the morning after New Year’s Eve*
In icy weather, warming comfort yields
companionship, hot chocolate,
love. A promise to himself revealed
(again) how resolutions turn to ****.

He poorly planned for no more one-night-stands,
but woke up with a head too hard to think
He slowly dressed and thought it was his man's
duty to bring her something hot to drink.

This year she hoped she wouldn't sleep with *******.
She hid her head in ***-swapped sheets, and cried
inside. He left the bed; she knew he'd lied:
"I'll be right back with coffee and some rolls."

Surprised the lovers'd catch each other's stare
In February's blank and blissful air.

That rose perfume inclines a love divine
which flies in natural drifting with the birds
who perch themselves alight with silver chimes
unspoken, ringing silence though no words –

pop! The question he meant to always ask
was if she liked, him liked him. Like a rose
he picked – so precious but it couldn't last –
his fleeting presence shipped away in rows
unbeautifully unpacked until it passed.

They'll gather all life's mysteries – her eyes –
and still in love confound him after all
and sitting on a park bench you'll recall:

the hands on sailing ships all wave goodbye
the fireworks are bursting in the sky.

What flourished beauty lives within your thought
is always silent fuel to beating hearts;
and all in melted paradise, must cease to talk
for passed in subtle air a string of farts.

Defiant is this youthful balmy air
which cracks in cold like horses' rapid feet.
And you, my friend, in silent fall are fair,
but chasing tracks in circles when we meet
discussing how a love disguised by dust
could lead to such a loathed disgust. In lust

You fall for what you, hopeless, thought was true
in moot pursuit the tracks are chasing you.

And though you're young this lesson you've learnt best:
that chasing dreams in circles brings no rest.

A carriage drawn in sunset central park
in clanked incessant beats brings wild joy.
And catching wild leaves you hoped a lark
would sing an angel's melody, young boy!

A lady whose heart as big as her boils
as ugly as rust, yet kindly through toils

for troubled she was and poor as a pitcher
her purse full of holes, but loving stuck with her.

And having this love with nowhere to store it –
her house filled with cats, the neighbors abhorred it.

For all through the day was scratching and crying
If they hadn't known better, they'd think she was dying.

Her house overflowing and no food to eat;
she cared for her cats like they care for heat.

And one day the folk came at her door wrapping
but she couldn't answer, for she was still crapping.

The folk weren't new; they'd been here before;
she'd leave them long often to wait at the door.

But now with no answer, the cats left to mewing;
the lady left helpless while she was still pooing.

The folk grew impatient and broke down the door;
the smell was of rodent mixed with cheap *****.

And all through their nostrils, the folk kept on smelling:
mold, cabbage and *****, then faintly a yelling.

The noise sounded desperate – a cat may be sick!
so holding their noses they trudged through the thick.

The yelling grew louder till the back of the house,
Lady needed some t.p. – instead used her blouse.

The fireworks are bursting in the sky,
(like breadcrumbs kids are throwing in the bay,
to fly in fun and freedom of July)
like fish we rush to see surprises blast away.

We foolish, footless bandits in the night
were playing spin the bottle under trees.
Like fireflies and glow-sticks, we were bright,
But now we've lost ourselves and lost our keys.

You, gone with summers past and freedom's will
have lost the will to seek and seek a thrill.
And strapped into conformity, you're dying.
You're lying. With each dollar earned you ****
that child that your son is. Sighing,
you wanted to play hard ball, but no one's buying.

The chorus: morning glory, holy, blue;
the chirping of the blue birds wholly true
is unlike ambiguity; the birds
are certain in their beauty void of words.

There's something in the air 'mid summer night;
the crickets call divine to poet's pen.
The rhapsode speaks to truth beyond his sight,
adorned by form, possessed beyond his ken.

The dialogues of man and poem surge
as meaning's multiplicity is found
in one unspoken statement to resound
through poems, all, encompassed by the urge.

The butterfly that surging clear in sight,
like poetry, is whimsical in flight.