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i declaim, even bellow,
as she turn the a/c to below
the below, to sleep deep,
but then the chillers
invade like an army of Orcs,
now that my body fat now
three Yules gone bye bye
(and twenty yrs too late)

N.B. (FYI: she’s typically the one with
frequently freezing appendages!)

She mocks my screaming,
you are declaring decidedly,
me to be the hottest man-nequin,
with whom
she has ever slept~in,
has bed shared, for a consistent
statiscally valid time of period,
and the proofs
she offers is by
climbing aboard
my chiller self
,
to steal my entire inner warmth,
she being a skinny shapeshifting,
luscious figure whose body temp
barely registers 98 degrees

(per Ouro device!)

i scream out loud,
     the neighbors knock,
hearing me utter in agony
“your cold body is burning me,”
which with practice
SHE~IT
has learned to ignore for i
am  but the fly to
be engorged in her
Venus fly trap,
suiting  her purposes  
happily unwittingly

She tells me once again,
baby, baby
“you’re  my heart’s desire,
set me on fire,
once is
never enough
of a man like you,
do it again,
one more time!


and believing
she suckeredme again
wiley giggles
loudly in my
blueish ear
verily verity verity
you find it…
by for and a gift to all of us…
<>>
patty m wrote:

“a sadness evoked,
a yoke around the neck,
the love peck on the cheek,
the cry, and alibi, the coming together
of word and emotions spilling dreams,
how magical you stream words into waves that spill into rivers. the magic of moonlight strewn from pen to heart.
The love this poet imparts
early after-noon, she quizzes,
“would I be ok with
skinless boneless roasted
chicken breast, with sautéed
mushrooms for our dinner,
ce soir?”

so smile I,
for it is a favored menu
of pleasure,
from one who has never
presented us a meal
that is less than perfect

later, she shyly inquires,
“would be ok if we to eat
a little early, I have a salon,
followed by an
Argentine Tango dance milonga
tonight and one starts early (and
tango parties
end typically
the next  day?
(no|si, me, don’t dance)

of course, respondez in
the affirmative, thus
confirming our love with the
consideration that veins
out affection mutual

and then I add:

“instead of an hours food prep,
which distracts you from the hour
deeded for dressing
for dancing  motivation proper,
and add a little kick-her:

I love you so much,
would happily consume
your tuna fish salad sandwich,
every night, for the rest of our
lives together, it’s fast
and simple, a dis-less-stressing
concoction, that we both enjoy


she (s)miles a sweetened thanks,
after numerous reassurances,
that our love only grows
stronger with acts of smart
sensitivity to each others needs,
no standard of care breached,
au contraire, meant sincerely,
earning me a secondary
whiling smiling

and this true story is a poem,
has been writ a thousand times,
in a million different tiny gestures,
of which, I am proud

she exhales a breath elongated,
a release of an admixture of differing
pleasures released, and goes into the
night to dance in the arms of strangers,
which concerns me
not at all,
after all,
these  many years,
aware she moves exquisitely
in a dance that demands years
of practice, for it requires
intangible silent of the merest
slight finger  pressures to guide
the dancer what next steps
are coy coming,
and I have stolen this
knot of knowledge,
for mine own purposes,
secretly & selfishly,
employing these techniques,
for most of the time we’ve
been together

this poem of
tuna fish sandwiches,
becomes a dance of words
which is
my specialty, which she will
read in the morning l, maybe,
if I send it to her,
though obviously,
that is unnecessary 😉
as she returns to our bed,
me asleeping, she,
exhaustingly satisfied,
sleeeps deeper
secured by the knowing
that we, are both,
the beneficiaries of:
my learned dancing
practices
for such is

*the ways of the poet!
N.B. this is a tad misleading as she uses only
white tuna in olive oil imported from Spain,
which costs a ridiculous amount of of money, but reflects her belief that life is too short to skimp,
and source of  a major philosophical disagreement that is  now part of the rituals we share
Poetoftheway Dec 6
scraps and scrapes of
scripts,
from tears and  zippered weeping of
rips,
lie upon my consciousness like pimpled
irritants,
begging for compassion wetness of
completetedness,
but time is a bitchye mistress, fools not with
suffering,
so herein dispatched one of many driftwoods
dispatched

and let us say
who’s up next. Amen!
Nov 22 · 61
Hobgoblins of the Mind
Poetoftheway Nov 22
Be inconsistent
Change your mind, proudly
To be great, is to be misunderstood

There is always one person
you can rely upon

Read the notes,
and take the
words, and
press them
to your
flesh
.
A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines. With consistency a great soul has simply nothing to do. He may as well concern himself with his shadow on the wall. Speak what you think now in hard words, and to-morrow speak what to-morrow thinks in hard words again, though it contradict every thing you said to-day. — 'Ah, so you shall be sure to be misunderstood.' — Is it so bad, then, to be misunderstood? Pythagoras was misunderstood, and Socrates, and Jesus, and Luther, and Copernicus, and Galileo, and Newton, and every pure and wise spirit that ever took flesh. To be great is to be misunderstood.

Ralph Waldo Emerson, Self-Reliance: An Excerpt from Collected Essays
Poetoftheway Nov 2
But time makes you bolder
Even children get older
And I'm gettin' older, too

lyric from “Landslide” by Stevie Nicks

<>
climbing stairs, balancing two breakfasts,
two fill-to-brim-rims warning sloshing,
earbuds in place, always,
lest the news
interrupts and plunges me first thing into
moody murderous disheartened failure,
and Miz Minx Nicks lays me low

this lyric knocks me to rock,
there and then,
consequences be ******, the unstoppable
lyric rocks grinding me to an
immovable halt,
all spills,
don’t care, for the need to scream-
bleed-finally
write to understand why these
a l w a y s words arrest my soul

children
the most costly thing anyone can
create,
the lost, the found
the ones in the grave way too early,
and the ones who were born
knowing better,

children
whose inviolable sense of
totally righteousness
makes forgiveness
disabled, disallowed
for the poor clueless fools
them who naively know~nothings
who chose to raise them

here I am not getting,
no, unsteadily unreadily
too late
am older,
up-to the shaking-head age
so unexpected,
almost ridiculous
untimely unthinkable
‘cept for:

