“the pleasuring words”

are not of necessity singularly complected or of one nature

know them by many other names, colorations, languages,
throat growling purring, pretty soft and stern, singsong,
begged borrowed stolen, barked and pleaded

but when the eyes quietly say,

come to me darling

in manner unspoken,
the pleasuring of the silence
greater than if sullied by a vocalization,
the wild sounds my heart commit
pounding mounting ever louder
requiring no translation, repetition,
though they grow louder
with every heart throbbing

the pleasuring words are spoken
by silent eyes when you

call me by my other name
  5d Poetoftheway
Heave away laddies
sail away you ladies
let us lift our glasses
to that one-eyed spy
aloft in the dark nest
looking down to what
we have spelt out in
the fires of driftwood
drinking to the light
filling the silent sea
wooing its bed right
below my window,
and to the memory
of the rusty revolver
held tight in my right
hand I keep beneath
my hard, cold pillow
O, night, you old sailor
your victory, I salute.
  6d Poetoftheway
to love a poet
is to know immortality
for your name
will never cease
to flow from her lips

and she will forever hold
her pen gently
for her hands are scarred
with remnants of you
Poetoftheway Aug 5
candle on the typewriter

~for V.B~

lit, to better see the typewriter keys,
as if the those longest fingers needed guidance as to
how to lay down a word, each a brick, mortared to the next
knowing full well, permanence a laughable notion,
and the old house lives on by the good graces of storm kings

the cat, lazy supervising, purring delightedly,
when the sunlight requests their lips porch presence
to see what the island gods have proffered to the inhabitants,
this new morning to feed the soul and the soil, and a cats tummy

never mind the mis-stacked old occupant documents,
important enough once, that too, yellowed by
times relentlessly agile agent aging imprimatur,
the candle is a needed, a promise to oneself, that the words
hidden in the keys, require that shadowed glow, to find the
way-out, to be released unto life, bonded onto bonded paper

you reveal in silent photos so much,
even your best work, a younger version,
who says a lit candle on a typewriter, that’s crazy,
and you laugh, crazy with - from words,
that reveal all, but not as much as the
light of candle burning on a typewriter
~for Kim Johanna Baker and Edmund Black~

The Instigation:
Edmund  Black “weary weighted,” I agree with Kim; This is poetry at its best :)“


both of you shush;

there is no “better” in poetry

mine yours theirs, alive or not

just gasps tears and blood
whimsical smiles and isles
cuts and burns of pained revelations,
hidden in fog,
that words try to delete away,
through the shrouded mists of
human tissues,
unconstrained by the
bounded shape
of the human cell,
our first, our own
self-imposed jail

tissue, too,
baby soft, or,
purple beating majestic bruised blotches
by those weaklings whose
kindness never
fully developed;  
or old man mine whose
skin cells erodes, so poems and light
weary weighted, lightly flake off
for your “betterment”
mostly tho for worse

good humans all await,
in patientce lightly hidden,
residents of dark sunspots
in the glaring existence exposer
of the unlit lighthouse whose time will come

they get it

how we get there unimportant

get there


get there
that is the poetic
mission critical

no path best or style preferred-
no compare just, but,
any path that
lifts and elevates,
to the commonplace,

the common place

where all costarred, universal,
where common is the temple mount
of highest praise, holy smoke rising,

a place that
that discloses and closes,
is scribed/described honestly as
a connective,
which is the simplest

call my poems,
blessedly common
that an honorable,
so gladly accepted

so much more meaning-full
than merely best or better
for that,
I’d gladly weep,
for no praise ever been

8/2/18 406pm
on the jitney to my isle
the instigation: Edmund black › “weary weighted, I agree with Kim .... This is poetry at its best :)“
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