Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Aug 2017 · 3.6k
3 Poems for Other Poets
Poetoftheway Aug 2017
"the ever shifting light of ourselves"
(a poem such as this)

For Jamadhi V.

<•>
8/28/17

at 11:09am,
the phrase arrests itself, then assertive,
ungently demanding fulfillment,
implanted, it cares not my whereabouts,
it is a child~phrase, inexact, mysterious,
wanting its breast milk feeding immediate
no matter where my presence visible

but to me, it stinks of familiarity,
for my shifts, my redrawn shapes,
exhausting, giving me cause to grieve,
write poems such as this,
which I regret both
before~after conception~completion,
written in a fevered misery of fervor,
hoping,
no one ever likes it and its witnessing

as light ever shifts,
it consumes, extinguishes, reignites,
poorly lit, revealing dregs and dustbins

better then to sit in the darkness
the one you call,
getting it over with...

6:00pm
<•>

~~~~~~~~

*the swelling and the spume


for Lucy:

who gave me the title, three poems, a compliment, and the X Factor {inspiration}
~~~
the spume, the sea foam concentrate,
a greener white
by the the salt and the souls of the
million dead organisms,
that are are the compost of its formation,
it, watches the poet, who watches the spume,
come ashore for its final act of
immolation by evaporation

which is why the random act of
an unseen ministering force,
fills my ears with humbling glory of
Samuel Barber's Agnus Dei,^
my fresh reminder that this swelling chest
in this temporary abode of mine,
by the sea, passage is prepaid for my
expiration by evaporation too,
all lambs march to the sea,
returning to spume
~
Lyrics to Agnus Dei:
^ Alleluia Alleluia
For our Lord God Almighty reigns
Alleluia Alleluia
For our Load God Almighty reigns
Alleluia
Holy Holy
Are You Lord God Almighty
Worthy is the Lamb
Worthy is the Lamb
You are Holy
Holy
Are You Lord God Almighty
Worthy is the Lamb
Worthy is the Lamb
Amen

~~~~~~

"may all my lost lovers haunt me"

for Vinnie Brown

even your kindergarten crushes?

what burdens you seek to retain,
the edgy border of delicious and pain is a raggedy cut line,
as lost lovings rhymes with duality

Once upon a time,
a middle aged man
left the woman he married,
the one who drained and cruel reigned
over the destruction of his-dreams
for one accidentally stumbled into,
the love who blurred his edges as well,
between forgotten happiness and
pain so bad when she grew tired
of his life's complications and the
valises of drama,
she left him,
weeping on the corner of Broadway and 83rd Street

was that 20, 30 years ago?
a memory
from no matters land
but
the physical ache that marred the hearth in the chest for months and months,
sent him to the doc who smiled sweetly
but gave him, had no, no relief for busted grownup hearts
that had normal  EKG's

and that remains a treasured affirmation to this day of
life's capacity to love that comes with an ingrown danger
of never forgetting

did you know the French outlawed the use of the term
Mademoiselle in '12 (Mlle.)?

I loved that salutation,
calling my one true lovers
with the soft feminism of that address

and still do

and you want to recall
kindergarten crushes?

Mister Vinnie
possesses a lovely contradiction,
holding onto
lost lover sickness
that lives on in good love poems

this my new found poet
is how that he, this aching heart,
fast approaching his shore line for one last return and final departure
repays a sweet compliment,
from one who complements
another man's lovely's insane desire to
never forget any of it