it’s an impossiblity ~
and just
don’t understand this injustice
perpetrated upon this
unsuspecting and in denial,
sorrowful old man


so I weep
on the steps so steep,
Woman comes to see if I'm
fallen,
my wailing at the realization of
my losses all
totally tallied
is heavy much more than
my now empty hands,
but busy them,
attempting to staunch the
flowing
overwhelming regrets that
gush from every pore,
and that no one can
ever be cleansed,
and the permance of
stains

for I am only
getting older too
killing me
way too slowly
Oct 25 · 61
middle of the line
Poetoftheway Oct 25
teacher says
alright class, line up by the cubbies,
time to go to the assembly,

invariably odd,
the same kids would always
rush to be
at the head of the line,
and some, always
the same different ones,
rush led to be
at the back
of the line-age

nobody made it their business to be in the
middle of the line, though statistically however likely,

the majority aligned,
arrived, diffentiated,
however desirable
or however
undesired,
in the prematurity
of a mid line
life crisis

few if any, said:
I want to be in the anonymous
mid of everything for the rest of my life

or am I,
si or no. incorrect,

will I lose this bet I made
with myself?

surely there are those who crave the anonymity, the safety of a blended
number, neither the tallest or the shortest,
oldest or youngest, smartest or the class
dummy, who never got it right
should the
teacher absentmindedly
in error called
upon him (always a boy),

and here I am so far away from those
elementary days, puzzling out this,
myself vis-a-vis
this ancient mystery,
struggling to muster the
memory of where I
was, how
and why I came
to be
where, to be me,
what
calculus did I perform to select
my “identifying”
person~ality

I’ll dwell on this today
until it is resolved, perhaps
that alone, is the key to
arriving successfully at
a soluble solution to this
question my brain made
unavoidable, but first
must write,
before They lay ne down to sleep,

The End (😉)
1:06am
Oct 11 · 96
lifelines
Poetoftheway Oct 11
tired old ripped up rope,
shedding shredding,
interwoven from
worn~warnings, that
do not hint!
but volume speak,

of a lifetime well used,
the two ends, no longer straightforward,
now stretched, misshapen, countless uses,
left squiggly serpentine, from knots left tied
for~far too long, till they cannot be returned,
to a youthful vigor

them my lifelines;

that stretch from the Atlantic to Pacific
upon my new york hands, right & left,
end to nearing endings, do not hint at
stories untold, geezers, happy to reveal
their tiredness’s are denied a golden oldie
status, just a wind-ed wind-up doll winding
down, coiled-springs uncurling, decoiling…
tensions releasing…

this is the way of the poet,
the words no longer
streaming on demand,
they blip, scurry, a side dent,
glancing, like a windshield hit,
here and gone,
before a napkin secured,
a nearly dried out Bic
secured to scratch remnants
of a phrase spectacular,
end up crumpled, buried,
predeceased in a pocket of an-old fav, a Harris Tweed sport jacket, nurtured
over the years, the faint haze odor
stink of when he
smoked, a couple of
decades long ago…

he rambles,
like that rope end unraveling,
he is was a poet of the way,
for this the way of signing off,
intermittent coughing fits,
the nervous glances of strangers
as he pretends to sashay across Broadway when the light is flash down ten seconds to cross the width of Eighty Feet,
on that old American Indian path
that stretches from the tip of Manhattan Isle
to the Capitol of corruption, Albany, 150 miles…

you see,
poets garner knowledge,
then drip
drops drabs in simile and
metaphors, for this  poem
is just the unraveling of a poet
who has,
worn out his welcome,
and smirks/winces
notionally, a long way
to say, the poets has
lost his own way,
now untied, untitled,
unentiteled,
and that’s a
wrap…
Poetoftheway Oct 4
a lyric from Plaisir D’Amour (1),
these singed edged memories,
the grievous tingling tinge of
lost love,
last a  lifetime,
can reappear symptomatically,
with crystalline purity,
for longer then any ejaculatory
momentary spasmodic instant
joyous vibes of a hallelujah salutation

Grief, Why It Even Can:

erode away the smooth
s skin casing of years of
effective affection,
a long term construction project
of a million individual additions

why then
is pain so long lived,
grief never brief,
but deep rooted,
and pleasing data
so easily
overlooked, pushed away by the

“sharp edge of a short knife?”

why
does the low, slow beat of a sad song
bear down,
demands endless woeful
exhalation&repetition,
and
reversus,
the celebration tuning of a happy
days are here again,
an us, a wee-two-too~together,
always hummable but not
overly memorable?

I posit no solution
but whenever I think of
human
it is of the soft tissues outlining
our long bruised wounds of suffering,

that rise up
from deepest within
flooding the plains
of our thin~skinned senses
colliding and collectively
rendering us imbolized

do you have an answer?

cheap confess
do not know
no answer
but believe now
it is a
seasoned characteristic
that is genetic,
the sum of thousands of years of
the harsh
struggling of lives hard worked
where the life balance
is ar best a sometime thing,
*and the really real is
grief that lasts a lifetime
Sep 30 · 190
Plaisir d’amour
Poetoftheway Sep 30
Plaisir d’amour ne dure qu’un moment,

The pleasure of love lasts only a moment,

chagrin d’amour dure toute la vie.

The grief of love lasts a lifetime.

J’ai tout quitté pour l’ingrate Sylvie,

I gave up everything for ungrateful Sylvia,

Elle me quitte et prend un autre amant.

She is leaving me for another lover.

Plaisir d’amour ne dure qu’un moment,

The pleasure of love lasts only a moment,

chagrin d’amour dure toute la vie.

The grief of love lasts a lifetime.

"Tant que cette eau coulera doucement

As long as this water will run gently

vers ce ruisseau qui borde la prairie,

Towards this brook which borders the meadow,

je t’aimerai", me répétait Sylvie,

I will love you", Sylvia told me repeatedly.

l’eau coule encor, elle a changé pourtant.

The water still runs, but she has changed.

Plaisir d’amour ne dure qu’un moment,

The pleasure of love lasts only a moment,

chagrin d’amour dure toute la vie.

