though a young’un here,
wander, stumble through
old poems via crazy word
searches, and bumble~bump
into fabulous poets who have
not scribed in many ayear,
and the curiosity chomps me
big time, where do the poets
go,

when they without trace,
they disappear,
disparu sans laisser de trace

leaving behind poems that leave
me breaathless, eyes watery,
could not have all died,
but their spark that lit up skies
world over,
has been extinguished

impossible
cannot be,
perhaps they graduated
to more serious employ,
though know nothing better
than scripture of scribbling
a beauteous insights,
a pithy phrase
that rings the heart strings
in ways that leave you
gasping!

how
can you lose the
need,
urging,
compulsing,
sensation
to create
great?

how can it be,
late at night,
the kids put to bed,
the papers writ,
the bills paid
as best one can,
that the inner scream
becomes your
fingertips
to blow, spark, and drip
fulsome
words?

unheard,
requiring
witnesses,

Where?
is that ****
divine action,
when
so many have lost
that sparking
of
describing
the sparkling best
that life
provides?

there are thousands who know me,
the now me ~
too well…
an idea-phrase that stankles (rankles and stings),
for though my goal is a gaol to hideaway within,
betray myself too oft with my fingerprints upon the
cheeks of all I hold dear…

in that summer breeze you feel
tickling the hairs upon the back of thy neck like a
surprised,
unsirpassed
sunrise,
exactly like a lover who loves reminding you that love is the unexpected kiss upon said neck that weakens
you with pleasuring, and that,
a steady stream of surprises,
is the greatest loving,
treat of all…like that
morning miracle mystery
of a fresh baked
still bakery warm,
croissant
that tickles the taste buds
upon the tongue that tickles the
hairs on the back of your neck..

every croissant kissing butter fragrance,
the aroma of every day for
me knowing,
you moaning
and the fragrance
we together
create

grin and confess that it is
the easiest
version of a kinder person
that I would
give up my right arm to be

work, work it, listening is
sometimes the hardest
thing we are asked to
give…

our centered selves,
say, got enough on my plate,
and don’t got them right pithy
sayings…handy
plus,
that trite is
never justified…


so subtract pieces of me
for gifting to those ask,
who need more that they can say,
is just a shoulder dandy,
an arm draped,
is the best
one can do

on the margin
the paraphernalia
employed to obtain
the sweated inspirations
to tell these lies randomized
stories, factuelle (feminine)
pestle and mortar martyrs,
crushed together, drink in
her form, the S curves
of her shape, my fav
place, on a long list
of favs,

and she says;

hey poetry man!

which renders my
100 or so
senses,
that radiate,
congregate,
infantuate
rendering moi
delightfully attentive,
and I think:

Solitude:

Be All well and good,
wells and veins awaiting
for spelunking & mining for the
nexus of the
next line, but when she summons me,
with a cherished honorific I am
sundered by words deep felt,
and the next line forgotten,
disappeared and
for multiples,of poems,
that
die
heart busted broke

when she call poet, come,
it is like living in a gearbox
Stuck in Fifth,
that message of multiplex pixels,
so engaging and so many container conceptual structures,
those poetic burst and bust out,,
gnawing to be released free,
***** solitude, it’s her
attitude that gives
more than I can
handle…

and the poems are about the conjoining
of
the mutuality of our:

soliciting solitude attitude

~dedicated and gifted to Alyssa Homes Underwood,
in perpetuity~
<>
this one, like so many others, is
for my inestimable~faithful friend
who asks, listens and never sings
out of tune,
always lending me his ears…

<>
the 7:42 am train is pulling in…
the tracks run by the soundless waters,
directly through the spaces
called my mind

<>


sun begging come out & play,
“c’mon baby, you know need warmth,”

(even if mine ain’t the kind that realizes
real dreams, the kind that exhale healing,
but come out anyway, take what you can get,
put off the pains of haunting curses, sins that cannot be erased, random emerging like jacks-in-the-box that were cranked, but just waiting for the right moment to fk you up…try putting them bastids, back in the can with  aplomb & composure but you know it’s way too late..)

Van Morrison serenades
“These are the days
(of the endless summer),”
it is a hymnal
in / of the church of blue sky,
birch  white pews, voices choral…
the caucus of birds who are crazy flitting, cawing, cracking,
making an unholiness mess unsuitable to the moment’s serenity,

the rabbits, seeing if this idiot threw out some
baby carrots (he did), Van singing of love of the one magician, who would turn my blood into wine…

the whistle blows, a one-minute-warning, train
a-leaving,  so is this poem, and the randomness herein is not a poem, but a cry of the mind,
”un cri de l’esprit,”
may it, it may resonant or fall, face~flat to the ground, the sound of the mind,
the train whistle, the symphony of mother morning nature, the quiet lapping waves,
all acknowledge their “failure to soothe,” them, relentless, will return later, on the morrow, same station, them, who
will never concede that they can be beaten,
to superimpose, a mental purity in the recesses
of where the screams crawl out of the mind’s
cemetery, them unmarked graves, of babies that
did not survive to be named, and yes, that’s a
real thing…shhhhhh, them say the triumvirate of the natural forces state with equanimity
”write, let it out, let it go,”
you
hope no one reads this…but it’s far too late
it is
for~formed, created,
on this the seventh day of the week,
when the Maker rested from his
creation~work, and you think maybe a day of rest, not a bad idea, smiling cause, someone is playing Joe Cocker singing,
“Have a Little Faith in Me”
and then,
“(Try) With a Little Help From My Friends”
confirming, in the governing firmament of this world there are no coincidences…*

<>

8:10 by the sky, and
checking out the sky holes and the holy,
seeing the sight lines to souls gone but always,
well remembered…they too shushing me with
loving kindness…and the next stop is
Nazareth

and the great replacement is how I speak with but my

eyes…

and there is a sacrifice of subtlety…and nuance is a sometime thing,
BUT, when I

tilt my head and stilt my neck, and she laughs at my
aggrandizement,

for emphasis,
a periodic two step is most useful when exaggerating…

and the the picture of me grimace grinning, arms akimbo waving,
and the peculiarity of my grunts, well, makes her crackle with laughter,

which is so deep appreciated I further employ my tongue to
make the point  that words are super superfluous and She
reimburses my kissing with a two grasp handed heady head
embrace-taking, which necessitates our eyes in a combine,

and there is no more to say,

for the eyes have it!