~~~~~~*

reading love poetry and listening to
Joni M.,
at 3:09AM
never wise,
but always full of hindsight
Poetoftheway Aug 2017
when you pass my way, know that my Wi-Fi network
requires no password to gain entry,
thus it comes with a security recommendation:

there is no security in poetry, only the unresolvable:

how came Excalibur into the rock,
will our children have better lives than us,
can we define accurately finite,
why can't we add new letters to our alphabet,
will my poems live longer than I

so when you pass my way
walk right in, sit right down,
greet madness,
thy new boon companion,

who will not ask you for the password...
8/27/17 11:43pm
Aug 2017 · 760
a tempestuous weekend
Poetoftheway Aug 2017
cannot find true rest,
all the tumult in this world,
writ both large and small,
saps my upraised arms
alternate
flexing angry fists eager to strike hard
my revived new **** enemies,
and gods inexcusable and conspicuous absence in
Barcelona, Finland and my own
Charlottesville,
and
to quiet comfort commiserating, and storing
all the pain of individual souls I've acquired willingly

and the sunset comes quiet,
trying to sooth by adding
a gentling cream of cooling breeze,
the squirrels eye me suspiciously,
sensing the amiss within,
and all perfect sailboats voyaging past,
yet none stopping at the dock
to offer condolences or solaces

my watch ticks louder

each tick,
a worrisome cursed reminder
this real life seems to be endless struggle
interrupted by small comforts of little voices and
promises that escape is inevitable

each tock,
a fresh notification
the week's approach will contain
another visit from
Hamlet's ghost,
warning of warring factions
battlefield clashing
in a chesterfield plain
between two of mine shoulder blades

constantly reminded how lucky I am,
makes me grow quiet and put pen to one side,
and try to balance accounts, using this time,
pencil and erasure

I need a break and some glue
I need reparations and a battle plan
or happily learn to surrender
and accept being a
dumb terminal,
a slave,
that doesn't ask for
peace of mind
and knock off this poet of the
no way
Jun 2017 · 568
earn good friends
Poetoftheway Jun 2017
all day long the internet sells wisdom like
fruit in bins fronting the bodegas,
the one Spanish word every New Yorker speaks,
some ripe, some not and
some on the cusp of going home as mulch to the wet earth,
sooner than later

you can't squeeze the wisdoms proffered like a piece of fruit,
from the exterior, there rarely be a dashboard indicator saying
check engine light or this one is one worth picking

so gobsmack like Dylan croaking in an obvious in a way something obvious yet you thinking hey! that's interesting, read
earn good friends
something I ain't done so well and yet here I am,
passing it on like I know what the fruit-picking trick is,  
but on your fourth cup of joe and it's barely noon,
in your seventh decade you take the right to croak,
even if you aint got no expertise, that the emphisis
is on the earn part

you dont buy 'em in the store, no winning the lottery,
gotta use your eyes and no, lovers don't count neither,
guess you gotta stick out that hand, have somebody's back,
unasked,
and being gracious when saying thanks,
but then again never had more than one or two,
but for fhem
I'd lay down my life for them to survive so not exactly clueless

earn good friends, that sounds bout right...that, the right way...
1:25pm 7/25/17
Poetoftheway May 2017
Never Acclimate!

~

For Mr. Keith Wilson, an Answer...

from the British Isles to the Shelter Island,
a former colony, a scion of a special relation
a question arrives, wind wafted, upon wings of bytes
it is not an inquiry of heated
weather

rather,
an inquisition question of heated
whether

will we grow acclimated to the heat
of impossibly unjustifiable man murdering himself?

by acclamation!
we announce
not ever
Manchester
Poetoftheway May 2017
~

old stars: the roar of no more

pop up phrase precisely previewing the status quo,
logic argues that a crisp immolation poetic appropriate,
no second chance from cosmic to earth dust risk reversal,
no sadness attaches -
the circle line day trip coming to an end

old stars are not cemetery artifacts,
no blaze of glory, no blade of heroic story, no blare of horns,
a last twinkle, a final tinkling and the soundless
roar of no more,
the star records, the citys deeds, the video feeds,
updated, amended, erased,
old star exits the stage, its light shedding nights, eclipsed,
the poet, the writer, the playwright debate the stars obit,
collude and write
a roar no more


