(Song title from Judy Garland’s catalogue,
by George & Ira Gershwin)

I wanted to hold you the moment we met,
Your eyes like deep pools of emotions I’ll never forget,
Your lips held a smile by Da Vinci himself,
You exuded the sparkle of a mischievous elf,
I wanted to mould to embraceable you,
And give you a love that would see you through,
And now here we are embracing in a magical grip,
I feel warm and safe with you on this trip.

I had lost my chance
For one last dance
The light upon your face
To catch my eye
And keep me tight
Locked in your embrace
Like best of friends
From end to end
I crave your sweet sweet taste
You were my love
For that one moment
Locked in my embrace

~
requested by the Musician,
Robert C Howard,
who likes my poems well enough
to correct my typos -
no greater compliment
~

once again,
the co-conspiratorial muses of island
tender my one human self
unto the
noisy, visible island gods
whom, with
habitual invisible trickery,
proclaim themselves landlords, masters,
rightful owners of this
sheltering isle,
to all its taken, temporary and temporizing
human inhabitants

these gods,
so well disguised, hidden in,
mournful morning gray glorious fog,
cawing crows providing
staccato morning stale news alerts,
coming and going glints
of burnt orange hints
of a sun-perhaps-yet-to-come,
tenderizing breezes
as if they were charading
a heavenly, gentling ceiling fan,
cricket chirpings,
unfettered cries of definitional, Einsteinal
repeating madness,
accompanied by an
orchestral society of unknowns whistling & trilling,
assorted residential animals slow awakening,
all resting, relaxing,
in-the-dew chilling,
a marvelous din,
a perpetual mystery-to-me,
this softest of rackets of nature's calling card,
these godly muses each,
I imbibe

all conjunctively quietly embrace
this meagered, shop-worn human,
laving its mournful mind
with the noisiest of medicinal stillness,
unlaving grime of cares, worrying woes,
though still extant,
those bills-due-too-real,
admist this troupe of augured island calmers
troubles are deep-surfaced cleansed, their roots re-routed,
swapping speeding consternation for slow restoration

Blessed art thou O Gods, Lords, Spirits
and Muses

who created both,
hard and the soft,
illness and the cure,
quick cutting and the slow healing,
anxiety and the relief,
instilled eyes in the mind
that need but imagine
vistas of breathable places
that reinstall a deep tissue serenity
stronger than the soiled, awful losses of
ever-enduring
fouled memories
and oppressing
city streets of sweaty, summer heat,
both the mainland and

its child,
this sheltering isle

herein are its blessings
resifted and regifted
via this paucity of worthy words
to those
who are not here,
yet gladly are they given
to those who wish
to sit astride and aside
an isle of
unlimited shoulders,
embraceable arms,
sweetly gift wrapping
any
who join in with a
cacophonous wonder-saying,
acknowledgment of its
sanctity
saying

Amen, Awoman



~

May 30, 2015
6:30am
Shelter Island, N.Y.
(a very real place)