4:45am Sabbath Eve
~for she knows who~

2/7/25
<•>
the price of eggs is mundane,
controlled by supply and demand,
and the human need for
pleasure and pain,
delivered by merely breathing

what you are sensing
is a staple
that is unique and yet-ubiquitous,
entree always calculable
with math

With X being your financial
limitations, you can/cannot
afford
the pleasure or the pain
of eggs, especially the
Omega-3 Cage Free Vegetarian
Growth Hormone-Antibiotic
and Pesticides Free,
you so
Lazarus yearn to be free to buy,
but you’re free still
to buy and swallow the cheapest
eggs and still live another day

BUT THE PRICE OF POETRY!

Dear God, it’s beyond costly,
beyond mundane
it is pleasure and the pain,
in combination,
irreplaceable and un substitutable,
and happily
affordable and free
Incalculable and Unlimited
so unlike eggs

for I speak
of & to
your very soul

I would not die if I
never was to enjoy
an egg in any form ever;
but

if I-would
never write nor read another
poem, even then, I still would not-die,
but if only, and yet,
one could, one must
at the very least

live a life poetic

seeing and appreciating
the mysterious in/of life
the simplest complexity
of a stolen kiss,
the inescapable high
of one more spectacle
of morning sunrise
and the mourning meaning
of an evenings sunset

the precise mathematics of life
that is imprecisely inherent in it all,
of all that is
inherent in out
be~ing
and all that is
with~in
& ab~out us,

is recorded by our senses
preserved by memory
sometimes well, and sometimes not!

so we write to preserve it
better
in poems, music & paint

try to keep
the quantity of love and truth
given to us by family and friend,
in your heart+soul

but perhaps somethings
mathematically unmeasurable,
are harder to keep close by,
but this element of
the life poetic is corporeal
is measurable
determinate
effected
by the

unlimited availability of the
poetic life you
can choose to live
and the words
in your possess
you
can choose too
if
one has
to keep it
closer still

if you so choose to record it
with imperfect fallible
but yet useful
words
you live forever
<•>

(^And the muse is laughing at me,
She, giggling, saying
“you see why you rise up at 4:45 AM,
Only then can you see and love
and write of your poetic life!

and you willingly would die
when egged on to the beyond-you
on that day no longer do you ask
why, where when
and how”)

Banished to a softer place
Where, occasionally, people see your face,
Weak sunlight, glossed in gown of lint
Presupposes blandishment.
Soft light thinly falls in shade
Wherein forgotten promises are made

The weaving web of discontent
In graduated soft lament,
Where glistened tears slide down your face
Dispensing all the grace, displaced,
Dispensing all the hurt, contrived,
Within your carmine lies, derived.

Saturnine, in coiled retreat,
Supine in momentary heat
That thee would do what must be done
Within thy limitations, spun
But lost to all who, sad, perceived
Thy caustic fabrication bleed.

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ
6 February 2025

She's like the essence of a coral rose
a latent bloomer with a heart of gold
And when she speaks to me in prose
deep inside, she opens doors of old

Rosy cheeked and full of vitality
a thriving blush in my garden of love
Infused with life and immortality
she's been sent from up above

A rose by any name will always be so neat  
like cupid wings when flown across the sky
Filled with ample beauty she's replete
soft and mellow, like a gentle sigh  

She's the perfume of my scented days,  
perfect and valuable in every way.

~Especially For our own poet, Immortality~

we all dream for a few seconds,
mostly when we are younger,
like, say, s e v e n t e e n, that
something, we might be~come,
known for, perhaps even believing
our names|our poems might be read,
a hundred and one years on…

periodic, episodic,doesn’t last long,
though it
does get repeated every
now and then, and  then again,
each time, the notion disappears
faster, sure, better things to dream
about, better hopes more closely
held, tangible tasting, envisioning,
deserving for intensely scheming,
using that double edged
s~word,
realistic,
and even, in the
planning, schemin’ dreamin’
always a nagging fearin’
can
they really
could come true

others fantasize,
, that class of crazy dreamers,
standing at an airport gate,
hear a call out your name,
and someone will,
from behind, tap you on the
shoulder and asks, shyly

hey, you wouldn’t be that person
who writes
poetry on HP?

unlikely of course, odds against,
whoa,
even worse
than winning a lottery jackpot prize

but then again, surprise always
favors biting you on,
well, them tender places,
and a day comes,
when  a younger poet, amazes, takes the time,
makes the effort to look up your older
writs, languishing in bits of bytes on an
unknown server, aged  graying from
relentless time,
and the absence of eyes,
being read, thereby re~realized,
revitalized,
visualized, inhaling light+ air,
away wiping
the dust and webs of  suffered mortality
and, that silly notion escapes it grave,
and you writer, run into an encounter
with an old fantasy, resurrected and
you too reread that old poem, issuing s
voluble ****!, not half bad, and restoring
that momentary potent potentiality of
it
surviving past the beyond date of expiry,
and then, another is read, & another,
swallowing a pill stronger
than a a Doctors’s best gurss forecast
of 20 more years you’ll live,
for an actualized prophecy now
is tangent tangible,
like mouth to mouth-resuscitation
and you, unusually,
think once more about tomorrow,
exhaling the headyatmosphere
of a rainy forest,
well appreciating, laughing at the future,
for here, she has shared but penned
but twenty four original poems,

me,
thousands open and disguised, and my newly formed grin is now for her,
for now my breath and its baggage of a fantasy, may
be coming her
reality realized?

and I will surely still be an
avid cheerleader
for her, for you, a
devoted
follower-in-absentia