For Al, who left us, Nov. 22, 2014

With each passing poem,
The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher,
Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised,
Domain, the association of words, ever lesser,
Repetition verboten, crime against pride.

Al,
You ask me when the words come:

With each passing year,
In the wee hours of
Ever diminishing time snatches,
The hours between midnight and rising,

Shrinkage, once six, now four hours,
Meant for body restoration,
Transpositional for poetic creation,
Only one body notes the new mark,
The digital, numerical clock of
Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing.

Al, you ask me from where do the words come:

Each of the five senses compete,
Pick me, Pick me, they shout,

The eyes see the tall grasses
Framing the ferry's to and fro life.
Waving bye bye to the
End of day harbor activities,
Putting your babies to sleep.

The ears hear the boat horns
Deep voiced, demanding pay attention,
I am now docking, I am important,
The sound lingers, long after
They are no longer important.

The tongue tastes the cooling
Italian prosecco merging victoriously
With its ally, the modestly warming rays
Of a September setting sun,
finally declaring, without stuttering,
Peace on Earth.

The odoriferous bay breezes,
A new for that second only smell,
But yet, very old bartender's recipe,
Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline
And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted,
Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings.

These four senses all recombinant,
On the cheek, on the tongue,
Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning
Merging into a single touch
That my pointer finger, by force majeure,
Declares, here, 
poem aborning!
Contract with this moment,
now satisfied!

Al,  what you did not ask was this:
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.
__________
(this poem more than most,
for its birth celebrates
my loss, your loss,
which cannot be exonerated 8/7/18)


__________
written at 4:38 AM
September 8th, 2012

Greenport Harbor, N.Y.

1.

A star-shaped
patch of snow,
achingly white,
rests against the base
of the little white
pine, wrapped
in glittering
golds and reds, gifts
for the Christ Child.

No claw or paw
or beak or wing
has touched the snow.
Only a hidden pitch
of grass pushes
it skyward.

It shirks
its shrinkage
north
of the pine.
It will not
winnow until
the bright star burns.

I pass the snow
and think of nothing.

2.

Lightning split
the hide
of the 80-year-old
oak that shaded
our little tan house
each summer.

Its bark ripped
apart like
wallpaper,
life leeching out
of its crooked limbs
in sap-soaked
streams of sorrow,
making room
for the little white pine
to thrive
in the dead of winter.

Nature is not
our friend.

3.

The pine prays to preserve
some piece of the oak
I used to love. Its needles,
like shark’s teeth,
fend off friend and foe
alike, granting it
the right to grow
wherever it likes,
even here,
at the foot of giants.

Dead, the pin oak loans
its beauty to no one,
boasts only of its hard,
straight wood,
an abiding abode
for birds and squirrels
and barking boys.

I climb to its top
each Christmas,
straining toward
the Epiphany star.

The tree sways, and
I think of nothing.

 4.

The burgeoning pine
pines for such power.
You cannot cut it
without exposing
its darkened knots,
like aging spots
on my hands
and face.

It rises bright with
anemone-like cones
dappled on its coat
of single color:
      evergreen,
      ever young.
      Ever gone,
my pilgrim oak.

I stretch toward the star
of Bethlehem,
dreaming my way
to Heaven, saying No
to the punishing
star of snow below.
Hanging high
above the Earth,
I sense the Christ Child
in my branches.

Wet, wild grasses
brush His cradle,
push me skyward,
His star my home.

aches in the old familiar way
that your heart once did
as a child, begging for love
as your mother's side,
to be quietly pushed away.
to have been shut up with
television, pills, food

(to think of your youth
well there's no word
to describe the guilt.
your mere birth was an
act of abuse on humanity,
wasn't it?)

this new ache though
leads to a progression
a growth in shrinkage
a strength in will that
you never thought was real.

this ache takes you
to a secret hidden place
full of the shimmering hope
that you'll feel whole one day.

billboard's calligraph --
past the haze of Manila infested
by car sprawls and belching machines.

magnanimous treatise of tarpaulins,
people chin-up asking God
with askance

something like this
"o god make this bearable
like a mound of fresh fruits
from ****** labour."

maniacal sensurround:
earth-shattering frequency
of footsteps trampling the mouth
of monolith shadows - the peak
of this quake is our complete silence.

rain's catharsis in effect
sousing us in the blood of unreal light.
this diastolic shrinkage
jamming the beat of constricting vessels.
the adrenaline surges
within the dermis of this pretension.

a collective of tired beings heeding
the recherché of voice metamorphosing
into form, a dagger-butterfly
paring us skin to bone, cranial
to visceral, soul to nothing -

catapult of a trajectory spit
plummeting in eased-up pace
from Taft Avenue flyover
to a subjugated wagon of scraps
and empty wine bottles.

today's paper reads:

