Gib moon, horse barn roof,
The trees and hills silhouette,
"Cry, coyote, yowl."

From you the seed
to what I hold dear,
though now an old gnarled oak,
and afflicted,
you are in your final winter,
come spring
you will not leaf,
nor will a sparrow
find solace in your branches.

Astronomers tell
there are no satellite moons
circling Venus,
but I am proof that they are wrong,
though my path leaves no trace that can be seen,
but you, my dear, know well,
that when I pass the dew does settle.

You're afternoon, my love,
and I'm forenoon,
and the twix between
burrs our saddle.

Eros, on your high steed,
we beseech your Olympian authority
to make mutual our latitudes
so next when the clock strikes twelve
our eyes, yours and mine, my love
shall meet within that same hour,
and there we'll dine upon the other.

Your Siren's line,
"Bring your lips to mine,"
is clear and Clarion
above the tempest sea,
thou danger is both rope and knife
that has me lashed 'n free.

If you brush my words with butter,
and put them on a roasting rack,
or better yet, why not spit them,
and string them on a brassier's stake,
you'll always get a tasty serving of
"I love you" warmly presented upon your plate.

===

* No greeting cards were printed subsequent to the composition of the above lyrics, but the poet is open to negotiating first print rights with one or more eco friendly greeting card publishers.  Product must contain at least 50% post consumer fiber.  Native labor input would be a plus.

Dear Sorrows,
You are the sculptor of my deepest caverns.
My caves and subterranean passages
were hollowed by the drainage of your tears.
Were it not for you
I would be a solid unyielding block.
Sweet, sweet Sorrows,
through your good offices
I am tuned and resonant.

Nothing matters in the end,
but not so in the envelop of time we have,
and there is that karma thing
where the sins of the father
come to roost on the heads of the spawn.
So if inclined to live in an untidy bedroom,
think again.

Firewood, spark, smoke, flames,
an infinite varied dance
mesmerizing thought.

Does love have a purpose?
I can see by the look on your face
that you've never asked yourself this question.
Are we drawn to one another
by benevolence or want?
Is love selfless or self serving?
Are we pawns on a Darwinian game board,
the slaves of genes, or eggs and *****?
And what if you and I knew the answer,
would you still love me, and I you?

You raised the bar, Darlin'
on wholesale love.

You're such a pretty cat, me Darlin'
but you **** doves!

You're such a pretty cat, Darlin'
but you **** doves!

You raised the bar, Darlin'
on wholesale love.

I'm just a pretty boy, my Darlin'
here to implore your love.

I'm just a pretty boy, my Darlin'
but you **** doves,
or was that rabbits?
====

* No animals were harmed in the writing of these lyrics, but regrettably, a few injuries did occur at a subsequent recording session.

Wanted, bad poems.
We are an international publisher
specializing in bad poetry.
Not bad poetry,
but really, really bad poetry.
Your submission should include one or more of the following words:
Heart,Shard,Wind,Love,Hate,Death, I (lots of I's).

I've enjoyed our  bacchanal,
thus far verbal,
in the same way let's take a walk,
you pick the route,
down along the river
where we can compete skipping rocks,
or through a sylvan path
where I could show you that I'm gallant,
perhaps saving you from a low hanging branch,
then there's that orchard where I've heard your kiss 'n tell.
You pick the route so we can hold hands and talk.

The week is weak,
and the morning weaker still,
and you, my dear now slumber in,
while I tossed and turned all night,
upon an imagined pyre of our in flagrante delicto.

Once you've performed your spousal duties,
and bathed off the stench of him,
and he lay sleeping his swine sleep,
and the night's spirits have spirited him toward morning,
listen for that pebble thrown against your window
'Twill be I, the village swain, 'twill be I!

There's so much to learn
at the super check-out,
Oprah's last diet,
speculation that Tom might be queer,
Angelina's new tattoo, or was that baby?
And that Jennifer still has this thing for Pitt(s)

Oh to live in a golden age
when a bard's quilled words
would feather a goose down bed
or get thyself royally laid.