The grief of love lasts a lifetime
Poetoftheway Sep 26
come to sight this site
once a fortnight,
the volume, ***,
a straight line curve, - all
fingertips to the sky appointed,
my followed favored poets get
per force, my attention immediatement!

but
costly for/to the new writers
whom with so few (‘cept Le Gomez)
panning for gold, mostly fall posthaste
to add to deep sea coral reefs below
where lower & slower is an unnoticed
state of sleep, you be the carnival barker!
or a Moses
crossing a
black letteral sea, by the hello,
repost please, the new babies,
otherwise they suffocate from
the unintended lack of oxygenation

it’s a small and costly gesture tho
$$$ free, we well risk losing the new perspective, updating jargon (parole gergali!)

we risk absence by obsolescence, if using
old software, astride our high horses,
putting our heads  up our __
in a nosebleed trivial Jeopardy stratosphere

so shrewdly share, share a link or like,
for we all would be dustbin paper, better
suited for beach bonfire shredded kindling
    if someone
had not grasped our words for even more to
love
Poetoftheway Sep 20
“This world was once a fluid haze of light,
Till toward the centre set the starry tides,
And eddied into suns, that wheeling cast
The planets:
”then the monster, then the man”

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “The Princess”
Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “The Princess”
Sep 20 · 715
Songs for this:
Poetoftheway Sep 20
Perhaps
you divined
everything, each word,
is musically inserted
in the bonds tween us

Them
those
poems that untie with
shoelace knots so quick
reveling, seeing her bare back,
is but a bridge over waters
that demands crossing,
for a mid-way joining

When the night is dark,
trembling, each, we stand
by each other, tumble &
fall where we stand

Anyone can see, our unique
trinity, the admixture of
she-me-us, as we untwine
rolling downwards
on a staircase to Heaven,

Nothing makes me wonder
  more; she is east, smoothie~polished,
  me rough hewn from cacti
  and dusty dirt, the only thing
  polished is the tune, sung to her,
  much practiced, strummed upon
  her cheeks, hummed into her soul

If
I had a box of wishes,
  they would each be a
  song that we sing, that
   made angels cry
you should be able to divine
exactly which songs were heard
while scribbling this
Sep 18 · 138
Pages of My Life
Poetoftheway Sep 18
“Pages of my life sealed inside a book
like bookends at a fairground
holding steady until the rider mounts;
Still unwritten not yet ready to wear,  
this garmented padded book of tales
isn't finished yet”
~~~
from
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4871833/sewn-to-the-pages-of-my-life/
by

Vienna's Bombardieri

~~~~~

it is not a total rarity,
but not an impossiblty,
that one of yours
scripts feels
that it has been ripped
from mine eyes,
necessitating a gasping grasping of me as
if her Vienna words,
like stout hands,
squeeze my already
constricted throat to close in entirety

near ceasing my breathing

<>
for the writing comes easy,
add a page daily, sewing neat stitches,
smooth connecting linear designs
but the book
never finishes, and Wonder
if this unending is
a knelling death mark of Cain,
that my mythology resonates,
boasts of no resolution

this possibility previous unconsidered
now seen as a likely vision
and do not comprehend how to
feel
becoming
a page in a book,
to attic directed,
boxed for the
eventuality of removal by the
1-800-GOT-JUNK
a very busy institution
and put my shriveled fingertips down
in contemplation of
my erasure
Sep 18 · 595
some dance to forget…
Poetoftheway Sep 18
this,  their-poem, emitting their call-sign,
those who once checked the box
of in love..a status of joyful revelation,
for all to see, all passerby’s, all witnesses
to the outstanding glowing skin,
the perms-frozen half smiles that
never are erased, you secret it not
so much,
for your body entire expels
the scent secreted of a world
in orbit
around
each other

then the unexplainable, threads go worn,
a slower tearing, one by one, till there
is not one, nary more any, you then
check the invisible box,
“not in a relationship”
and it feels like
a load has
been dropped onto you
from on high, flattened,

now cloaked in a demeanor
that cries out
they
put a load
right on me,
and you seek
excuses to recall ecstasy and

you start dancing to forget,
like a centrifugal whirlpool’s vortex,
whipping up the air surrounding

to heat a forgetting, till the until,
of collapsing shame offers up
arms to drown you, a relief offering,
and the words to “Yesterday”
are everywhere
reverberating


walking down the street
a somebody smiles to at, just,
for you,
without cause,
but a causal triggering
a singular event,

just a smile with edged up corners,
and suddenly you feet golightly,
and inexplicably inextricably
in the moment it is
all you can see,
and one starts to dance
to well
remember

and a poem
forms upon your silently moving
lips,
and a dance to remember
is finished,
starts up
a new one,
with similar familiar steps
a dance to believe  in~

and laugh when
you say your name

out loud

you!

are the poet of the way,
a new word choreographer


and there will be a way,
always another way…
Poetoftheway Aug 13
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
Poetoftheway Aug 11
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
Poetoftheway Aug 4
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
7/22/24
Poetoftheway Jul 23
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!
Poetoftheway Jun 16
Tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus.
Our bodies are our gardens,
to which our wills are gardeners…”

      – Iago, Act 1, Scene 3 in Shakespeare's "Othello


A commandment to wellness,
spoke aloud, with resolute foursquare,
of which no doubt,
upon whom the responsibility lays,
each of us poets individually

I am not a gardner,
know not the pleasure of rich dark soil
loam, cupped in my hand,
or the stroking of first blooms,
the genteel of  spring,
afternoon delights for the eyes,
but for me, no elemental quivering
no instinct bids me
dig, plant, water and worry…


but my body’s garden another matter
for pillaging insects,
the bollwevil
and other assorted devils
planted internally and infernally
breeding
the ills of human failings,
with tulip yellow couragelessness,
they infiltrate & exploit
the crevices where our fallacies
buried but unearthed

what is this longevity word?

we've live as long as intended,
forces internal,
weathered by outside forces,
gales amazing and pelting storms
within and without
combative

born from earth’s produce,
we tend our own garden unequally,
inconsistently  
though gardens demand, preferring
constantly
li
loving attentions

