a gift for the poet
a sky full of stars,
whose poetry, when well read,
brings, leads,
souls to their knees
satisfying with quiet desperation,
satisfying with noisy aspiration,
unto the best places poetry,
can airlift the human soul,
to a sky full of stars
~~~
so many pleasures to pick from:

the summer's first awakening taste of
comforting cold vanilla in sugar cone
upon the lips,
reading Whitman and Poe,
in my sheltered poet's nookery,
watching my woman chop
summer fruits, cranberries, berries, mango,
into the salad of our lives

but one pleasure olden,
yet evergreen new,
rare,
but never aged,
like the occasional
pink potpourri sunset of  gold bluesy hues,
this ancien accidental tourist stumbling
smack dab
into a new poet whose excellence
force~asks you to say,
while he breathes intake/expels
noisy airy,
how~wow?

I don't read the words of
this solitary kayaker,
no, I drink till drunk
on mine own tears,
angry that I'm late to the party,
once again

nine poems glorious,
this poets meagerly provides,
reminding me,
a few master treasures,
oft outweigh the many

me, a thousand and more,
yet struggling to hone
my dulled verbal skills
to take true flight,
most o'mine, suffocate stillborn
in the torrential waterfalls of
never ending misleading
gold plated
trite

nine (!)
poems only,
bring this old soul
to his worn out knees,
in humbling fresh-face humility,
he thanks the muses for
gift-granting knowledge of a
blackened velveteen night sky new poet star,
to his eyesight keening,
sad in the knowing that so many more,
shine
but remain undiscovered

this new poet

"writes a little,
just soul scribbles mostly
not wanting to be anybody special,
an evanescent dark star; season's change"

give me more,
this old man demands,
for each of the nine is a

"single delicate petal cast off,  
like a party dress fallen
in a beautiful mess
upon the puddled wooden floor"

her invitation, I accept, I accept
on bent knee eagerly to

"Come swim within this restless silence
the raging river inside beckons

the cadences we hear
are the heart's untamed waters overflowing ,
eroding this heart's shorelines ,
leaving the thrummed edges wild
swim within this restless silence
the raging river inside beckons

the cadences we hear
are the heart's untamed waters overflowing ,
eroding this heart's shorelines ,
leaving the thrummed edges wild"

as always,
I wax too simp,
too long,
while the new poet waxes
simply eloquent,
hard knocking down his old soul
to the ground
with memories
of days when with first morn blush,
two three poems,
he provided
to greet the honorable dawn,
after searching the night skies,
for new and
Undiscovered Poems

She
(for must be a woman, I just know)

"colours this heart's blank pages
rapt in the poesy a joyous ecstasy ..,
enrapture with rainbow's candy taste"

for Sia and Gia

~
actionable,
seeking perfection,
yet this morning,
an unnecessary.

lying in bed, window gazing,
Barber's Adagio for Strings
fills the inner ear's atmosphere
in tandem, in cahoots
with
a new day's pastel palette,
whose new hues
hew away
half-remembered distasteful recollections
of rapid eye'd drowsed darker dreams.

bereft of cares,
'to do' lists
do not exist,
t'is only merest minorest inconvenience called
gravity,
preventing,
my physic shell from
being jet seat ejected
to ascend heavenly sky'd

even love's labor lost,
a pained yet pleasurable strife,
the best of the best
of a worn and torn cycled life,
all shed, all put to one side
like incidental music.

seeing light earthed birthed,
perfection granted to the early risers,
Massenet's Meditation turn violins
from soothing turns to sudden orchestral tumult,
causing a misstep of doubtful questioning,
a momentarily soul stumbling
crashing cymbalic disintermediation

Copland's Appalachian Spring replaces,
retracting, sealng wax away
all concerning distractions
of my concerting pastoral.

and tho a season too late,
for this is my time,
summer time,
the time of my music,
my seasoned, annualized
concerto with the Earth,
his music is most
well come

these,
the Summer Man's
days of awe,
days of tranquility,
days of simplest tones,
no atonal atonement requests necessary,
for mellifluous harmonious in everything,
perfection is given, not taken,
well received
in calming serenity,

Bernstein's West Side Story then presents,
so out of place
to where I current am,
a natural sensational day beginning
on the very near-to-the-end
of a long isand

(tho the West Side, en veritas, was
my teeming small town community,  my noisy, honking
rooting birthplace story)

Lenny composes a dance of reminder that
somewhere,
there is a remainder,
somewhere,
there is a place for us,
even me.*

and it is
here, now,
in the uncontested sky
over my blue-green grass,
that leads to my Peconic shoreline,
where I hear a new world symphony
of cawing birds and silent bunnies,
dancing deer and zzzzing insects,
completing my
natural composition,
the playlist perfection of
me