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We used to talk about
going
to Montana--escaping it all,
building a log cabin and
making a garden.  We were
going to hunt and fish for
food--make rugs and
hats from the fur.

But look at us now.
You live in the
city and drive a Volvo.
Goldfish in a glass bowl.
You even taught your
cat to walk on
a leash.
Can you see the
sky with all the smog?

I'm not any better.
Living under the bridge;
the only hunting I do is
for cans, the rare and
illusive
aluminum nickel, so that
I can buy *****.  

I walk down to the
river's edge and look up at
the expansive sky.
I close my eyes.
And when I open them, baby,
we're in Montana.
Here's a link to my you tube channel where I read poetry from my recently published book, Rise Up Collected Poems and Short Stories, available on Booksie.com
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1khU1Mo5AKE
I only write at night
The dark seems to illuminate
Thoughts not given the time of day
How scary it is-
To realize
None of this is truly mine.
Not these things,
Not this life.

Time is my master,
She owns it all.
I cannot keep any of it.
That would be, unique
What if they could actually think?
The brain may never
have another drink

As a baby, our hands had
A mind of their own
As a child, we played hand games
Patty cake, Rock paper scissors,
shadow puppets
Now all grown so much life,
our hands have shown

“Cogito ergo sum”
I think therefore, I am
(Rene Descartes )

The Thumb
short in stature yet
strong and In charge;
Thumbs up A OK

Pointer
taskmaster; sensitive
Gets the most action,
Will Go where  
NO other fingers  Can
We don’t want to know
where that finger has been Yuck

Middle
The tallest of the bunch
Can hold the most lunch
Claim to fame; one finger solute,
flash the bird, The royal flip off
With both hands( in stereo)
Means( A louder gesture)

The ring finger
admired by all
adorns important jewelry,
Elegant extension
when the Ring is Presented

The pinky,
The Dainty lady accessibly fastidious easily disgusted, small, delicate pretty
Proper etiquette;
when drinking a cup of tea,
extend the pinky for all to see

Individually there’s a fraction of their force when they’re united they can pick up
extremely heavy objects
Hold their might tight even in a fight

This is a very special day
Their Wedding Day
A celebration of hoopla
Things are not going as planned
There seems to be a little drama
when it comes to getting their nails painted

Ring finger said to *******
You smudged my nail color on your back
Stop moving “

******* said “I didn’t move. I’m right here.””You keep wiggling about Stop it”
Ring finger” I have to be perfect. Everybody will be looking at my new ring” “ there will be pictures as well!”
The smudge looks like hell”

******* well, it’s taking
too long to dry! I’m losing my cool
I’m gonna flip the bird.”.
I am large and in charge,
I need to be heard”

Ring finger” all the days
you choose to act up really today”
This is not the time to play!”

All the fingers started
wiggling in unison
to dry the nail polish quicker

The polish is removed
from the other parts of the hand,
The day continues on as planned.”

When the groom slowly slides the sparkling diamond on Ring Finger
she whispers,” I will wear this ring forever”

Both hands ready for the dance,
A spin, the dancing dip
It’s been a long courtship
It all starting with
an innocent gesture
The groom whispered in her ear
I want to Holding your hands
For the rest of our lives


Songs inspired
1) I want to hold your hand by the Beatles
2-26-1966

2) we’ve only just begun by
Karen Carpenter and
Royal Philharmonic Orchestra

3) Through the years (lyrics )and song
by Kenny Rogers Original 1981

4) Put your hand in the hand
by ocean 1971 original live
BLT Webster’s Word of the Day challenge
8-4-24 hoopla to make a commotion, bustle, or fuss.

2-24-24 my husband gave me the title. He had the poem in his Myndzeye. But when I started telling him about my process and my version, he asked me if I can write a poem more than once.
A personal challenge
Use my title and make your own version. Let me know when it’s done and I’ll post it on my page.
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
we re-plant hydrangeas annually,
which our ravenous tick carrying,
**** deer,
munch contentedly,
under our window,
when we are sleeping.

In the last ten years,
today, I saw my first
solitary flowering accidental.
as I’m in poem mode,
it occurs to me that
the first line is incorrect;
for the sake of brevity,
it should read:

we retentives,

we re-plant hydrangeas
*analy
june 2020
when the kids were young,
invested in fancy luggage,
cause we needed vacations
to get away from them.

These luggages,
had them roll to the number combination numbers locks
which was where technology
was back in
the nineteen eighties,
when I was a
young husband and father,
using the year of their birth
as a four digit code

of course, I programmed
them both incorrectly,
and they, those kids,
now adults maybe,
who can’t remember anything good
I’ve ever done for them,
but remind every time
they come to see me,
which is pretty much never,
about ******* up the year
of their naissance,
which is a
fancy french word,
for
“kids are a pain in the ***“
june2020
ever since seven ate eight,
cannot expect much
too much return on
my in-vestments,
given the hole in
my accounting.

five, six, seven, nine
is most unsatisfying,
like brunch.

brunch?

neither breakfast or supper,
assuredly not lunch,
pointedly ridiculous
if you don’t know
what time it is
by the meal’s
nomenclature

nothing sensible rhymes
with supper
except for
crupper
and scupper,
both of which
like brunch,
leave me confused,
wholey unsatisfied,
as I’m clueless
as to what each means,
just like,
brunch.

by the way,
do have the time?
june 2020
I am that well that
Was never dug,
Some people laid scratches
In the earth
But that was all,
Discovered that digging
Is hard and takes
Up effort,
When my soil was not
Already freshly dug
They elect to dig elsewhere,
And leave my copious
Waters untapped,
Unsupped,
Unloved
every day we make rules
for ourselves, gonna do this,
never eat that, drink less,
write shorter (ha!),
write
less, more, better, so as I edit
the preponderance and infiltration
of that word,
(that shall remain nameless),

it
plague my scripts, diminishes my
verbal acuity, curses my perpetuity,
inserts itself without asking, is a
rudeness to your host, an intolerable
sin that cannot be abided,
know now
that it shall be banished from speech,
daily conversation, a heretic, born to
die in The Void, spent superhero,
a place languages send there superfluous
constituents, to live, hopefully disappearing
via the Ark of Archaic…

weirdly, my writing pointer tips sudden
drained of blood, my composure and
composition disabled, when I hear a
sumptuous sobering voice declare:


Sit down and shut up

to which authoritative declarative
I reply:

“Yes, God, Roger that,”
adding,

“over and out”
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