*but humans are notoriously of poor
attention spans and we tend to tend
in spurs of moments,
some lasting decades

and thus or thus,
a poor epitaph to
our fallow falling fallen
humanity
Poetoftheway May 25
~for R.A.~

“ I don't think I could write a poem if my life depended on it”

pardon me, Madame,
past is prologue,
waiting is just delay,
a prolonging,
a satisfaction delayed,

so
take the dog for a walk,
observing his rambunctious
wanderings,
compare and contrast
your and our own
owned
wanderings
perhaps,
the parallels
will see a vision,
even a parable?

you’ll be feeling that
tugging pull,
a leashed excuse pulling
you own hands and head
to have a quiet meeting,
in front of a blank,
blue line ruled
clean sheet

just cause that
nagging, won’t ,
non stop
heart beating
rhythmically
is questioning,
then a funky
annoying
voice
assumes control
and your hand moves,
with no control,
and when all is said,
it is done.
Poetoftheway Apr 6
I do love my poets so, those ones, soft spoken, genteel, feeling,
using first, but never, guile, words mano-melo~harmonizing,
softening the edges so smoothly, no rough necessary
for me to protect, confounding the harsh takers,
who never think to ask, end by cradle, stroke,
don’t go below, see deeper that my nerves
are feminine, that pink is but a color,
that anyone could be love, not an
invitation, but a philosophy of
the mutuality of surrender

now you know why I write poems,
to understand better the heart human,
ferret out the chaff, the bad, for everyone else.

June 2020
Poetoftheway Jan 20
wrestlemania

traveled cross country,
wrestling with extended
celebration and an
unexpected death;
the body maladjusts,
only to be disrupted
when time zones reset,
hard a-heels upon return,
packing up again for a
sacred pilgrimage
to a summer place
of sheltering, where poems
grow and dangle like participles
from local fruit farms, one
need only pluck and taste,
attach your moniker
and then feed them to the
joggers & walkers running past

send them all on their voyages,
hopefully protected from
travel disorientation and the
cycle of rebirth

with luck, bits and pieces of me
will accompany said word whispers,
them shreds and shards
requiring healing,
or just pruning,  
exiting old words,
fresh fruit berries,
roadside acquisitions  to b
carry me stained & strained
& happy new travels o‘er
this fruited plain
Poetoftheway Jan 17
a genuine photograph taken by a relation,
of Wonder Woman commandeering a
Manhattan avenue by aft. daylight,
leading children of the neighborhood and
their guardian angels, the NYPD, in a
rousing calisthenics warmup routine,
for it’s the day of witches, goblins, masquerading,
and pre-internet, nice, sweet trolls no older
than six years of age, Wonder Woman too, the rigors of an
evening of search and recovery, collecting the
well gotten treasure *****, found by early dusk’s
s l o w l y disappearing light, amidst stunned,
aimless wandering adults
and miscellaneous grownups,
All
wonting & wondering:

*is innocence still a thing?
Dec 2023 · 2.6k
intuitive intellect
Poetoftheway Dec 2023
(when first I learned my
intellect paled by compare,)

I,
did not weep,
for my eyes
with love keeps

reminding with
every glance,
my intuition
is where my
value lay…

<>

of course, it a genius creative choreographer,
Lar Lubovitch,
to remind of the obvious
I forget
Poetoftheway Oct 2023
Some -
thus not all. Not even the majority of all but the minority.
Not counting schools, where one has to,
and the poets themselves,
there might be two people per thousand.

Like -
but one also likes chicken soup with noodles,
one likes compliments and the color blue,
one likes an old scarf,
one likes having the upper hand,
one likes stroking a dog.

Poetry -
but what is poetry.
Many shaky answers
have been given to this question.
But I don't know and don't know and hold on to it
like to a sustaining railing.

Wislawa Szymborska

Translated by Regina Grol
Wisława Szymborska
Well-known in her native Poland, Wisława Szymborska received international recognition when she won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1996. In awarding the prize, the Academy praised her “poetry that with ironic precision allows the historical and biological context to come to light in fragments of human reality.” Collections of her poems that have been translated into English include People on a Bridge (1990), View with a Grain of Sand: Selected Poems (1995), Miracle Fair (2001), and Monologue of a Dog (2005).

Readers of Szymborska’s poetry have often noted its wit, irony, and deceptive simplicity. Her poetry examines domestic details and occasions, playing these against the backdrop of history. In the poem “The End and the Beginning,” Szymborska writes, “After every war / someone’s got to tidy up.”

In the New York Times Book Review, Stanislaw Baranczak wrote, “The typical lyrical situation on which a Szymborska poem is founded is the confrontation between the directly stated or implied opinion on an issue and the question that raises doubt about its validity. The opinion not only reflects some widely shared belief or is representative of some widespread mind-set, but also, as a rule, has a certain doctrinaire ring to it: the philosophy behind it is usually speculative, anti-empirical, prone to hasty generalizations, collectivist, dogmatic and intolerant.”

Szymborska lived most of her life in Krakow; she studied Polish literature and society at Jagiellonian University and worked as an editor and columnist. A selection of her reviews was published in English under the title Nonrequired Reading: Prose Pieces (2002). She received the Polish PEN Club prize, the Goethe Prize, and the Herder Prize.
Poetoftheway Sep 2023
“But I am old and you are young,
And I speak a barbarous tongue.”

“To a Child Dancing in the Wind” by William Butler Yeats

<|>
saw this poem on the site,
and it ripped a tear in my warp,
shredded edges rubbing each other,
violently, volubly, saying be wary child,

for what we don’t tell the children well
in advance of their sad discovery
that the world is not the perfection  and
that good night moon story world
is not as it purport does if
it really exists,

and I am bitter that all warning asunder,
inutile, wasted, going unbelieved till time
is they must discover in their own pain,
their own sorrow that our world and words,
are imperfect, and that I am sordid saddened
that there is little one can do to protect them,
other than,
speak in a barbarous tongue


”But I am old and you are young,
And I speak a barbarous tongue.”