I'm thinking of a week
you and I
on a sugar beach
where every thing is sand, or sways, or blue
except you and I
making love on an oceanside lanai
where the only thing we are denied
is a phone call from home or office.

Though you deny it
I'll bet you're beautiful,
did you say 36, or 38,
no matter
and eyes not blue,
nor blood I hear
not arabesque, not a dancer?
Can you cook,
published articles in the "Lancer"?
Nonetheless, I'll bet you're beautiful,
Just my guess.

It will be morning when you read this.
You will be at work,
perhaps drinking your second cup of coffee.
Do you take it with cream, one or two sugars?
Funny to think I don't know,
though I puzzle with these love words
arranged specially for you.

Would that I were the first
to use the phrase "private dancer."
In my thoughts you are arabesque,
a gracefully spinning shadow projected upon my naked walls,
your slender arms and hands, and fingers extended tall
en pointe in the center of my cupped palms
and in my heart, in unison, we are pas de deux.

There is no way of knowing
how many poems written go unread.
Surely many deserved an early death,
but what of the brilliant verse?
Sad to think a single one
would die, with its author, uncaressed.

We are all living
with a deadly disease
that will **** each of us.
Some are host to more than one killer,
engaged in a turtle hare coup de grâce race.
For some us the time we have left is too well known,
For most of us the time we have left is left unknown.

There are so many secrets in a village
where everyone knows everyone,
and so many secrets in a family
where everyone is living close,
and so many secrets among siblings,
where each is blood kin to each,
and so many secrets in the heart
where a few       hurt       so much
they are rarely, if ever, given leash.

Adrift in dark water
on a moonless night
when time is light and there is none
I turned and you were gone.
You're a better swimmer than I
so I've asked the wind to deliver these words,
knowing somehow you will get them.
When the storm's over and you've reached land,
build a bright fire, use dry words if you must.
I will find you by this light.
I will come to you there.

Oh, phalo skeptic,
part your wave for skirted ***** surfers,
tho, trout, tripe, and titmice thrill thrice..

Will duct tape save us?
Urge the Zamboni machine,
to microwave ice.

Quince down that pouting sphincter,
Oh, the tides do swell
on the morrow of passing fish.

Wheelbarrow pious.
Swift, awesome biblionauts,
Fire! Fire! Pail, Pail thy watered pitch.

Know this, every potato is somewhere vane ...
I'm busy now, rude duuude,
have you sweated a recumbent lout?

Indent chill mots,
Pete, I'm big in Europe, pal,
Have seen me dance the Macarena?

Fool, fool on that high hill,!
Take care when licking spiny urchins
Oy! I scare myself.

Summer camp lovers,
Sad, sad your soring high,
Come autumn,
One of you will have moved on
before the other.

Why is near perfection more alluring
than perfection itself?
Perfect teeth,
perfect smile,
perfect, hair,
perfect skin,
perfect shape,
perfect carriage,
testify a sheltered doll,
and the makings a of boring wife.

In this light,
bisque white cup
lit right,
shadow left,
two-fingers+thumb loop
loop south,
mug chamber,
shadow side inside right,
top edge,
defined to the eye,
as a light gray oval trace
with refection highlights
at 10 and 5,
unseen bottom,
one gulp left of cold black coffee.

This night
toe to toe
knee to knee
follicles embracing follicles
belly to belly
******* to *******
palms to palms
lips to lips
we watch with envy
our avatars.

to stand naked before you,
and you before me,
unashamed,

to stand close but not touching,
close enough
to feel each others heat,

to stand motionless
with eyes fixing
each to each.

On a sepia afternoon,
we'll meet in a rented room,
I'll have cleared my schedule.
And you, my sole to do.

It doesn't matter how many times I face,
a blank page,
its the yet unfilled rind
that sours my stomach.
Some of these poems write themselves.
I can never tell how long they've been molding,
no doubt some for decades,
ruminating, aging like fine cellar cheese,
while other poems are curdles of the moment,
milked from the air.

