I pray,
I pray that prayers are heard,
I pray that prayers are heard
though I expect, nor want an act or answer,

I pray for myself,
I pray for myself to be a better instrument
to navigate beyond myself

to explore the vastness of creation,
to scout, at least in thought

beyond the planets,
beyond the galaxy,
beyond the milky way

to entertain even thoughts beyond the universe itself,

and I pray to know the small
that lies within and outside my walls,

I pray to be worthy of self love,
so I can love you purely,
this I pray.

Infinity
Is
Exhausting
Because
It's
Infinite.

What is the shape of silence,
the vibration of stillness,
the contour of peace?

Every room was painted wrong,
there wasn't a stick of furniture,
even the light needed bathing,
having come through greasy windows,
the interior space begged to be outside,
each echo cringed at its own birthing,
the ceilings wanted to be the floors,
the floors resented all the walls,
and the walls told both to take a flying -
but this was but a partial molding
of the metaphors for this less than perfect day.

Poetry is like sculpture;
one removes everything,
that is not poem.

I only have you for a minute,
two at best.
Therefore it would be silly of me
to stand here on my head,
you there,
wherever you are,
reading this.

To see art
                    and shed a tear

To view a vista
                              that brings on despair

To meet a woman
                                   and be moved beyond repair.

Mice are endlessly studied
blindly piloting channeled maze,
but who among us
is not doing the very same?

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.

Am I the guy you want to hang love on, Darlin'
Am I the guy you want for your last name?

Am I the belt loops for you, Darlin'
Am I the boots you'll be shinning?

Am I the rut you want your wheels in, Darlin'
Am I the Harley you want to be riding?

Am I the guy you want to hang your love on, Darlin'
Am I the guy you want for your last name?

Am I the mountain you want climbing,
Am I the trail you want to be hiking

Am I the guy you want to hang love on, Darlin'
Am I the guy you want for your last name?

Am I the belt loops for you, Darlin'
Am I the buckle you'll be shinning?

Am I the boots you'll be pull'in
Am I the song you'll be sing'in

Am I the guy you want to hang love on, Darlin'
Am I the guy you will take your name?

I know that I'm the guy that needs your love'in
Will you take my name?
Darlin', will you take my name?

====
* I ain't no song writer, so have at it.  
Don't be bashful, you got any advice
on improving this ballad plez post,
including take that dang ditty out and bury the **** thang.

Let my words be fingers
to take the tension from your neck,
to ease your shoulders from the day just spent,
with hands and arms to embrace your waist,
and trace the contour of your hips,
and continue thus along your thighs,
with your hands meeting mine,
divine, we will make this hour,

one inch of snow fell,
called an "emergency" here,
Yankees smile & grin :-)

Thy lovely carapace,
though untouched by me,
fills my scriptorium
with  passion tales imagined,
and many yet to tell.

Of all the sounds
the human animal
has ever reproduced
your cries of ecstasy
would in any language
be understood.

You and smile
are synonymous.
When I think of you
a nimbus crown appears 'round my head,
How can this be,
when we've never met?
Oh, baby, baby,
let's take a ***** and bury "yet"?

(insert  complaint here)
You cut me off ,
but you'll not steal my day.
Were it to happen,
I would be both thief,
and the one stolen from.

I'm your on call lover,
made to order.
I bring your heart to flutter,
your place, my place,
It doesn't matter.

In that whisper thin
between sigh and tears
save the moment,
think of me, my dear.

Few are loved for who they are,
but for how, and whom they serve.
Is your beauty, brains, or bravery
your servant that does your bidding
so lovers flock and posture at your feeder?
Unless the ill, the homely, the mental cases
have a built store of once given gifts
they find few friends and fewer still
the comfort of a lover.

You sit indoors,
under man made light,
and you say you've never traveled,
but in truth you raced a great circle
within the last twenty-four hours;
depending where your house, north or south,
a distance between zero and 24,900 miles!
and like most travelers, you're back from whence you started.