Yeats

~~~

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4756146/to-a-child-dancing-in-the-wind-by-william-butler-yeats/
weeping
Jul 2023 · 794
are you my confidante?
Poetoftheway Jul 2023
presumably presumptive
as you got zero clue  of
what stuff God made me,
where I lay me down in
the cool of moonbeam light,
unsure if another sunrise
will heat my body to awakening,
surrendered to the unknowing
knowingly, for I am so sure of
so little, that I query with every
torrential rain, why did I deserve
this un-expectorated baptism for
which and why, what I got, no clue

piety poet of the way spends his every
waking glance thinking stinking, why?
All the angels look away, forbidden
to barest hint minimalist to protect
and provide this rank random single specimen specific of living kind, his
purpose for which creation came his way?
so I’ll save you instead and the trouble of thinking for the correct answer to the question posed,
hell sure, you my confidante of this
confidence man,
a lousy truth teller,
and an even worse liar

write, God?
Jul 2023 · 745
Poet, You Wish to Command?
Poetoftheway Jul 2023
Poet, you wish to command?

join the navy, the army,
become a paratrooper,
command in poetry is illusory,
for it comes from the bell tower rage of madness,
from, of, what my ancestors planted and bequeathed genetically,
I have wasted the better half of a century appealing for relief,
making it clear who commands and who is the
“poetoftheway”
slave

<>

rejoindre la marine, l'armée,
devenir un parachutiste,
commande en poésie est illusoire,
car il vient du clocher de la rage de la folie,
de ce que mes ancêtres ont planté et légué génétiquement,
et j'ai gaspillé la meilleure moitié d'un siècle attrayant pour
soulagement et en précisant qui commande et qui est le
“Poetoftheway"
esclave

exactement comme moi
exactly like me?

exactly.
May 30th
Poetoftheway Jul 2023
They write of rivers and streams

with effortless precision, crystalline clarity,
of hauntings by white frothy flows, and men
who plow and glide upon them, earning
their sustenance and sometimes their death,
verifying their lives with castings that sink
below them, proofs of their peril.

some months of the year, I too live by a bay,
on a isle surrounded by a long river that dissects a
larger long island, from end to end, that empties
into the Atlantic.

this bay, it is the first and last vision imprinted
when I bed, when I rise, picture windowed with
shades that are never lowered, for what would
be the existential purpose of living here, if you didn’t
check the water’s mood first and last, even before
looking skyward to complete an understanding
of the status of nature’s intentions toward you.

These other poets write better than I, artistically,
effortlessly, and one flows with ease within their
word-pictures, flowing upon their rivers, like a
twig carried out to sea, an unticketed passenger
stealing a ride who pays for the journey with life.

to read of their comprehension of water flowing,
is to read of how men breathe, how they wrangle
and wrestle with forces that diminish the human
scale to 5/8” model size, and no glue to keep them
upright.

I ask forgiveness from my bay, for my ineloquence,
my belabored scratchings, to do it justice, show
its honor and grandeur, but it doesn’t acknowledge
my words, for I am skill-lacking, verbiage-challenged,
and inadequate. This why I read the work of others,
poets who walk on, and within, their rivered boundaries
and who speak with skin and pore knowledge their waters.

July 4th 5:33 AM
Poetoftheway Jun 2023
A Bountiful Sky for Foolish Old Men

early up, haunted-stoked~woked by a multilingual sky,
an impish childish creation of an immature god,
inconsistently incapable, of making up his moody mind,
whiny then smiley, cloudless besotted, morphed
into crystalline blue of a well behaved in Sunday best,
warming the souls of the begotten and the misbegotten,
the hardened and the poetic souls, tho he laughs at
himself, for he too is both, curmudgeon and a mr. softee,
whiny child in rapid aging body, wearing of discovery
of new places for to ache, pains that don’t fit med scales
of 1~10, unless it is the Richter Earthquake formulation.

despite all, his eyeballs seethe, immaculate degeneration still
allows the seeing of broad brush paint strokes of the team of
angelic artistes that do the detailing of the palette above,
how!
they, love their big bold brushes that sky swipe atmospheric
residue into 31 Baskin Robbins flavors, with swirls of caramel
chocolate butterscotch that make the man’s complaints whisked
into who-cares-a-**** anyway ice creamery reverie and all
that other stuff disbarred from the aborning morning clarity of
“good morning ole man, where’s my coffee” diurnal tuning that
the women hums, reminding those in the earshot crowd of one,
that s’mores and chores, tasks and at lasts, dogs need walking, gardens watering, cushions  plumping, evening dishes moving from dishwasher onto wallpaper-covered shelves, geese-away-chasing, and loving poetry
by a poetoftheway scribbling…




8:01 AM Frieday, Jun 30
Poetoftheway May 2023
Writing Lessons for a Better Life
Nov 29, 2016 by Morgan Housel
Writing is one of those things you’ll need to be decent at no matter what business you’re in. It’s also one of the hardest things to get decent at, since it’s 90% art, 10% illogical grammar rules. Novelist William Maughan said there are three rules to good writing. “Unfortunately no one knows what they are.”

But here are a few I’ve found helpful.

1. Make your point and get out of people’s way

Readers have no tolerance for rambling. Lose their attention for two seconds and they’re gone, clicked away to another page.

The best writers tend to use the fewest words possible. That doesn’t mean their writing is short, but every sentence is critical, every word necessary. Elmore Leonard, the novelist, summed this up when he advised writers to “leave out the parts readers tend to skip.”

It took me a while to realize that a reader who doesn’t finish what you wrote isn’t disrespecting your work. It’s a sign that you, the author, disrespected their time. When writing, I like to think of a reader over my shoulder constantly saying:

What’s your point?

Just tell me that point.

Then leave me alone.

Part of the reason this is hard is due to how writing is taught in school. Most writing assignments, from elementary to grad school, come with a minimum length requirement. Write about your summer vacation in at least 10 pages. This is done to maintain a minimum level of effort, but it has a bad side effect: It teaches people to fill the page with fluff. We are masters of run-on sentences and unnecessary details because we’ve relied on them since second grade to meet our length quotas.

We’d all be better writers if the standards flipped, and teachers demanded length maximums. Write about all the major Civil War battles in no more than two pages. That’ll force you to make your point and get out of people’s way.

