typo of the first degree
meant to type passed,
better to letter the error,
write the poem you knew
was the one of the litter inside,
stewing & brewing in the internal
of you, regardless of the woulda
shoulda coulda of poetic eye~hand~brain
trinity of discombobulation…

we passed a 110% good-god-
another-glorious-day—perfect
in every aspect of deep respect,
lazing in sun and shade, no
matter, for the cool customer
of gentling breeze comforts
the global populace and each
draws comfort, deposits solace,
from the timeless day that slowly
slips inside us, a blessing for the
senses, that are inadequate to
praise it properly, ‘cept with a
nod of appreciation for the great
blessing that on us has been
bestowed…

we read, I write, bring her a
coffee unasked, for the chip
secreted by me in her temporal
lobes, lobs me a silent alarm:
snacks required!

we heartily dinner debate,
turkey burgers or mushrooms better?  
Bun, No Bun?
Salad ingredients  consumes a
de minimus 5 minutes before the
holy silence of our total environment,
soothes the phony discordiality of our
pretense, that there are two sides here,
not just hers, no matter what🙄
any diplomatic observer might
think…

the bunnies sense our presence,
emerging from the cool dark
of the shaded burrows dug beneath
our redwood deck, & get fed baby carrots,
that they pretend not to see until the babies
are summoned, from beneath the ledge!!!

the deck, that is now in its forty fifth year,
grows ancient stronger with a good annual,
steam blasting face lift, bettering with age,
keeping pace with the creatures resting on it,
just above the bunnies below’s steerage deck,
though the humans graceful age with no
artifices or outside help, except the air,
its salty flavoring, and the panoramic view’s
total encompassed comforting…

so the day passes, and it’s added
to our cull of perfection, distinctly
better than the day prior but who
can be sure, not I, for the poems
come easy, the music delivers delight,
the books read, additive to the engine
of the human body of know-more-ledge,
weighty matters, but zero caloric, and
thus, well deserved and served for dinner’s
chatter banter + desert with caramel M&M’s (1)

and the poet signals that the poem near complete,
and the trad sign off, today unnecessary, no need to query,

Where is Shelter?

for we are all a day wiser, and smile,
the answer before and inside us,
and the only open question remaining,
can heaven be better, and we secret wink,
cause the answer is. too obvious to we restees,
here, here is heaven, and go back to giving thanks
for our lucky stars…

What will the horizon bring us?
I wonder,
Can you feel my heart?
In dawns of days gone,
In coming eves of twilight;
When I said
I shall always love you,
I meant it.
And days now start
Within a sky where there is no sun,
Within the dark of night, no stars;
Inside of me there is light
All formed from the memories
Of two kids in love, young.
Spiderwebs still entrap
Yet the venom is tapped-
How I wish I was still poisoned.

~A grimy, grimace of a grungy summer day~

Good Morning!


let the un-fun sting,
as the ardor never begins,
forecast a grimy grimace of a lousy
day ahead, at best, a clouded mess,
just to differentiate between bereaved
periods of rain, that train you in windows~
avoidance, for a grunge gloomy invades
all six senses (including the brain)
where all are concatenated),
and you can actually feel
the pallor descending
from brow to the bow
of your container,
feet swelling,

and you
in addition
to avoiding windows,
put some towels out over
all the mirrors, lest your pallor,
ah,

too late,
the grim grimace of grunted day
arrived even before the poem
was conceived, I deceived,
once more, the bore drill
drives a tubular of
despondency into
my spinal seam

Whether Weather Wither Whine Wailing
*****-Nilly  Wade  Why Why Writer

Why, Writer?

The day starts okay,

normal, like yesterday, just --


slightly different.

I close my eyes, and sleep, my rest earned
The day's done, let tomorrow itself worry
If my eyes yet open, lest filled with songs
I lay still, and let the day itself worry
Thus I rise soul renewed spirit uplifted
Before dawn, at noon, the next day, or never

What keeps the dark away?
And keeps the wick alight?
Let's create a poem a day
It is not that difficult to write

Doesn't need to be a masterpiece
Just need some time and consistency
It doesn't even need to rhyme
Just meanings upon meanings, and words within words

Use puns, irony, simile, or hyperbole
Tools to use at your disposal are many

Free form or haiku,
Just write, time and time again
Embrace consistency

Write without hesitation, but be sure to re-read
For mistakes can be made, and improvements can be done
Not chasing for perfection, just a product pleasing to the eye
May it contribute to the reader, more than it did to the writer

Now come on, follow that blinking cursor and type
Grab your respective writing utensils and weave the words
These poems ain't writing themselves
And the day is not done

Dusk is a promise of Dawn
As long as Life is LORD
And night can be long
As it was once years ago
A day in many thousands
An utterly unworldly terror
Or briefly: Old to New Moon
Or Three Days and Nights
Evil prophesies and rejoices
At Dusk, Night without End
Indeed it shall be, a Shadow
Of Day, A Day without End

roundabout poem (another poem, another day)

<>

the notion punches into my mouth when
chilling , deleting and wasting time *pro=ductively
(professionally ducking responsibilities)
with no home to go to, but to write with purposeful
meandering, in a roundabout manner,
on a Saturday, luxury~leisurely in bed with runs
for asiago bagels and blue mountain coffee,
and wondering why you would read this, and
losing my debate internal & and infernal if
this is worth my time, nonetheless the urging
is only purging by clicking clacking on a keyboard,
inviting you to join me  under my cozy
floral coverlet, and to enjoy my pastoral view,
of water, women and why not, a trilogy of

factorials (or is it factorals? permutations or combinations) *another poem, another day)

panoramic bleeding view unceasingly changing,
reflecting god’s mood swings or an atheist’s humbuggery)

and women lies beside me, guilty pleasure, mine or hers😉, becoming part, a parcel upon the land/waterscape/escape, with sun rays invisible yet blindingly make me glinting and squinting,
and wet grass, dripping trees,  and going round and round, so
stray thots evolving/revolving and thus
this roundabout poem deserves a decent burial,
so I thank it, thank you, thank her, and the sky
and the glisten of a wet drenched everything,
a Saturday~Sabbath on which a poem was delivered
from me within, in a cesarean eruption,
my child blessed, sent to you with gratitude,
a much underrated emotion, but which occupies
me frequently when your days go dimmer,
and the

mind is sharply focused/used on about
what is value,
valuable, and what shall be valued on this damp
rainfall rainfull wordfull wonderful momentary
escapery into being together with…you, silly!

writ  pre-noon,
Saturday~Sabbath,
(on S.I., by the Sound’s calming waters
where the poems fall from trees on a glider
of wet leaves, or fly by on a modest mph breeze,
looking for human sense to grab aholt of for
canning and preservation…come see for yourself….*)