~for all who stuck with me, through fat (long) and skinny(short) for a lotta years & poems~
it strikes me that this poem #3000Aa,
deserves a marking, a nat-notation,
why? why not? it’s just another scrip,
another chapter, another fini,
une autre “lippy,”
I fin~ed it not~sonnet~odd that
‘cog decline’
resurfaces at this particular Pearly Gate,
this peninsula’s penitent entrant to my
next to lasting everlasting
even to taciturn me,
astonishing, to my nexus of another
thous& +
one more;
this!
poetic lead-in into this my,
resting chambered,
dug by his/you/mine own~ed hands
that/they sing,
“with open hands,”
wizened, and open to clapping shut,
the fancy word for otherwise/poetically/known/
as (o/p/k/a)
‘wilting’
~~
almost every week,
buy 3 dozen roses to decorate our lives,
knowing full that by their seventh day in residence
to the well of compactor to be dispatched
willingly well, without fear of remorse,
for they have run their wilting
course well,
no prayers but a devoted thank you,
and
asking for no more than,
to be accompanied by
with
no words of farewell, not a trace left behind, {that} the last thing on my
mind
(1)
and even
this shorted-warning
in thought only pronouncing in hebrew
for it is originated
knowing that in Hebrews(!),
‘tis scripted
“all men have an appointment with death”
לכל הגברים יש פגישה עם המוות,
but wherefore art thou saddest, loneliest of
dispatched angels?
is a puzzling delight,
that poets adore
ruminating
all about
but here and now,
i chew mine selected edification/glorification
of words
in every language employable,
variety untold
what will be my
trace left behind?
if not
this body of poems,
it surely not be
this mortal flesh
which
eagerly wilts
deliberately atrophies,
hid to be, into fine dark moist
Jersey soil
along & on
a jagged line pointing
formerly knows as the X-axis,
now freed from linear aristocracy,
now ensconced from upper left to lower right,
A spaceship ocean liner majestic slow going,
a whipped crossing its old path into
a solidified negative territorial perma-au courant
of these familiar nearby waters,
a most X appropriate appropriation
and I write this without my
three most trusted allies,
sun
moon
woman
who no longer reads my poetry,
all of whom have deserted me,
the unlucky and the strong,
and this be my persistent ark~tic winter,
despite the calendar’s persistent instant!
disapproval
it is spring forward!
alas, alack, William,
my symptoms belie what my eyes see only dimly,
squinting of no assistance
and I do,
hear here the greek chorus
of death’s crystalline weariness in every part
of my requiem sing song embodied pieces
~~
adieu adieu
no longer possess
the poetic power to
trans form rain into dew,
for you, for you,
&
for just you
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<nml~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Con Te Partiro (English Translation)
“I will leave with you”
When I am alone
I'm dreaming at the horizon
And the words are missing
Yes, I know there is no light
In a room when the sun is missing
If you are not with me, with me
On the windows
Show everyone my heart
That you have lit
Enclose within me
The light that
You've met on the road
~~~~
But
“when you touch me like this”
And you hold me like that
I just have to admit that it's all coming back to me
When I touch you like this
And I hold you like that
It's so hard to believe, but it's all coming back to me
It's all coming back, it's all coming back to me now…
songwriter: James Richard Steinman (1947 – April 19, 2021)
~~~~
and
“To really love someone is to set them free
I promise I'll see you and I know you'll see me
And when life tries to break us
In ways we may not understand
I will hold you
And you will hold me
And we will love
With open hands,
with open hands”
Josh Groban
Apr 18
Apr 18, 2026 at 10:02 AM UTC
~for all who stuck with me, through fat (long) and skinny(short) for a lotta years & poems~
it strikes me that this poem #3000Aa,
deserves a marking, a nat-notation,
why? why not? it’s just another scrip,
another chapter, another fini,
une autre “lippy,”
I fin~ed it not~sonnet~odd that
‘cog decline’
resurfaces at this particular Pearly Gate,
this peninsula’s penitent entrant to my
next to lasting everlasting
even to taciturn me,
astonishing, to my nexus of another
thous& +
one more;
this!
poetic lead-in into this my,
resting chambered,
dug by his/you/mine own~ed hands
that/they sing,
“with open hands,”
wizened, and open to clapping shut,
the fancy word for otherwise/poetically/known/
as (o/p/k/a)
‘wilting’
~~
almost every week,
buy 3 dozen roses to decorate our lives,
knowing full that by their seventh day in residence
to the well of compactor to be dispatched
willingly well, without fear of remorse,
for they have run their wilting
course well,
no prayers but a devoted thank you,
and
asking for no more than,
to be accompanied by
with
no words of farewell, not a trace left behind, {that} the last thing on my
mind
(1)
and even
this shorted-warning
in thought only pronouncing in hebrew
for it is originated
knowing that in Hebrews(!),
‘tis scripted
“all men have an appointment with death”
לכל הגברים יש פגישה עם המוות,
but wherefore art thou saddest, loneliest of
dispatched angels?
is a puzzling delight,
that poets adore
ruminating
all about
but here and now,
i chew mine selected edification/glorification
of words
in every language employable,
variety untold
what will be my
trace left behind?
if not
this body of poems,
it surely not be
this mortal flesh
which
eagerly wilts
deliberately atrophies,
hid to be, into fine dark moist
Jersey soil
along & on
a jagged line pointing
formerly knows as the X-axis,
now freed from linear aristocracy,
now ensconced from upper left to lower right,
A spaceship ocean liner majestic slow going,
a whipped crossing its old path into
a solidified negative territorial perma-au courant
of these familiar nearby waters,
a most X appropriate appropriation
and I write this without my
three most trusted allies,
sun
moon
woman
who no longer reads my poetry,
all of whom have deserted me,
the unlucky and the strong,
and this be my persistent ark~tic winter,
despite the calendar’s persistent instant!
disapproval
it is spring forward!
alas, alack, William,
my symptoms belie what my eyes see only dimly,
squinting of no assistance
and I do,
hear here the greek chorus
of death’s crystalline weariness in every part
of my requiem sing song embodied pieces
~~
adieu adieu
no longer possess
the poetic power to
trans form rain into dew,
for you, for you,
&
for just you
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<nml~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Con Te Partiro (English Translation)
“I will leave with you”
When I am alone
I'm dreaming at the horizon
And the words are missing
Yes, I know there is no light
In a room when the sun is missing
If you are not with me, with me
On the windows
Show everyone my heart
That you have lit
Enclose within me
The light that
You've met on the road
~~~~
But
“when you touch me like this”
And you hold me like that
I just have to admit that it's all coming back to me
When I touch you like this
And I hold you like that
It's so hard to believe, but it's all coming back to me
It's all coming back, it's all coming back to me now…
songwriter: James Richard Steinman (1947 – April 19, 2021)
~~~~
and
“To really love someone is to set them free
I promise I'll see you and I know you'll see me
And when life tries to break us
In ways we may not understand
I will hold you
And you will hold me
And we will love
With open hands,
with open hands”
Josh Groban
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