*5/23/17 7:23am
Poetoftheway Apr 2017
awaiting the diagnosis/I need/selfish motives


yours,
that should have arrived days ago

the email silence - no different than the phone unringing,
like the sad bells of Rhymney,
those bells, asking questions
instead of singing and pealing,
so
in my yeah yeah peculiar accented english which
screams robustly in a whisper

dudewhatgivescluemein*

in a single breath, rushed as if but just one word

believe me,
my motive purely selfish
needy for a celebration
hope from a crisis avoided, originating a new seed modified,
two planted for a future spirit tree available for more than
just two poets regardless of their limited coastal biases

negative that too
a selfishness for me
cause I come willing
to exercise my
heart shoulders and arms to trim our mutualized sails,
keep our mind's eyes focused aside
towards the good bad the great in life's littlest things

I need
you to reassure me
that my own mortality,
which can only thrive,
with your poetry voice alive and
keeping track of the absurdity of the
worlds tomfoolery and lighting fast trickery
so I will be stronger longer


I need
you to make me sweet smile when you regale
with dog licking face moment tales
have to cease here for reasons evidently inexplicable

so in summary
what ere the word be,
the outlook commandeering you,
I need
Poetoftheway Apr 2017
the cause & the cure,
co-conspirators at war,
my body and mind their battlefield,
the barren bombs of depression lobbed
indiscriminately and carrying the leukemia cells
of a surrendering mind who can see no hope of peace

the neurons spread the word of defeat imminent,
the leukocytes gather for one last anti-hero stand,
the troubles, the ones seen and foreseen, should be
labeled explicit and dangerous, airborne transmitted,
so do not touch the letters of this lament from hell sent

too many mouths to feed, my shoulders sloped
from prior decades undoing; the nine lives,
the held back reserves, expended for no gain
the weary remnant deep marrow hide
but it's hopeless for the man
who was pushed aside
by technology and the destruction
of human touch,
even the body
removed by machine
Poetoftheway Dec 2016
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 Jul 2016
<>

thirty years apart/making love at the midpoint/Zeno's minding the gap
<>

we are a thrifty thirty years apart

but we make love as if it were an
after school, really hungry, special snack

laugh at myself once again

for this tom, **** 'n harried foolishness
knowing no good can come of this
other than what has already
come and gone,
life's reaffirmation is not age dependent,
we love in the light of  embers brightest glow

the older man is at the midpoint trap of
Zeno's Paradox^

can never grow down to be
closer to her to her youth,
given his head start,
his slowing motion,
can never catch
her down,
or she,
up to him

physics laws forcibly insist they both have lost this race


"In a race, the quickest runner
can never overtake the slowest,
since the pursuer must first reach the point
whence the pursued started,
so that the slower must always
hold a lead. "

as recounted by Aristotle, Physics VI:9, 239b15

too quick to be born,
now the fastest and oldest,
though having reached
the equidistant point between,
will forever never be able to
close the gap

I mind the gap,
I mine the gap

for rousing poems,
from passion piercing fierce love making
prayers preserving the falsity of a
magic illusion of a growing nearness
that we will never grow apart,
burdened that truer is,
never ever closer

she asks me with great tenderness,
why I moisten mine eyes
after our great joy

replying, honestly
I am minding the gap
answers the broken joyous
poet of now, no way


<>

"Mind the gap" ( listen (help. · info)) is an audible or visual warning phrase issued to rail passengers in the United Kingdom (and elsewhere) to take caution while crossing the horizontal, and in some cases vertical, spatial gap between the train door and the station platform.

^https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zeno%27s_paradoxes
Nov 2015 · 5.6k
The Red Queen Believes!
Poetoftheway Nov 2015
The Red Queen Believes!



~~~
The Red Queen,
in her youth,
believed in as many as
six impossible things
before breakfast
~~~
The Old Poet,
in his embered tinder, yellowing days,
believed in as many as
six possible poems
before breakfast
~~~
Nov. 5, 2015
Brooklyn, NY
7:25 pm
Poetoftheway Nov 2015
~for SPT~
whose poems transform with lovingness

~~

*distinguishing, extinguishing,
the knowledges to retain,
reuse daily, mightily,
pleasures insights beloved,
honored with the stripes of daily use

then there are,
the knowledges to retrain,
non-removable, rising up from your
edges
of the very fine line
tween
pain and experience

they must Main Street remain,
be thankful for that,
for love regained,
needs the benchmark
of having lived love,
the loss of loss when recalled,
when new gets a turn, reinstalled,
is now twice sweeter
8:14 am
Nov. 1, 2015
nyc/nml