2. Connect one field to others

The key to persuasion is teaching people something new through the lens of something they already understand. This is critical in writing. Readers want to learn something new, and they learn best when they can relate a new subject to something they’re familiar with.

Finance is boring to most, but it’s a close cousin of psychology, sociology, history, and organizational behavior, which many people enjoy. Write about investing in a way that is indistinguishable from a finance textbook and you will capture few people’s attention. Write about it through the lens of a psychology case study or historical narrative, and you’ll broaden your reach. “Pop-psychology” and “pop-history” are derogatory terms. But most “pop” topics are actually just academic topics penned by better writers. Michael Lewis has sold more finance books than George Soros for a reason.

This goes beyond explaining things in ways people enjoy and understand. Connecting lessons from one field to another is also one of the best forms of thinking, because the real world isn’t segregated by academic departments. Most fields share at least some lessons and laws between them. Adaptation is as real in economics as it is biology. Room for error is as important in investing as it is engineering. Explaining one topic through the lens of another not only makes it easier for readers to grasp; it’s a helpful way of understanding things in general.

3. Sleep on everything before hitting the send button

I’m a fan of reading more books and fewer articles.

The reason books can be more insightful than articles isn’t because they’re longer. It’s because they took the author more time to think something through.

An article that takes you a few hours to think of, research, write and publish is subject to whatever mood you’re in during those few hours. Maybe it’s cynical, or pessimistic. Or analytical, or fatalistic. Whatever it is, it might not reflect the calmer, thought-out view of something that took you days, weeks, or months to think about.

I’m shocked at how much I want to change an article after I’ve slept on it for a night, and still want to change it days after it’s published. It makes me realize that if I stewed on the topic for a little longer I’d start thinking about it in different ways. I’d remember better examples, or a better way to phrase a sentence. I’d realize the original argument I made was flawed. Since one sharp example or clever phrase can transform a piece of writing, something you spend twice as long on might not be twice as good as before. It could be ten times better, or more. “The first draft of anything is ****,” said Ernest Hemingway.

A lot of what we write isn’t time-sensitive. You could sleep on it for a day or two or more. And most of the time, you’ll be glad you did.

Also, don’t read the comment section*.
http://www.collaborativefund.com/blog/writing-lessons-for-a-better-life/
Poetoftheway May 2023
This is something
Worth remembering.
A place that had only beginnings
And no endings.

This is a place
Where we once saved face.
A place where memories
Were captured and saved for eternities.

This is something
Worth remembering.
A place that had only beginnings
And no endings.

In this area,
We once played like children.
Our happiness
Had no barrier.

This is something
Worth remembering.
A place that had only beginnings
And no endings.

I look at the landscape
I knew so well for many years
As an escape.
As I am about to embark on a new journey,
I hope I will come to it again,
And it will mean the same to me.

This is something
Worth remembering.
A place that had only beginnings
And no endings.
Poetoftheway Jul 2020
brown skin farmer girl (this changeling poem)

~

we are I’ve decided

alike and unlike.

I know, an epiphany.

we are both brown skinned,

the sun has wrested my skin

buried it in dark loamy,

soiled brown side by side,

now alike.


your hair is long(er)

now, mine too.

a cascading mountain ranging,

edging south from your Columbia,

to my  Columbia

over my ears, down my neck,

which like yours, dreams knightly

of being loved by endless kisses,

a prince(ss) charmant

~

we could not be

more different,

than how god us designed.

but here’s the rub,

people change,

they dream of becoming,

reinventing the original design,

and this explains

not the why, but the how,

how this poet came to write

this changeling poem
.

~

and you think we could not be more different and
more alike, and you would be rightly correct.
Poetoftheway Jul 2020
someday it will be willed (have I told you lately that I love you?)

that the poetry ceases,
no more birthdays notated
calendar closed, the ***’s axed,
kitchen junk drawer, a consignment store,
no longer needed, the futility of saving
knickknacks, maximized, the no lasting
value proposition, realized, eulogized.

pictures of beautiful automobiles,
decorated with beautiful women,
will forever be last year’s models,
one calendar too far, not long enough

no more of

have I told you lately that I love you?

wrote you plenty love poems so, hereafter,
you won’t be bereft, left farklempt,
arranged one-a-day, on a timed delay,
so many more that will appear in your
inbox until you too, no longer choose open it.

no more “sirprising” I love you statements,
taped to the milk carton, it was so willed,
the daily counting, record keeping, who first,
how many, secretly added to a grocery list,
in stuff that was so beloved, exasperating,
making you just right amount of crazy, smiling....
someday it will be willed, so,


here’s the first of many more....
Poetoftheway Jul 2020
even temporarily, this day, your emeralding grass handkerchief,
equates our dispositions, so differently identical,
your name, our initials, in opposing corners, embroidered,
your grass tapestry upon this troubled earth, a scented, joint, poetic
remembrance, that though it’s but words that bind us, we! we know!
the songs we sing of ourselves, we sing in synchrony harmony.
Poetoftheway Jun 2020
reasons not to read my poetry:
1. it does not use cutesy rhymes
2. it usually has more than four lines
3. doesn’t employ emojis, whistles, chimes
4. non-words in poetry, a serious punishable crime
5. ok ok ok!  cause you insist, occasionally sometimes
6. it trying hard not to be depressed, (bad ok, not sad!!)
7. usually not trite, though ‘fess, it is a never ending fight
8. oh dear, daisies so simple, mine, complicated, ‘jes a tad
9. requires periodic use of a dictionary, for words of 8 letters +++
10. adjectives usually sensible, opposed to “croissant clouds”
11. free men write free verse, no need, don’t use f*k, sht
12. a poems shape is circumstantial, not circumferential
13. it’s a lot of work to get it shape shifted kerectly
14. go new, go bold, use heart + **** together
15. never recip nice comments, never fail
