~~~
dear god, what you demand of me
is inhuman,
which is likely why
you demand it with
gleeful and gorgeous
word-worthy delicacies
walk forward to the small rise
overlooking the water,
the new cloud variation of this day's
particuliar peculiar moment,
a watercolor painting deserving
of the posterity of oil and
yet another poem...
raise my arms
half beseeching,
half grasping,
you color me every day
with your revisionist perfection
every day, nay,
verily each minute,
a new canvas revealed,
each an indie movie shown
but once,
then never again,
as seen from my reclining platform of soil,
kneeling on the crest of my sheltered home's soul
am compulsed, compelled,
addicted to finding new words
praiseworthy of a unique finger painting,
recombinant blue earth, soon turning, light green water,
all ring fenced
in the white ermine of a cloak of sand,
all worshipping alongside me,
the newborn sky of every moment,
majesty so nonpareil
that it chokes my tongue to silence,
hard slams shut my
desperately, deficient dictionary
to praise proper
yet every pore eager to share,
fall upon my naked knees,
as supplicant and mendicant both
to the majesty of this
particular minute's DNA
tasked to me to regift so pathetically
a man destined to fail,
who in advance knowing
unequal to the task,
grandeur impeccable,
in words henpecked,
mortal kernels of awesome and wow,
just don't cut it,
for this late afternoon tapestry of a
summer day's coronation,
it deserves far far better than this
the now multi-blue shaded water
wears tinkling diamond dust,
perhaps a piece of the sun's tiara
has gentle fallen to earth through
the puffs of Mistress Skye's
white, shift-shaping unceasingly changing
etchings
knocked to my knees,
gasping at the greenery on the far shore,
color contrasts from across the ocean,
raising the bar even further,
enfeebled by a chronic-need,
an aching desire
imprisoned in the right brain's stubborn will
to create,
to write down in words,
the glory of this workmanship
begging impolitely,
please oh please keep on testing me
this way,
so that I might
cry aloud my
failure in words,
just once more,
gleefully and gorgeously
for what,
for this,
dear god,
that you demand of me,
I thank you...
~~~
Shelter Island,
this moment,
this Michelangelo ceiling,
this
August 10th,
and days, years, centuries,
yet to come,
et en passant,
2015
the well nearly empty,,
new words no longer are collected in the cistern,
sooner, nearer,
I will only be able
to utter gasps of living color,
that no pen could ever translate...