Alice,
There are no straight shots
                                          to the moon -

        there are going
                to be
                  in-
                 ter-
               ludes.

I'm a poetry critic.
They call me "Homeric Wrecker."

Too much love to give
But few takers?

Visit an animal shelter.
You and your new roomy
Will be glad you did!

I long for
the
shortest line
be  
    tween
                the me of me -and- the you of you.

you wait,
though I am there,
you sigh,
though I am your breath,
you look,
though I am your stare,
your thoughts have hollowed a place for me,
                                                             ­              shaped me,
                                                             ­                                 shaped me
                                                              ­                                                  so I should fit.

we are:
killing,
eating,
*******,
*** machines,
and given free time,
will awe stare a mirror
and repeat "I", "I","I"
in the name of God.

How amiss
could Eros' arrow that would pierce two hearts with love -
to the 'morrow?

Should passion be such
that it drains the sea
then I will find inland lakes
to give to thee.

Should devotion be such
that it exceeds times day
then I will find the extra hour
to give to thee

Should poetry be such
that you need to breathe
then I will lute 'n lyre
and sing to thee.

there will be a night
when you don't hear from me;
bide your time
rereading my poems.

The alchemy of love
is that two can be one
at a distance.

no word from you
and the blood grows bolder,
I've taken to rereading your old poems
written for "last time" lovers,
the bitter flames
has me smolder,
as I shake and grow ever colder.

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

There is much to be learned
studying a woman savoring a dish,
the speed of consumption,
the line of attack,
the rise of her bosoms,
the flare of her lips,
the degree to which her eyes do squint,
the click of her tongue,
the pouch of her cheeks,
and not the least,
observe the pleasure she takes
licking her finger tips.

I'm writing to report
that you were recently captured
within one of my randomly cast
thought nets.

I was late,
I missed you,
I waited under the lamp light,
watching my shadow
look up and down the street,
listening,
                 but
                       the
                              barely
                                         audible
                                                        footsteps
                                                  ­                         were yesterday's.

That you would dissolve in me,
and I in you,
and like apparitions,
we would inhabit each world.

Among the plethora
the eye plucks one falling flake
melting in my hand.

would i be the first
if i were to incorporeally script
an antithology
starting with two white on white end papers
and filling their in between
with N-minus-one
intrinsic diswholeness (imagine symbol for shrugged shoulders here)

Want,
              a need,
found me,
                   found me wanting,
   wanting
               to fulfill.

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.

under the table,
a half continent away;
how do you do it,
your foot
in my lap!?   ;-))

I only have you for a minute,
two at best.
Here, it would be silly of me
to stand on my head,
you there,
wherever you are,
reading this.

On our wedding day
my expectations fulfilled,
Our life since has been
flowering revelation

"Who am I?"

When I was three, six, ten, sixteen, twenty...
not a single cell could trace the transition,
therefore I must not be my body.

If not my body, then my thoughts?
I can not frame a thought that has not changed!

If I'm not my body, nor my thoughts
Who am I?
Who asks this question?

Old Charlie,
you left your widow
too poor to buy you ground,
and shy of burning you to ashes,
so your Elvis hair,
and your once
Johnny Cash build
was willed to science,
though
I don't expect
they'll find the big heart we knew
when they explore
beneath your ribs and cartilage.

This evening,
when you are reading
in front of your fire hearth,
I will be the flames warming you.

Take these words
and pleasure thyself,
I will be your moan.

There is a light dusting of snow,
and now a light dusting of exhaled me.
The mountain views are spiritual here,
I know you would think the same,
if only I knew the magic spell
to transform my constant thoughts of you
into standing trees,
you would be the lovely forest at my sleeve.

was it your whisper
or mine
that put the flame out?
no matter,
we could both see
the light would soon end
with so little wax left
on the short candle.