16. to send **** to ******* arrocan’ts
17. this is getting boring, nap time near
18. yada yada, you finish this!
Poetoftheway Jun 2020
Sent for our amusement, pleasuring admiration,
our funny bones, and galore (glory)  of creation,
Texas squirrels are nuts, like crazy,chasing each other ,
up trees, across the wide expanse of the backyard,
where’s the Davy Crockett sharpshooters when
you really need them? (1)

now that baby rabbit, fearless or stupid, insists on
running on our deck, looking for applause for his skinny
legs hopping neath the chaise lounges, at any ole time,
guess this ain’t the love poem you were expecting,
then again you’d be wrong again and agin, but the
grandkids going, going, gone and applause muted

anyway, one of these days gonna stop and chat with
these two species, what they’re thinking about, the
human menagerie,  its depleted numbers, wherefore
and why, did the reduction of the human stockyard,
emboldened them to occupy territory they’d otherwise
shy away, hear what they say, gonna make a good poem

p.s. the avians yap and caw 24 hrs a day, presumptuous beasties noisy
__________________­_

(1) “In fact there wouldn't be a Texas if it weren't for squirrel stew. Don't condemn the idea of stewing your squirrel problems away. That's right! Davy Crockett and his Tennessee sharpshooters wouldn't have reached puberty if it were not for squirrel stew. Besides, what do you think they ate on the long trip from Tennessee to the Alamo? Enchiladas? Nope! You guessed it--squirrel stew.”

https://aggie-horticulture.tamu.edu/plantanswers/recipes/squirrel.html
Poetoftheway Jun 2020
it’s a daiquiri colored morn, countlessly
as I, gazing never tiring, of a vista I’ve seen,
awoken to, endlessly changing, voyagers of
birds and boats, the redecorating minimalists,
moving pieces on a latticed shadow lawn

the Sun eastern, asking the trees to turn and bow,
hence the shadows their branches cast are a waffling,
hopscotch pattern irregular, so jumping from/to
yellow-green sunspots, the children are delighted by a
new game, moving to and from and between an ever
changing crazy chessboard of light-patches unsquared

described, written of, yet here I am, once again, a servant
despairing, looking for new combinations of superlatives,
though I never spoke before of it as a vista,
until today, wondering why, perhaps because
it’s here, one lives, one doesn’t conceive of  being
part and parcel of a vista, humans, just visitors,
pawn observers, gallery visitors, art appreciators,
transient hobos after forty years, truthfully claiming
that they’re merely still, passing thru, passing by

9:40 am, respectable hour to meander over
to the throne room, the four Adirondacks, them,
the year round poetry nook authorities, are equal
sunned, shaded, simultaneous, stately shadowing,
observing, advertising as perfect for composing,
willing to make verbal suggestions, rhyming notions,
especially when the poem pays proper obeisance

and so it does, and so it is, as you can clearly read


9:53am Sunday Jun 14
Year of the Pandemic
see cover photo
Poetoftheway May 2020
Clueless, Restless, but then the Moon Speaks!


can you see clouds at night, askes the moon,
my train, my assemblage of word worshippers,
who ask me by the thousand for clearer answers,
“one if by day, two if by night” is my evere’d reply,
bereft of confidences, steps unsteadied, full of distemper,
shaky uncertain, so answer all, once more, but only with
difficulty am I understood, for the simplicity so so great!

the moon comes to you nightly, never! never are you ignored,
your lost alone words always well heard, we are two together,
we are all
two, if by night, my lune bright, ours, your answer!

Together Nightly, Are We Not Poets of the Way?
Poetoftheway May 2020
~for VB~

<>

“A child said What is the grass?
fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child?
I do not know what it is any more than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition,
out of hopeful green stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,
Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners,
that we may see and remark,
and say Whose?”

Song of Myself (1892 version) BY WALT WHITMAN

                                                §§§

­there is special delight for the city dweller,
when the first clean flushing of brightest spring green
disrupts the unending graying city ribs of worn concrete,
the alternating lifelessness of blasé brick, pretending
off-beige, ***** pale blue, a sooty furnace red,
well done,  a good pretense that they are, of color.

I am among thousands whose as a child my breath
gave way, taken by gasp, when first made
entrance to the green diamond sparkle oasis of
Yankee Stadium, hid by the urban dreariness of The Bronx,
near sixty years vision sustained with perfect clarity on
retina-implanted, a shock, an earthly con-trast.

today, an old-timer, a first timer, I’m gifted Whitman’s Song of Myself,
from a friend and poet, who lives hardy by a Port,
another islander like myself, surrounded by wet roads and
pathways to the Northern Pacific, amongst timberlands of
forested and natured grass, a differing kind of stadium,
both of us silently saying, thanks Lord, for lending us yours.

even temporarily, this day, your emeralding grass handkerchief,
equates our dispositions, so differently identical,
your name, our initials, in opposing corners, embroidered,
your grass tapestry upon this troubled earth, a scented, joint, poetic
remembrance, that though it’s but words that bind us, we! we know!
the songs we sing of ourselves, we sing in synchrony harmony.


                                                   §§§§§


Wed. May 13, 2020
Manhattan Island,
by the East River
Poetoftheway May 2020
The Cost

“5 minutes to write, 5 minutes to edit and 10 more to cease weeping,”
when the inquiry arrives, how long/where from it comes,
gave this answer

more or less the response accurate
more or less the weeping really never ceases

I will return to it again, **** poem
random when, unreasoned why, wherefore
a stumble, a message, months from now, tomorrow,
even decades and I’ll remember the precise circumstances

for each poem has a Cost, that excises a piece of you, a new cut,
freshly salted, an antibiotic of loving may remove the
redness, but not the white line, so what you call a scar, I,
I call it an etched memory preserved

the sum of all These Costs, all these memories,
cumulative, additive, addictive - someone says:

stop being so sensitive, leave the telling to others,
or keep them in plastic bags, dated, retrievable,
in case an antiretroviral antidote is ever needed,
a fresh injection when you think you could even
cease to care

The Cost is always capitalized, for the Cost is called human capital,
the invisible financing that permits our existence till all spent,
when we’ve run out of drawer space, zipper bags,
breaths to be taken away and glass jars to store them,
