when he asks me,
unwittingly commissions!
a poem,
about
the human character,
who see himself unusually!
“as a potholder with a simple design”
and as usual,

I fail miserable…
maybe,
nick the outer edge of a bullseye target,
because the important words that he deserves,
I have not yet mentioned:

honor, loving kindness and friend.

perhaps he is correct,
but doesn’t grasp
that without simple men like him
to hold the *** upright and firm,
we all would be lesser or
even lost.


maybe,
now I am one
with
done