"Palace hits hiring
   of **** dancers"

fancying to fall right in the
spanked curved of this
insatiate melodrama - something
  prayer could not save from
this land's mutinous ignominy.

   we resume to fulfill our madness,
hundreds of tack-headed people
  rolling down the streets of Makati,
drenched with rain's trilling aftermath.

squinting to look at
  no sun, only the grieving of skyscrape,
thumbing down unidentified objects
  in the depth of loose pockets,
    desperate for home.

there is no need for politics when choosing your sweater,

is there sir? no need to have an embargo on scottish goods,

they are only asking, so far.



it is best not to speak your mind when working, to have

woollen garments dry cleaned to            avoid shrinkage.



i understand democracy, yet we  have our own feelings.



we fold the fabric tidy, colour code and talk of our lives

together.



look at the new coins, aren’t they pretty. will the machines

still work?



closing.                        music blesses us home. listen and you

may cry too.



Max Richter.



sbm.

With each passing poem,
The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher,
Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised,
Domain, the association of words, ever lesser,
Repetition verboten, crime against pride.

Al,
You ask me when the words come:

With each passing year,
In the wee hours of
Ever diminishing time snatches,
The hours between midnight and rising,

Shrinkage, once six, now four hours,
Meant for for restoration,
Transpositional for creation,
Only one body notes the new mark,
The digital, numerical clock of
Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing.

Al, you ask me from where do the words come:

Each of the five senses compete,
Pick me, Pick me, they shout,

The eyes see the tall grasses
Framing the ferry's to and fro life.
Waving bye bye to the
End of day harbor activities,
Putting your babies to sleep.

The ears hear the boat horns
Deep voiced, demanding pay attention,
I am now docking, I am important,
The sound lingers, long after
They are no longer important.

The tongue tastes the cooling
Italian prosecco merging victoriously
With its ally, the modestly warming rays
Of a September setting sun,
finally declaring, without stuttering,
Peace on Earth.

The odoriferous bay breezes,
A new for that second only smell,
But yet, very old bartender's recipe,
Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline
And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted,
Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings.

These four senses all recombinant,
On the cheek, on the tongue,
Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning
Merging into a single touch
That my pointer finger, by force majeure,
Declares, here,  poem aborning,
Contract with this moment, now satisfied.

Al,  what you did not ask was this:
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.
___

4:38 AM
September 8th, 2012

Greenport Harbor, N.Y.

Our nation is
a living organism.
Alive with biochemical
pulsating cells.
Apoptosis,
a cell death
of our nation
are set and
already unwittingly
programmed.
Takes a
multicellular effect
if not checked.
Cell changes and
death is eminent.
Changes includes
blebbing,
cell shrinkage,
nuclear fragmentation,
chromatin condensation,
chromosomal
DNA fragmentation,
and global mRNA.
Apoptosis ,
a falling off occurs.
Our nation is
threatened and going
through same
process as above.
Our acts must
be put together.
There is a
suffocating,
crippling misery,
and destitution.
We are desperately
sliding both into
chaos and despondency.
We must get
out of this
cloud of frustration,
with a profound
physical presence of
sour people grieving
daily,
Don't let them
become too rotten
to infect everyone.
It may be
contagious.
All ships must
sail in one direction,
Or very soon
we all go down.
©2019,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.

On the first night of the Festivus All grievances were aired
But after a few cups of *** our feelings were repaired
The Festivus pole shone brightly, illumined by a single light.
The alcohol flowed freely, this would be no silent night.
Cousin Jerry in the corner was caught snogging with Elaine.
George’s girl was laughing as he struggled to explain
The cause of her disappointment (shrinkage was to blame).
Cosmo Kramer danced around the pole, making spirits bright.
Newman spilled the bowl of punch,( he never was too bright).
Frank and Estelle were doing well and feeling little pain.
She pinned him in the feat of strength, not that he complained.
When the meal was over and the holiday was done
They all made their donations to support the Human fund.

Can't* is a word I refuse to comprehend.

Can't does not exist in my vocabulary.
Not if I intend to live fearlessly.

Can't and Fear feed off each other like fire and air.
The two will dance and expand,
Spread to the last corner and inches of my land.

Can and Faith are the words I will invest into my mind, body, and soul.

Can't will not enter into my mind,
For it might sit in my mouth,
And slip off my tongue.

Can't is a poison;
The everlasting **** to my garden.

Can't will destroy every blossom created,
And seize the seeds yet to sprout.

Can't has the power to end the action of planting.
I will never again see a flower, if I let Can't grow.

Can is the remedy to imagination and ingenuity.

Whereas,
Can't impedes and blocks creativity.

Can't eliminates possibilities,
It drains and empties.

Even the most tenacious sea
Could not withstand the
Dehydration of Can’t

Can't ignites negativity, creating an immobilization and inability to try.

Can't creates an ending before there was a chance for beginning.

Can't breeds the misbelief of failure, even if there was never to be a winner.