if the mind says no more! then it will be ok,
for you are all spent

The Cost so great! this a double entendre,
for they are the stuff of me, whatever greatnesses
I ever possessed within them kept and believed,
happily paid for past and present, for the future,
will happily pay for it right now, again and again,
for the Costs are who I am, till, such time that
Costless arrives, eyes closed, nothing left to post,
to recall, no coin to give, my purposed all paid,

as if all paid could ever cause my weeping to cease


Mon May 4
10:48 am
Poetoftheway Apr 2020
<>

~ “Above everything else, guard your heart; for it is the source of life's consequences.”~
Proverbs 4:23)

these days, good advice overnight trebles in value,
no one I’m sure has consulted Proverbs today,
not me, not you, not anybody, but these words
came to we, the confined, lonely hearted prisoners, we who

are needy to reflect, we raggedy people in solitary.

tonight, some of us will recall an exodus to free,
an escape from slavery, how we put at risk
our bodies in a sea, a desert, more crazy, in an
invisible deity, when that was a heretical concept, we who

are needy to reflect, we raggedy people in solitary.

Above everything else, guard your heart;
for it is the source of life's consequences,
the ***** above/beyond mouths, eyes, even lungs,
it’s what purposed we fragile, petal edging humans who
are needy to reflect, we raggedy people in solitary.
Mar 2020 · 153
them old songs
Poetoftheway Mar 2020
them old songs

each vialed, labeled, racked,
date ordered, mood markered,
a playlist sortable by gradated
feelings, dated by color vividness,
associated memories of happy vs. lost,
hellish costs, my accumulated gained earnings
well spent, all gone them seeking many happy returns

the assorted “I love you’s” ranked by
intensity and sane, reversed by pain,
records flip sided with memories,
tunes remastered, past remembrances
only fade, time can’t be denied,
at least them old songs
help some but help

not me
Poetoftheway Feb 2020
Love Letters to & between Men

are composition easy, the components, blunt edged,
declarations of affection, without affectation

verses but not stanzas, are all that required,
homer direct, no fanciful piping, no trimming needed

your strength, character, manly wistfulness,
gives me leave to grasp your shoulders all about

no feverish whispers, no cloaked hush, delicately interfering,
only an “I love you man,” a simple declarative compositional

firmly pronounced, eye to eye, hand to shoulder embraces,
acknowledged with crinkly eyed smile, met with a summarizing

“me too.”



2/12/2020
2:25am
Feb 2020 · 239
I could (believe in you)
Poetoftheway Feb 2020
I could believe in you

I could.

believe you, real, open hearted, viable. unafraid.
easy smiling, genuine, easy listening, maybe mine.
even real.

a slow Saturday being, doing nothing,
loving it, languid. high time for downtime musing.
I could.

I could.
you could too.
believe in me.
pinch me awake.

I could believe in me
when, you grant permission,
give me permission to could,

to believe.




2/8/2020
7:24am
Poetoftheway Dec 2019
“the simplest definition of our learning to count to infinity”

wrote those words
to a stranger in pain, awful pain,
asking him to count his blessings


now awful pain
no stranger to me

a pain four decades long,
that the surgeon promised was fully excised.

but today was triggered,
chest pain dagger ingredient emergency room

so I am counting for,
but not to,
counting on

infinity

when the wounding cannot be recalled,
only a minor scar to struggle from wonder whence
came it from

which is the definition of reaching the
infinity place,

where finite comes to rest
dec 10 2019
Poetoftheway Oct 2019
“give me your linguistic promiscuity”^ Cyrano to Roxane

trifle me not with sugar and spice,
give me salt, and everything not nice,
Campari, with a spritz of lime bitters, doubling,
the bitter sexiness of your taste buds
on the private parts of mine mind

the body’s parts held a conference,
who is the most important of us all,
all spoke, touting their unique servicing functionality,
at last, lastly, the tongue spoke

“none so powerful as this itty bitty muscle-me,
for with a chosen-few, well claimed, words whispered,
can put all of us in a prison cell to rot collectively,
utilizing my linguistic promiscuity, enticements seductive

so beware the disastrous dissatisfied tongue,
needy for 24/7 accoladed attention,
fail to worship can result in bee stinging poetry,
and jealousy

my love is bitter, my taste buds glory in this wondrous horror”

except for my Roxane


<>
Poetoftheway Oct 2019
“when down dreaming ups” (Pradip)*/

a mysterious phrasing sent,
the meaning devolving, beyond the obvious,
but slow like, as the mind turns and tastes
these words in different places, ways

when I lay me down to keep,
the dreaming up-ramping, the poems,
don’t know of absent muses, inspiratory lacking,
tongue tied eyes, all banished from the dream world,
where the poems come more than regular,
uninhibited and restless,
begging to be easy birthed,
oh please, oh please!

when down we lay,
up tempo do the brain’s creation ports
turn fiery red, agitated, masses of
tired, poor poems, yearning to be free
disembark all seeking a touchstone statue
to set them free to liberty

my speaking eyelids rapid typing,
placing whole writings in cracks in
the wailing wall, on my own temple mount,
where Hindi letters become stick figures
dancing praises to the lord and stars and
crescendo crescents interlock their tips,
until one dream complete is downloaded
to moistened, ready lips, for I am up, up,

from my down dreaming





10/20/19  8:54am
Poetoftheway Oct 2019
don’t tell me “I love you” ~by Roxanne, for Cyrano~

<>

that’s a verse I’ve heard many too times before,
that’s a curse of low majesty, a quatrain too plain,
if that’s your best sally, retreat, say no more,
too simp verses, or ungolden silences, agents of dissatisfying pain

I need the best of your taste
the finest visions that you eyelids occlude,
make haste for my mouth grows exceedingly
impatient for the other senses to do their tandem wooing

slap only my face with the creature comforts others savor,
words of diamonds and pink pearls mined from your breast,
the bejeweled words that will decorate my evergreen,
that never dies, lest, unless and until,
you want my mortal affection suppressed

give me your linguistic promiscuity, wake me from the stupor
of ordinary, arouse me with thy tongue coiling, a bee sting delivery,
a wet poem that makes all my orifices!|offices weep, your mouth,
my souls recouper,
your wizardry bewitching,
answer my inquiry with unbounded festivity

then and after all, the plain simplicity of an “I love you,”
will be edged with sublimity, my mercies, your mercies
our jointed, sharp pointy, introverting, interlocking,
our futures becoming
our pasts


11:07am
19-9-30

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