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“poet, it’s your day,” she says.

groggily growls the growler,
“what’d ya mean?”

“the sun came up today early,
but partly cloudy interrupt-us has arrived subsequently,
worse, the Great Swami Interpet predicts rain comes
heavy this afternoon on our journey home.”

he reflects upon his craggy, scraggly image that is
reflected upon the cold brewed black coffee.

replies carefully without thinking,
“today I will commence writing under
a new guise, a new name, a different persona!”

“whom shall we be today then?”

come back to bed revelation poet
how poems get plucked from trees of passing conversations and new poets
come into being...
E B K May 9
I saw you today
it had been so long
Too long? Who knows
but anyhow

Our eyes caught
Yours brown
Mine blue-green
Spinning an eternity
between us

You nodded, I think
didn't smile
I'm not sure if I nodded back
but who knows

Libraries are romantic
They are piles and shelves of words of love
and lust
Stacks full of secrets
a kiss discretely
Hands grasped
stories told

Could we have been that kiss, those hands?
maybe, but who knows

I have written your name so many times
Scratched you out until you are, were
nothing but words and hopeless yearning

and yet now, here you are
With your nod
Those eyes

an eternity between us

Broken
by the books
I still have to shelve
ken not the
vive la différence!
entre les deux,
these two bed and head chambers,
for all poets are seducers,
regardless of ***, race, creed or color

when first we employ our working, yeoman vocabulary,
we plain start,
to relate but not to regale,
the whom we are,
hoping our moments unique,
will  breach the boundaries
of our collective commonality connectivity,
and find human receptivity

thus, the seduction of self commences

though every possible combination of words has somewhere been inscribed and committed, we ****** ourselves
(the seduction of poetry)
with potions of notions that we are and always be our
first, and now soon forever,
yours as well

of course, we are, it's true,
our very own first admirer & lover,
having conquered the hillock of self,
see the universe expanding and the
****** need to conceive
and prowess to please
beyond the beyond with
the poetry of seduction

do not want your body, heart or soul,
commitment, allegiance, vows,
sacred or profane,
all such in vain

crave your everything,
not even a legal nine-tenths satisfactory

dare not call me arrogant or presumptive,
gaze upon the mirror that cannot lie,
rereading thy words assemblage,
and deny to lie to yourself

want you, you want me,
my adoration,
we want to be in
a poem together,
lovers at the molecular level
where words dissected into letters, then again,
into guttural sounds where a simple outcry is an elegy,
a love poem, a wound, a denouement, a preface, a tear,
a welling, a heaving, a sigh, an exhalation, all,
an entrance to where the need for words
is long since past

the sin and crown of seduction completed,
unanimously

now breathe out
and then,
breathe in
Dead Rose One Jun 2015
Lush is the quietude
of the late Saturday afternoon,
rich are the silencing sounds,
as variegated as the shades of greens
of a man-seeded, nature-patchworked lawn

rays reveal some bright,
some yellowed spots,
all a potent color palette

resting worry wearied eyes,
untroubled by the gentle fading light's illumination,
that soon will disappear and seal officially,
another week gone by

the lawn,
acting as an ceiling acoustic tile,
absorbing and reflecting
the varied din of disharmonious
natural sounds orchestrated,
an ever present reminder
     that true quiet
is not the absence of noise

I hear
the chill in the air,
insects debating vociferously
their Saturday evening plans,
the waves broom-swishing beach debris,
pretending to be young parents
putting away the children's toys for the eve

the birds speak in Babel multitudes of tongues,
chirps, whistles, clicks and clacks,
then going strangely silent as if all were
praying collectively the afternoon sabbath service,
with an intensity of the silent devotion

this moment, i cannot
well enough communicate,
this trump of light absolutes,
and animal maybes,
that are visually and aurally
presented  in a living surround sound screen,
Dolby, of course,
all a plot of
ease and gentility,
in toto,
sweet serenity

here to cease,
no more tinkering,
leave well enough,
plenty well enough
for Sally and Rebecca, who love the lushness best....

JUNE 2015
Bus Poet Stop Apr 2015
eye did.   As my prejudices expected, the odd assortment of "characters"were all present and not to be unaccounted for...a romantic comedy on a good Friday, attracts the believers, the well wishers, the ones who think if only the world was.. and I was not re or so tired of life, unemployed, lonely, damaged in some manner of being...

not too many young, just a few... theater darkness is a masque, with a risqué chance of oh no, I've been witnessed by the non-believers.

the infirm with their mobile caretakers and paraphernalia were there.  Odd couples, were there.  If there was one unifying common characteristic, I selected this one.  We all needed haircuts. eye don't know why but it made me think about going to get one's haircut, and the rituals that requires....and it is and is not a bit like being in a almost totally private world inpublic, where you, the individual and some outside force majeure, hairdresser, movie screen engages and temporarily transforms you.  That is why, I, went to the movies on a Friday afternoon, to be transformed and not reformed, in public, in private...
Who knows when this world will stop
When the winds will change
And my heart will drop

I live this life knowing  
Only what I’ve learned
Whether good or bad

It’s days like these where I reflect
The light of the sun
And when darkness comes
I’ll fight tooth and nail
To see your shining hair
Brush upon mine

But for now
I’ll keep my selfish secrets
For no apparent reasons
Other than to remain an enigma
To your mellow heart

Sunday afternoon
With nothing to do
But fall in love
arrested and defeated,,
my fated causality,
by mine own hand done in,
'twas the death I ordained,
when to the addiction of ego,
I did, did I,
surrender and concede
Nov. 2017
At lanes end
where churches sit
black and white,
In rare afternoon
stillness, trees rigid
as statues shield
St. Peter’s yard.
Nations favoured bird,
the red-breasted aggressor,
gambols gracefully
across the gentle
arcs of ageing
headstones,
gifting movements,
radiating elegance,
flitting from sight
in a burst of most
powerful flight.

© Richard Duffy. All rights reserved
Brief moments shared with a robin while visiting churches in Bywell, Northumberland, on an autumn afternoon cycle.
javert Mar 18
The last rays of the sun are touching the third floor of the buildings.
Same color as the clouds.
For as long as I look at it, it will stay there,
perfect and frozen and beautiful.
The moment I look away it will be gone.

If only I could hold this last light in my hands,
like a cup to keep me warm,
like a bowl that brims over.

Peek through the blinds again tomorrow, love.
I'll still be here.
Sparrow Mar 15
The sunset by the sea
My feet naked, embedded
in the sand
As the waves greet me with ferocity

Punching back with clenched fists
Saltwater foam, elegant comb
through my hair
The ocean with all its depth condescending

All the colours of the universe in
a sky tainted, so gloriously painted
like a fresco
Of an olden cathedral I'd never seen

Sweat and salt and sand in my clothes
My eyes swollen, their whites stolen
unconsciously
Innocent are not the tears of the sea
---

Slow as the waves recede
with the retreating tide
So does the venom in my veins
and come loose the nails in my head
The shore sprayed with new hope
The night sky of a new moon arrives
Darkness heralds doubt
Yet I'm relieved to be
in the absence of the light
that seeked to
blind me last night
Went to my grandma's place by the sea.
Needed a little headspace, and a lot of grandma's cooking :)
I feel light after spending an afternoon at the beach, letting the waves hit me.
And all this without a single smoke!
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