There has to be a reason
that movies still script
actors lighting cigarettes.
Could it be that tobacco companies
payola directors?
Most likely not.
I think it's a bit like poetry,
where compression can **** a lot
into a little plot.
There's one thing I personally know,
that every time the handsome guy fires up ,
I recollect the Lucky Strikes, the Camels, the Gauloises
and the woman that inspired me to smoke.

You play cat and I play mouse,
or I play cat and you play mouse.
The fact is we're both naked on that hot tin roof.
The question is Baby, how do we get off?

When I went away to school,
I lived in a town with an upper and lower main street,
on one of the slanted connector streets
there was a storefront church
with a white cross sign above the shop
that said, "Jesus Saves".
Just beyond, and next door,
hung a lower sign reading "Green Stamps".
Not sure whether anyone else ever noticed,
but tickled me near death each time I saw it.
And I've been juxtaposing ever since.

His name was Earl,
but everyone in town called him "The bicycle man."
He was hip before hippies were tie dyed,
a  bohemian of sorts, a loner, a quiet man.
Lived out at the edge of town in a self made house,
some would call it a shack.
Ole Earl use to scare me a bit
with his gray beard, deep set gray eyes,
low deep voice and the clothes he weared,
But I learned a life lession from that man.
He said, looking up, "See these here spokes,"
pointing to the spinning wheel of my three geared bike,
"they's all got to be in off set tension or else the rim will be warped."
I've noticed over the years that rule applies to a lot more things than wheels.

My dear,
A little matter I've failed to mention,
I'm the deposed Ruritratinate of Ruritania.
A sad story, really,
My uncle deposed me for the declaring the empire a poetic state.
I was taken to the boarder,
made to swim one of the glacial rivers isolating my country.
I live an ex-patriot's life,
each morning writing a poem,
and sending it to my loyal subjects attached to the next wind.

We'll meet in Montreal,
As cosmopolitan a city as New York or Paris.
Let's make it the end of May.
Plan on bring your worst behavior,
I'll be bring mine.

You were an heiress,
inheriting a life time trust fund
from a fortune made
manufacturing waxy kid's coloring thingamajigs.
Your mother drove you each school day,
in a classic powder blue Mercedes coup.
She was beautifully coiffed,
high bred serene, great skin,
And you were blond, blue eyed, smart and smiled.
When I saw you I always felt -
I felt not worthy of living on your planet.
A few years after graduation we met,
I had had a few beers so I told you everything.
I am sorry for causing you those tears.

To speak all these languages:
Assamese, Bengali, Bodo,
Chhattisgarhi, Dogri , Garo -

Oh, to be able to tongue, "Love"
in Gajarati, Hini, Kannada, Kashmiri,
Khasi,  Kokborok, Konkani -

Or lip, "Desire" in
Maithili,  Malayalam,  Manipuri,  Marathi,  Mizo,  Nepali -

Or whisper, "Good night, Dear"
in Oriya, Punjabi,  Sanskrit,
Santali,  Sindhi, Telugu, Tamil, or Urdu.

Have you noticed the old pagan gods
are in fashion this year?
It's like that hemline thing,
a rising economy
raises all skirts.

When I make
hot 'n sour soup,
I like to add
a little ground ****
as a finishing spice.

I heard one ole boy,
back in the hills,
chopped a Chrysler Aspen
And married it to a 60's Rambler,
He worshiped that hack,
called it his Asp Ram

The next best thing to having no god,
Is having too many.
An infinite pantheon,
divides each demigod
so thin that 1x10^23 angels
can dance on their belly
without a god damning chagrin.

Back in the 6th grade,
your name was Morrisette.
It must have been 11:00 A.M.
sunlight rayed into the class south-south-east,
klegging through your white blouse.
My eyes could only see your brassiered back.
I prayed to God the nun wouldn't call on me
and make me stand.

One chappati, two chappati, three chappati,
for
fire
jump
from that fry pan
to this skillet.

You're a pronoun,
I'm a pronoun.
Let's say we grab a verb
and conjugalate ;-)

If this world has a haven
would it not be more orderly
to demarcate such ordinally,
in place of east & west.
Take Vermont,
one can't crow fly
one Haven to the next
without flying an hour south!