It's a seldom day
I woke up to thunder
And the sound of pouring rain

Time and Place (To Say Goodbye)

You know where I am ensconced,
In my nook, in my solar system,
By the bay.

My love, my life's interloper,
Who divided black from everything,
My creditor, comes upon me silently,
Checking upon her investment,
This sneak attack, holy anticipated.

The music, unfettered by earbuds,
Plays for all who share the moment,
But it plays for her, specially.

When she arrives, Madame Butterfly
Fills the air, before extinguishing life.

When entering the Kingdom of My Lapland,
Time To Say Goodbye,
Con te partirò,
Fills the frothy air, that selfsame wind of yesterday,
Not just remaining,  but has grown stronger, carryover,
And the voices, my poetic entreaties,
All, have failed, to calm the blowhard's wrath.

No matter.

My possessions, few and final,
The music, my poetry, the sun bright
and my life, my love.

Of the moment, I whisper.
This, this precise spot,
In this worn down chair,
Where I gave birth to so many
Of my children,
Is where I wish to die,
When it is time,
Con te partirò,
Time To Say Goodbye.

"But not-today, my love, she orders."

In my heart I whisper,
Who can say,
But I smile and say,
"But not-today, my love,
But not-today, my love."

For if it were today,
I would not deny it,
For if it were today,
In the moment of now,
Its perfection, accepted.

For should to my chair,
She, solitary, returns,
She will have the music,
The sun's companionship,
The wet-stain spots where the tears,
I weep, at this, of the moment, and,
So many love poems,
And the comfort,
Of this one too,
And the perfect lyrics
Of this our song-to-be.

Per Your Request

Who am I?
See the picture.

The bell, an old ship's-tool,
Now an oxidized lime,
Legs, rust decorated,
Was used when her boy was small,
To call, home to dinner,
From the beach, a child recall.

Someday soon, used this way again?

It never failed, for the
Ringtones of that time,
Atomic, sonic, and unafraid,
Not PC.

See the old chair in the photo.
I am in it now, post-bed, pre-eat,
In a state of grace, prayer,
Close by, the bay, beach, and the Poet's Nook,
Your place, your adirondack awaiting.

Sunny September morn,
The coffee stays sun warmed while
Practicing my three r's,
Reading, 'riting, and 'rithmetic.

Reading your hard worked words
Writing appreciation thereof,
Counting my allures (few),
My failures, woo hoo.

I swear to God,
With a hand beneath my thigh,
Taking the Patriarchal Oath,
That I am what I am.
The words I scribe,
My truth, my dust.
There is no hidden story.

All you need is not hinted.
Asked and answered.

In the songs of my lips,
The scripts of my finger.
Need only read them,
From start to finish!

You know where I live.
You know my decades
Upon this Earth.

Every now then, I present my face,
With egg upon it.
Some of you, viewed, actually saw it,
And laughed, as intended,
For when gloomy, I stand before the mirror.
Start laughing.
But you knew that already.

You know of my children,
Theirs too, the kisses incessant I gift them.
My children, I hereby disclose,
One speaks to me not,
The other, somewhat.

This ****, this sadness,
is so rooted,
Like bamboo, it chokes,
And near impossible to uproot.

I have told you how
To dress for my funeral.
I have told you my lover's names,
The women with whom I have slept,
Sleep with yet today, yet again, tonight.

You know that unsightly bulge
In pocket rear, is a packet of
Tissues, past and present.

You know perhaps,
I am not religious,
Yet, not a prob,
Cause He and me,
Got an open line,
Chat regularly.

Saves a lot of time.

Of my woman,
You know too much,
For I have chronicled
Our adventures, mis- and otherwise,
Time and time again.

Told you, a poet in search of his style,
Though now I think simple verse, it be.

That I am a Summer Man.
That my mother died, but two months ago,
She gifted the pleasure of the word to her
Children, and the good hair gene.

My friends, named the few,
King Lear, Humpty Dumpty, Paul Simon
And a few of you, if you will take my hand?

Confessed that with each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me.

That I still ride a funeral train
To hold your special words warm and close,
That I have followed you across vast plains,
That I love your names, real and imagined,
Could write poem-pen about each one of you,
For I read your lines, and taste the unseen,
The lines unwritten, the ones in between.

Already been arrested for
Excessive poem writing,
For half my life,
Put me in jail,
Where I had no paper, no love,
When released from a loveless marriage,
The verse explosion was recorded on the moon,

But I ramble, unnecessarily, for as indicated above,
In Para 5, Subsection Jive,
All this is just a summary, a summation,
Of what my body has already served you.

There  is on thing I never told anyone.
I have a Nat-ional Anthem,
Which I enclose in the notes.
Like the way Willie Nelson sings it,
At my funeral this will be my dirge.

Reread this scrambled ramble,
This frittata omelette,
Not only the eggs cracked,
Me too, cracking up at this silliness,
Cracking up, his cracks creaking wider,
Because he can't stop,
Writing poems and
Laughing at himself before
The mirror which cannot lie.

First Poem of the Day


I don't sleep in p.j's

For they would get in the way.

I don't sleep in the ****,
That would be rude.

I sleep in words,
Of different shades, different languages.
For when, I sleep, I sleep with
You.
When I write the through and the overnight,,
Poems from my dreams retained, for
You,
I must present them respectfully,
For that it is how they were written.

What the do I wear when prone?
That is something I won't disclose,
Until you come to visit,
When we will lie side by side,
Composing unilaterally,
Hiding nothing, naked in a new way...

Everything that happens now is falling rain. You're wringing my eyes out as if they were the clouds and I'm not crying for the same reasons any more. I begin to wonder whether you like to be held when you're sad or whether I'm just an ocean keeping you afloat. I'd like to be that but it seems I keep drowning myself in you and I can't see the shore any more. I'm not sure I want to. Don't expect me to be the sun forever. There are times when I am cold and hard to deal with. I woke up this morning and I thought you were there but I think my eyes are tricking me. For example, I see too many colours when I look at you and my vision becomes blurred and all I can hear, smell, taste, touch is you. Everyone wonders why I look at you the way I do but I see more beauty in you than I do in the forest. I sometimes wonder if the stars get sick of me looking up at them and thinking of you. I think I fell in love with the way your arms wrapped around me that morning, or maybe I fell in love with the way you look when you smoke and how jealous I was of the fact that the smoke could occupy your chest so easily whilst I didn't know how to. I don't want to be where you're not. I don't want to be anywhere if I'm not beside your skin. I feel like a ghost until I am with you. You bring me to life as soon as we lock eyes and I'm asking you not to ****** me.

You wanted me to meet you in the ocean but I forgot how to swim and I'm too busy drowning in you. You make me better but I still see everything as tragedy. I still don't think I'm ready to be human with you but I want to try anyway, which is saying a lot considering I don't know how to do anything besides write poetry about you. You tell me I'm special but I think you'll grow to hate that about me. I'll probably always feel safer laying in the grass than in your arms but I want to show you I can do this, I can want you as much as I need you and I need you more than coffee at 6am or cigarettes in the dark and I need you more than I need peace or identity. I always have the desire to ask you to run away with me because I don't want to find myself with anyone but you. Let me find ways to open my heart without scaring you, let me find out how to love you in ways that don't make sense. You make me feel like I'm dreaming and I'd rather not wake up without you. I like us more than I like the silence or distance or longing. I yearn to make sense to you, to be the answer to everything you've ever wondered about. I want to be so much more to you but I can't find the words to tell you. I'm drinking about you again, trying to figure out why you're such a big part of me. I love you and none of this makes sense to me but I don't care. Nothing needs to make sense as long as I have you.