~~~
SPTSPT
7 hours ago
Scar
I need something other than food to keep me calm to take my mind off I need something other than drugs to keep me here and free from harm I need something other than people to know I'll be ok I need to know there is a god one at times I'm willing to die for to ask him why for if I fear to be alive why lord can I not die..if live is to remember to what love I had surrendered was only taken to dip my hands in death..why then do you take my breath only to give it back.. Is it to remember as I do to live in shame of fear to nothing but his humbling way... I'll never understand
Poetoftheway Oct 2015
only I know


when I email you
tidbits of life,
that I need only
address you as b,
for in a nano second,
my tablet will acknowledge
that I am addrssing
in secret code mine own, my
b-loved

only I know


how she stirs and sleepy stretches
over eternal minutes,
and awoken final,
says,
show, email me your early morning
scrabbled scribbles

I blush and reply

it is too early yet
this new born morn
to make you weep



~~~
7:05 am
NYC
7:29 am
October 23, 2015
nyc
Poetoftheway Aug 2015
she posts her credentials
privately, to just you,
in the din of a currently popular
university barroom

and you dressed in your
pick up best,
plumes of all male grinning,
reeking in thinking -
oh yeah!
va va voom,
lucky

laughs and liquor,
cheap 3.2 Ohio beers on tap,
come super highway fast via
as my finger flick be wagging
to an attentive bartender
who recognizes,
a new venture worth
his investing in a newly forming
gene pool of the
collegial world of what you children
can google as
The Sixities

you see, she says,
she is minor famous,
had two minutes in a movie
called Woodstock,
instantly recalled distinctively,
which you honor with
a dozen roses rising of
very cool
and a few daisies of
wow

so young,
she's hitch hiking thru life,
karma, ying and yang, Sagittarius and  
Hesse's Siddharta,
a little ****** break out back,
our lives have intersected in
Cleveland in 1969,
and there is no question unanswered,
your bed, is her bed,
this night

you puzzle yourself,
memory recycler,
why in 2015,
you celebrate a one stand,
a single strand
excavated from
the meta data of your brain
tonight,
from among a hundred lifetimes previous

Why Woodstock Woman Wonder
and you do,
why, wonder,
have you stayed with me so long,
that your face is indelible tattooed,
easy extracted from ancient cells
risen by this
dawn's early light?


are you pining old man,
are you dying old man,
trying to write it all down
before the insurance company
grumpily has to pay up?

this carefree woman, no,
young forever girl,
looking up to you
asking where can she crash tonight,
answered in a single guttural
exclamation sensation,

with me babe,
with me baby

fifty years later,
crashing you,
crashing with you,
with roses and daisies that never died

wonder where she is today,
a grandmother multiple,
or sleeping gone from an overdose
of stuff you occasionally fooled around with,
or are you spending another night
in your tripping life,
with another
one night man

no answers given,
but it is, it was,
a single dot on the trail of dots and dashes,
the existential Camus moments of
of two ordinaries that intersected,
however briefly,
and you wonder,
not why, but if,

Woodstock Woman,
do you remember me?

I need you to,
I want you to,
explain better
why we are crashing together
one more time*

~~~
August 20, 2015
5:32am
nyc
Jul 2015 · 895
sun poisoning
Poetoftheway Jul 2015
so it is.

the things you love, you worship,
quiet-like burn you,
returning your favor
with fever.

was innocent, naive.

didn't know the sun could
blister hearts,
you babe,
were my sun,
centric universed.

your hurt,
gift packaged,
disguised as warmth,
went
way way past dumbfounded
surficial flesh.

doc pronounces.

time will heal you,
begging for magic pills
shamelessly.

surgery, I need surgery,
blood transfusion,
excise this poison,
**** it out.

nope, dope,
use your pretty words,
like aloe,
to salve and soothe,
stay away from the
sun of love.