In many ways,
Can't is the biggest lie created from out mind.

Mis-be-LIE-f



But if I were to look on the inside,

I'd rather give myself a fighting chance,
Then quit before I start
because of the word Can’t


We will be faced with new challenges each day,
New obstacles will arise and come into play

Life has an abundance of what we must overcome,
I would hate to make myself the enemy,
Be the one standing in front of a self-created machine gun.

If I were to approach the word for all that it is
It is after all,
Just a word.

I would let a word dictate and decide
The choices, risks, and chances taken in life.


Seems unbalanced
That one word can have full access
To my thoughts and actions.

There
The infinite possibilities
in the World and Me.

If the only difference between Can and Can’t
Stands an Apostrophe and T,
Then I choose to remove
The contraction entirely.

If you still don’t believe
How destructive Can’t can be
Here are a few synonyms for contraction as taken from Wiki:
“shrinkage, decline, diminution, decrease”.

None of those words seems appealing to me.
All of those words will devour my dreams.

Which is why Can’t is a word
I refuse to comprehend.

With each passing poem,
The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher,
Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised,
Domain, the association of words, ever lesser,
Repetition verboten, crime against pride.

Al,
You ask me when the words come:

With each passing year,
In the wee hours of
Ever diminishing time snatches,
The hours between midnight and rising,

Shrinkage, once six, now four hours,
Meant for for restoration,
Transpositional for creation,
Only one body notes the new mark,
The digital, numerical clock of
Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing.

Al, you ask me from where do the words come:

Each of the five senses compete,
Pick me, Pick me, they shout,

The eyes see the tall grasses
Framing the ferry's to and fro life.
Waving bye bye to the
End of day harbor activities,
Putting your babies to sleep.

The ears hear the boat horns
Deep voiced, demanding pay attention,
I am now docking, I am important,
The sound lingers, long after
They are no longer important.

The tongue tastes the cooling
Italian prosecco merging victoriously
With its ally, the modestly warming rays
Of a September setting sun,
finally declaring, without stuttering,
Peace on Earth.

The odoriferous bay breezes,
A new for that second only smell,
But yet, very old bartender's recipe,
Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline
And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted,
Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings.

These four senses all recombinant,
On the cheek, on the tongue,
Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning
Merging into a single touch
That my pointer finger, by force majeure,
Declares, here,  poem aborning,
Contract with this moment, now satisfied.

Al,  what you did not ask was this:
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.
___________

4:38 AM
September 8th, 2012

Greenport Harbor, N.Y.

Merle and June needed a break
From their Midwestern town.
Inundated with sales and receipts,
Both were starting to drown.
 
After years without a vacation,
June found an ideal
Vacation spot at a mountain resort,
And the price was a steal.
 
Ah, finally, to be one with nature!
To sit on their behinds!
To escape the intolerable prairie heat!
To put work out of their minds!
 
During their drive, Merle said, "Dear,
This trip should calm your nerves."
He couldn't see the fear in June's face
As he sped 'round the mountain curves.
 
Once they were settled in their cabin,
June's calm turned out to be brief.
Staring out the window she shrieked
"What?" in disbelief.
 
"Merle," she said, "On the path out there…
I tell you, I could have sworn
I saw a man and woman walk by
As naked as the day they were born!"
 
Grabbing her glasses to read the brochure,
June had to squint
To see that it stated "nudist camp"
In very, very small print.
 
More **** couples sauntered by
With body parts a-dangling.
"Bite the bullet," she said to poor
Merle whose nerves were jangling.
 
"Lock up all of our clothes in our safe
So no one can purloin 'em.
It states right here: No Refund, so
If you CAN'T beat 'em, join 'em."
 
So au naturel Merle and June
Enjoyed the fresh mountain air.
Then Merle got a mosquito bite
On his…well…you know…down there.
 
They started to feel a bit more relaxed
After sitting and sipping
On a few cold drinks. Suddenly, they realized:
They'd never gone skinny dipping.
 
Merle learned in the cool mountain lake
That he was a quick reactor:
Walking back to the shore he complained,
"Blasted shrinkage factor!"
 
Walking around unclad was fine--
With that they had no disputes.
But dining felt a little bit strange
In their birthday suits.
 
Swimming, golfing, hiking, riding,
And sunbathing were all fun,
But they burned parts of their bodies that
Had never seen the sun.
 
Burning his *** wasn't part of the plan,
Merle had to admit.
For three whole days it curtailed activities
Because he couldn't sit.
 
After two weeks of mosquito bites
And sunburned rumps they set
Off on their journey home from a trip
The two would never forget.
 
So, what lessons did they learn?
Being a nature lover
Is fine and dandy, but next time they'll do it
With some sort of cover.
 
And to feel the wind blow on them
Could put their mind at ease;
But they also learned that parts of the body
Don’t need to feel a breeze.

- by Bob B