circumstances changes the
man-you-al
neglects you,
negligence a criminal offense
against a young woman’s
every essenced senses,

neglect is regret coming
the unthinkable
that I guess is the
“not me joke”
neon sign
winking and buzzing
endless

by doctors orders(!):
stop being a macho idiot,

get thee to a
nail salon,
redo
updo
thyself
from toes
to fingertips
in a
remarkable stunner
of a
pink,
that says to
those glaring untruths
of unworthiness

I am beautiful
and
I
will be loved
if you only
think
pink

it had better be
the best
of me

want to go out
kickin’ & screamin’
with words that rip
those ***** bandages
holding us together,
rip’em with more than the
merest passing ounce of
a simplistic
ouch

poetry,
a sun reflector of
the daily of living, you’re up,
then floor crawling,
not for the first time,
and most likely,
you
never saw the sucker-
sunburn-(pow)-punch
hitting you from behind

the muddling of memories,
them, that can weep and sweep
you into comfort, sustained,
by the knowing at that exact
moment, I,
gave you
the best of me

no joke;
yeah I’m young(ish),
partied hard, fell hard-in love.
only to be busted opened up,
like too many else…nothing
there to write home about,
but to write a poem that
survives in someone else’s
heart, that would be miraculous,
as grand as the grand things
and truly great people I know,

but hello, poets,
this promise, for real

but David Foster, et.al,
said all this better,
and so melodiously
~~~

“And I think I've gone this far
Because of you
Could be no other love but ours
Will do
No one will ever touch me more
And I only hope that in return
No matter how much we have to learn
I saved the best of me for you”

though a young’un here,
wander, stumble through
old poems via crazy word
searches, and bumble~bump
into fabulous poets who have
not scribed in many ayear,
and the curiosity chomps me
big time, where do the poets
go,

when they without trace,
they disappear,
disparu sans laisser de trace

leaving behind poems that leave
me breaathless, eyes watery,
could not have all died,
but their spark that lit up skies
world over,
has been extinguished

impossible
cannot be,
perhaps they graduated
to more serious employ,
though know nothing better
than scripture of scribbling
a beauteous insights,
a pithy phrase
that rings the heart strings
in ways that leave you
gasping!

how
can you lose the
need,
urging,
compulsing,
sensation
to create
great?

how can it be,
late at night,
the kids put to bed,
the papers writ,
the bills paid
as best one can,
that the inner scream
becomes your
fingertips
to blow, spark, and drip
fulsome
words?

unheard,
requiring
witnesses,

Where?
is that ****
divine action,
when
so many have lost
that sparking
of
describing
the sparkling best
that life
provides?

I do love my poets so, those ones, soft spoken, genteel, feeling,
using first, but never, guile, words mano-melo~harmonizing,
softening the edges so smoothly, no rough necessary
for me to protect, confounding the harsh takers,
who never think to ask, end by cradle, stroke,
don’t go below, see deeper that my nerves
are feminine, that pink is but a color,
that anyone could be love, not an
invitation, but a philosophy of
the mutuality of surrender

now you know why I write poems,
to understand better the heart human,
ferret out the chaff, the bad, for everyone else.

June 2020

“We read to know we’re not alone.”
C.S. Lewis says, as a character in the film Shadowland

~~~

my lovers mumble when they leer and clear the
assorted sordid, livres with dust jackets, spines,
and notable ideas, POV’s that dare to offend; me
thinking seeing they’re uneasily resting uneasy, for
there appears to be some scales, mountains that need
mounting before they can successful scale my
heights, a big BE WARY atmospheric global warning
signs prior to enter my magic kingdom,
quizzes  they are unassuaged they will pass
with  any color schema,
let alone flying ones…

that amuses me, ah well, a sign of my changes, when
those  days when a merely handsome man turned this
now skeptical-woman agog, and flushes of heat made
a breast beat,  a flesh and blood chin, ***, eyes, rock me
like a movie poster definition of movie poster handsome

they are smarter and when they cautiously inquire re my
diversity, a broadening array of fiction, philosophical disput-
ations, that lay and lie with me, they, and I bare skinned,
open to the ah ha! of titillating notions of human endeavor,
or British ****** mysteries, and lots and lots of history…

this commends and cerifies
my screening choices for,
when alone, I read
to know I am are not alone,
for my thoughts need hot
company, and my caress
of divers words diverges,
in so many directions, I need
assurance, insurance that the
men who wish to bed me are
capable of making love to my
mind, where stimulus and that
they can feed me endlessly a
variety of bouchées amusantes,
that wet my appetite for their
entirety

should they fail,
to for want of trying,
I comfort them obliquely,
informing them that
*”We need to read to know we are not alone!”