from each poisoning,
traces accumulates,
blisters burst,
love becomes
untreatable, untenable

the danger is not realizing
that in eight minutes,
she, sun goddess,
can travel 93 million light year miles,
leaving you gasping,
eight plodding human years later.
only seven years but I wake up sometimes hating her like it is still a hell, real...
Poetoftheway Jul 2015
~~~
"But I’ll know my song well
before I start singin’"


Bob Dylan
"A Hard Rain A-Gonna Fall"
~~~
thought this poem down years ago,
while hiking in a nature preserve,
never wrote it up,
never knew why

I'm a
top-of-lungs shower singer,
a hiking poet,
dripping italicized words from the
four corners of mine eyes

my voice,
*****,
my song,
a work in progress,
my brain, says,
challenge,
asking

how dare you sing words,
you know
that I know,
don't know your song well,
well enough,
to start singin'?

the flowers and the fauna,
sea grass, lagoon, deep forest cover, beach,
butterflies hiding in bamboo stalks,
the deer, the fox, the chipmunks

all start laughing at me

"look upon us,
a single preserve
is our shelter,
a thousand years in the making,
our song has hardly begun
we are a forever
work-in-progress,
just like you

so sing of us, sing of you,
learn the chords as you go along,
finger the word notes,
try out variations,
realize this unfixed change,
is all of us
preserving

that friend
is indeed,
your song

you know it
well enough,
that's why
you have
never stopped tryin' and never stopped
singin'

~~~

July 2012 ~ 2015
Mashomack Preserve|The Nature Conservancy,
Shelter Island, N.Y.












    






~~~

http://www.bobdylan.com/us/songs/hard-rains-gonna-fall#ixzz3gFdhKEW1
Poetoftheway Jun 2015
there is no privacy anymore
tinker with your settings,
imaginary dragons, but to no true avail,
your scathing privacy has since sailed,
only to return for another sinking

what you forgot,
is very well remembered
in a some very overlooked place

see me in my summer camp class photo,
blonde crew cut and goofiest of grins,
find my poems of eons ago,
in living tricolor,
to my now better understood
"eternal" embarrassment,
they writ on, vainly looking
for a way to enjoy a
natural unnatural aging,
a wordlessly, self-destructing death
on a someday,
though the probability is that
someone's gigabytes
will cloud store them forevermore
because accumulation is
cheap and easy and
whatever

everything you need but didn't want,
the tangled webs, births and deaths,
multiple divorces and successes,
ancestors, progenitors,
children who no longer acknowledge
parenthood,
the detritus of lives writ even larger than the
original reality life show

confrontation tween my suppression
of long term memories that  
are dangling participles,
going gone being been,
confusion resultant in
the tenses of existence,
I was therefore I still must be
but no longer
the me
I pretended to be

there is no privacy anymore,
especially,
not even from thine own
prying eyes and faulty memories...


when they ask what is my name,
to better trace my leavings,
I will
like Jehovah to Moses respond,

I Am that I Am
(אֶהְיֶה אֲשֶׁר אֶהְיֶה,  ehyeh ašer ehyeh)
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/I_Am_that_I_Am

June 20, 2015 11:54 am
Jun 2015 · 947
The Injustice of Tomorrow
Poetoftheway Jun 2015
unfailing clockwork come,
no surcease tendered from its
onerous, regulated,
on-time scheduled,
yet, untimely demands

arise to serve,
serve the sentence,
the sentence of
"out, out,"
whether candle or spot,
but there be no out,
damnable or otherwise

flailing words,
uttered no matter how,
the burden of the inexorable
is freshened daily,
yet horribly unchanged

failing words,
dent not the injustice of,
the condemnation of,
tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow

for if the play's the thing,
this thing,
on the morrow,
performed eight times a week,
the sound and the fury
of applause fading,
a chiming of intermission ending,
the sets struck,
yet the tick of tomorrow,
is but the tock,
the switch off
of today
that
Doesn't Work

the script, well memorized,
it's mastery demands  perfunctory performance,
and
an ending that sates,
but playwright,
none provides,
his woeful signature
his pas de coup,

signifying
that tomorrow returns faithfully,
desirious of its unfulfilled dissatisfaction,
for it kens none other
though calling out,
"out, out,"
but there be no out
riffing on
Macbeth’s short soliloquy in

Act V, scene v:

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle.
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
           (V.v.18–27)
Poetoftheway Jun 2015
kiss the kids good bye,
send them out on
their own find-a-way paths,
merry or otherwise,
dispatched, once and forever,
stamped, franked, posted,
Gebbie delivered,^
the poems born, borne
   are gone

never look back,
once writ and gifted,
they are an only child,
not truly orphaned
   but without parentage

miss'ed every now and then,
see them as a drive-by victims,
hit and run casualties of passing poets,
who notifiy that they saw
"so and so"
and just wanted to
let me know,
   they're ok

but never look back,
they have been disowned,
each,
a natural birth poem,
must learn
the hard way,
to stand on its own,
tested by the cruelest proctor,
   hoary time

this is the way,
the only way,
birth mother and no more,
and this why,
some know me as,
  the poet of the way...

this is my way -
my poems are my
dispatched issue,
sent out themselves alone,
to experience
cell division,
mitosis and meiosis
spawning new poetic tissue,
find their own way of sharing

  their ancestral DNA
^ part time postman, part time poet, full time man, a veritable legend
marshall gebbie (HP)
May 2015 · 1.2k
Stain Removal
Poetoftheway May 2015
designated washer, scrubber,
some dirt, brown burnt fire marks,
impervious to edgy pads, now,
aged into the very being of our
cooking hardware

can only be removed
by human fingernail

as I scrape away residues of years gone by,
mine tears amalgamate in the soapy waters
beneath my bent head

for I cannot remiss/remove
the oldest, burnt,
bottom of the pan,
stains between us,
not with embraces,
nor with whimsy recollections,
certainly not with our
fingernails...
Mar 2015 · 1.7k
The Impurity and the Ecstasy
Poetoftheway Mar 2015
an impurity
inherent or invasive,
identity, purpose, all unresolved,
substantive, long-lived, minute sized,
flexible, formed, yet more,
clearly shapelessly, so well visible
we'll disguise it
to survive it

without passport, an émigré
illegally legal border invasive,
but somehow more knowledgable
of the unmapped byways within,
more than me - how can that be?

never motionless, indeed,
always hurried, even when energy gathering,
despite it's detailed timetable,
detailing plentiful stops and
interminable unexplained
screeching wailings,
it has no smooth gliding,
nor rumbling grumbling halting,
to a final destination imprinted

this impurity,
a beheaded brainy horseman
searching for what,
I'm not permissioned,
unquenchable questioning,
all I am allowed is
sensory
surceasingly, unseasonably seeking

the undresser,
the verisign
of veritas
eyes mirrored reversal internal,
you can't understand why finishing
this poem is so hard

because you don't want to
confess this
impious impurity,
no étranger, it is but
copious insecurity,
of the all of you,

the ecstasy of
the rushing,
the upsetting,
universal unique to us, you,
unholy, ecclesiastical, catholic,
that impurity is just
the heart pumping the
mottled blood of
life coursing through your words
and out your fingertips,
onto those
stained drumsticks
used
to play the keyboard alphabet
about an
out-of-tempo
impure ecstasy
Poetoftheway Jan 2015
~For Deborah and Soul Survivor~

these words crash across
a sunday morning mind
gassed in caffeine solution,
rapid rabid?
from the hearted, heated tongue mis-issued
hard-scrabble words,
rabbled to demystify

would you like some oatmeal, babe?

love, love some

but first,
what I need
to feed upon,
more to discharge
is the
rapid rabid
good god, so many
poem~children
needy for
birthing

a litter to litter
the pages,
most to
look-live long quiet lives,
but they are all
whole and dear,
all my flesh,
surely of my blood,
rapid rabid disgorge
this my one true employment
my sunday labor,
my sunday prayer
Poetoftheway Jan 2015
with bodies relaxed,
but eyes observant,
they sell
five dollar bags of
***** weedy poetry

mixed clientele,
there is no age or gender or ****** preference
discrimination,
certainly none requiring critical taste,
in the buying and selling of
***** weedy poetry

commercial savants,
organized by topic,
available for purchase
love, depressing, rants and whines,
discounts for pre-owned
anti boyfriend rhymes

in his day, they say,
Whitman partook,
ferried up from his Brooklyn nook,
William Carlos Williams too,
from New Jersey came,
better to understand
the most common patois

they'll do custom stuff,
the suppliers,
mix and blend  all
kinds of ****,
their database exponential,
give them the
requisite hashtags,
and within it,
in it,
thirty minutes,
no more,
they'll requisition,
providing an acquisition -
you'll get your
name-your-own-hash,
Freedom
to entitle your own
***** weedy poetry

or you could grow you own
on the window sill
in the earth of your discarded
despair
Nov 2014 · 1.2k
Let
Poetoftheway Nov 2014
Let
long lusted to write a work
of which
on the top of the screwtop
poem wine bottle
was writ
"Let"

I know, no denying,
better artistes
have done it,
so you counsel

let it be,

but can't,
no letting
go of what has
emboldened me,
taken hold of me,
the infinite possibilities of
Let

within me,
endless storage,
a room for you to
let

me keep safe keep quiet
whatever you need,
that stuff you don't want
but can't yet disown,
the ashamed,
the not ready to be released,
the best work not ready quite,
a fine tuning required,
even secrets most intimate

let
me be your safe keeper,
until you need a safecracker
to let what you need to
let
go,
go free when
the letting is good

let
let be your verb,
your object,
don't matter to me

let
us escape,
to a better place

let
us through,
pass onto level next

let
me,
rent me, use me, I am
property tangible

let
me contract you, let me a poem,
give me the work I've commissioned
and let it please

let
us know the truth, the truth of you

let!
me see you truly!
let!
us go together!
let!
us try it,
let us be an us!

let

all the lets in our blood boil,

let
us make a list and
let
it become the goodly best

and yes,

let
it be,
the end-let possibilities!
Nov 2014 · 1.9k
you would love me more
Poetoftheway Nov 2014
You would love me more

if you knew
the things I don't say

love me more
for the tears repressed/unseen

the thoughts that rise
yet fast sequestered,
virus quarantined,
lest infection spread

occasional
moan groan
an Ebola moon June
escapes,
inquiring ears overhear
and ask...

but quick deflected
with a
** hum,
nothing luv,
pushed back into
the hidey hole of opprobrium
and acid reflux

why why
suppress
if loving you better
the net net of it?

this is not the candy coated,
but the coal glow strife
that cannot be
quenched nor
solved with
anti-pain
meds

so put away, aside,
push back inside

you would
love me better
for the sharing,
but love me enough
for the be I be,
let my roughened edged pains,
be buried with my remains

a love unfettered
will place no obstacle
before you
from within me

love me for the man I am,
just the average man iam,
knowing that not knowing all,
not a deceit,
but a reprieve,
what I share,
strained and sleeved,
tho unrelieved,
it is relief
that burdens but,
only me
11-1-14
Aug 2014 · 4.4k
A younger man's clothes
Poetoftheway Aug 2014
"Son can you play me a memory
I'm not really sure how it goes
But it's sad and it's sweet
And I knew it complete
When I wore a younger man's clothes"

Billy Joel lyrics from
"Piano Man"*
~~~~~~~~~~~~

when I was very young
I wore Levi jeans and white
Hanes cotton T shirts
my mother bot me,
my feet, Ked clad, red
from the kid's "department" store
on Central Avenue,
the Main Street of my small town

when I was a young lad,
I wore workingman's cargo jeans and
white Hanes cotton T shirts
under red plaid
wooly shirts, itchy affairs,
that I bot for myself
in a real Army Navy store,
desert colored suede boots,
laced up high,
upon my feet

when I was of middling years,
my jeans were khaki pants,
Gap supplied,
and my Gap T shirts,
faded like me,
a non-descript color,
made in a gap of pale pastel colors
from Bangladesh or Vietnam,
pale pastel, like me

so as I slide~decline into
my nursing home years,
I wear unbranded jeans and
white cotton no name T shirts
with matching white disposable slippers,
that the Purchasing Department
bot for me, cause they know,
I like,

a younger man's clothes and
the memories that play all day
lost in day dreaming of a life
well dressed

2:01am
Jun 2014 · 1.2k
Thumb Wars
Poetoftheway Jun 2014
Thumb Wars


http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thumb_war


with over
one hundred and thirty years
between us,
one would think
we would have
quit this thumb wars
nonsense
a century ago

nope,
not until,
I best her at least once,
without cheating

**** those yoga thumbs,
gotta find me that ashtenga thumb app
*ASAPp
Poetoftheway Jun 2014
a qualified transgender,
who could answer better!

the art of being cruel,
spirit crushing  human stoning,
well, none can do it better than
the ***** female,
who made me
what I am today,
that made her man,
a woman

thin smile with shining eyes,
as she harpoons you repeatedly,
and dying you is
her midnight snack,
in between eating you
alive three times
daily

so I became a woman
but not like her,
no ***** here
gentle loving tenderness mantra,
so I can resolve this question

men commit cruelty unintentionally,
with no sense of sensibility,
taking, using, with nary a thought
of what they crime committing,
to their unintentional intentions
they are so ******* blind,
it hurts so much worse,
cause they cruel us girls
just for the using,
that a cruelty so unreal
its definition cannot be found
in any dictionary..
Poetoftheway Jun 2014
This morning,
I walked with god and man, and animal

I've come to believe,
no other possibility,
He denies me sleep
as His insurance policy

some One wants to be sure,
someone sees His sunrise poem,
He selected this ancien regi-man
to be His admiring audience,
with deer, squirrels, rabbits, a red fox, an osprey
always complaining, why do they get
the cheap seats

so up at five,
no jive,
gotta get there early,
for a good seat,
on the dock by his name

watch the color blue transgender
from feminine elegy elegant pale
to peacock royal male,
the water,
a contributing editor,
phases in with a steely grin,
with ermine whitecap hints
and an orange marmalade sky homage,
I cannot try to describe

and here is where man comes in...

as the tableau reveals a still life
come to be,
a painting enlivened,
come to me free,
bursting with
effervescence and
animal life tribunes,
paying on...

strange...

my Pandora app
back to back,
plays for me
Gershwin's Rhapsody In Blue,
hard upon it comes
Saint-Saëns's
The Carnival of the Animals

and I
enfeebled amateur,
needy for a
word titan Titian,
can think only
this trite thought:

I know not who is the
instrument and who
is the
artist,
but virtuous us,
We, all, now-capital-buddies,
now, all, well-color-capitalized,
god and man and animal,
crooning a chorus of appreciation

let this "accidental" miracle,
this collaboration,
enthuse me,
to live happily
with anticipation
for just one more day...


June 2014
May 2014 · 594
Poem of the Day, Maybe
Poetoftheway May 2014
the curvaceous quality of a dreamy life,
the roller coaster, arms in the air,
screaming, I'm believing,
nah, not this time,
ain't ready yet,
dude, you just woke up!

drag a comb across my face,
getting on board,
a choice, me, ride up front,
the terror, a touch more tantalizing,
the romance, a hair more frantic,
the fullness of life, à la mode

eyes catch, I grin,
next step, bridal canopy,
but not until, she conditions,
I get me on late night tv,
me, Fallon and **** right,
together, recitating the Poem of the Day!

can't be that hard,
gonna dug up some text messages,
mush it and corn fry'em,
if that don't do the trick,
got me a twenty one gun salute,
word in reserve!

Pick me!
got picket fence,
mortgage, student loans,        
diamond ring,          
     all worthless              
unless I get me HP's


*Poem of the Day!
My dog approves of this poem.

— The End —