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Left Foot Poet Oct 2017
the sighs in our chest that emanate from a different kind of
breast cancer*

wrote these words prior,
then, certainly uncertain of the exactitude of their meaning,
clearly unclear of their useable intention,
yet the too real wrathful sensations
that inspired their caesarian creation,
the sigh's very own exhalations,
floatations devices for the interned-no-longer emotions,
escapees via the crevasses of chest ribs splitting open,
return to glory thanking me for freedom given

let posterior eloquence suffice, let brevity guide
my self's interior diagramming,
lengthy explications and deep analytics, I leave to you,
the astonished medical examiner and the horrified mortician

chest ripped, my hand reinserted, the blighted scourges,
the abscessed cancers, the obsessive relentless cankers,
asking shamelessly why have I returned to the crime scene

the sighs are air-borne, ready for air plucking,
all cloud seeded, deeded for poets to seize and commence,
to plant and invent, a mountain top trickle to a mighty
river of poems to be recovered and discovered,
unrehearsed and unleashed

but you and I have unwished, unfinished business,
as of yet unwritten, one last poem to honor our
mutually assured destruction,
for this day will be
rewritten differently
this one, a simple script, a written pyramid,
built by an Israelite, who by command, perforce
mustn't but does write prophecies
that may or may not come to being,
poem pyramids,
surely none will not survive Darius's desert sandstorms
ravaging kisses of time's forgetting
10:02am


https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2141695/my-day-will-be-different-today/
Left Foot Poet Nov 2017
for the 111 yr. old young lady from Mars
<•>

fluids in, fluids out  

wake up at midnight, lips, throat, even eyes, California Death Valley parched, white crusted-stuck together,
it takes Poland Spring water from the Northeast to unlock the throat, ****** not sipped, from a plastic gourd  the chilling wetness slap to the body and brain screams metaphor, poem in there somewhere,

so what if it's spat-past midnight,
isn't this one of those soul-criticality's,
staying hydrated, (is) disco staying alive  

make sense to you?
the older I get, thirstier I am, could be I'm drying/dying out from the inside out,  
doctors clueless, but then again they don't reveal all they see out of poetic professional courtesy and they are tired of
yeah yeah yeah,
my professional courtesy answer to their  dire warnings repetitious  

tonight tho the metaphor runs strong like a mountain stream,
a Mt. Marcy beginning trickle growing into a mighty Hudson,
and the driving urge to drink, simple replenishment, birth fluid  
is strong transformed into words

water is words, the water is wide, the poems hydrate what's left on the inside, and the metaphor transforms itself again

water is words, words are water,  
the difference huge, the difference minuscule,
both pour, both refresh like a mother's body fluids,
all for one, one for all, and as closing time grows nigh,
staying-hydrated is primate

place a new cold bottle in readiness for my
3 o'clock feeding
11/14/17 12:04am
Left Foot Poet Nov 2017
The Allusionists (Mary Winslow and Jeff Steir)

these two allusionists  **(not illusionists!)


composition is a criminal sentencing, a full-time sensitizing,
a never ending t/rue seeing, recalling, photography by word.

I am a career criminal.  I know.

these two retranslate by digging into word wells and
well hid storage closets under stairs so that we,
the not-in-attendance may envision their sightings with
two hands clutching, comprehending almost better than
the one who is actually there.  

for our version, the one they provide is,
coffee with cream,
scotch with a  beer chaser, tea with honey,
all to be, sipped slow, so
the hot frost on my the chest, infiltrating nostrils,
Vaporub-spreads slow and easy, brainward.  

the allusionists.

the habitual employers of this
specific filter,
(word weavers, I call them behind their backs),
weaving is not in my eternally planned skill set.  

I do so admire their tapestries
that guilt alone demands tribute and obeisance
and this poor imitation.  

I do so admire their tapestries.
November 25, 2017. 11:07 AM.
Left Foot Poet Nov 2017
surprise surprise I read between the lines,
gobbling up the bread crumbs youse guys leave in;
yours and hers in the edible empty spaces and
hints and clues from other lines from other places

grew up in a family of storytellers, historians and book writers:
we did not play Scrabble in my house; was too contentious,
and besides, someone excelled in literary obscura and
Ancient Poets,
which made it most unfaira

instead we read the dictionary for fun and
broke into the unlocked local library at night,
were called The Borrowers in our little town,
I think affectionately

The FBI employed my momma,
the Original Literary Profiler,
cause she could see the signature of the same writer,
no matter how many names or disguises he tried,
in everything they had written

  the skill was transferred genetically,
which is visible in all my escapades poetically:
I live here under many names so superciliously,
but I never have yet, fooled myself^
I did read a first chapter of my sister's book published in a newspaper many years ago; thinking it was a well written review,   when I discovered the true author's identity, my family teased me mercilessly
11-29-17 13:18 est

^ sometimes I read an oldie and think not bad, which  makes laugh when I say out loud,  
did I write that?
Left Foot Poet Jan 2018
2am Friends

winter has set the boundage, bars of chill, escape-urge killers,
self-imprisoned by our ruthless timidity, that both comforts yet,
worse violates our truthful, unwanted inadmissible-neediness by
purging the touches and the knowing kindage, this then,
this preface, your reminding of-as-of-yet untouched,
half-invitational, half-regret, half-cursed, whole red need for
2am friends
to fill the void that poems can n’ere fill

1/1/18
spoken while standing on one left foot.
Left Foot Poet Jan 2018
composition is a criminal sentencing,
a full-time sensitizing,
a never ending true~rue seeing,
recalling,  every photograph my eyes did see,
by word.

I am a career criminal.  I know.
nov. 29,2017
Left Foot Poet Feb 2018
I used to live alone before I knew you

so
of the mundane tragedies endlessly writ
repeat rinse repeat
repeat
how awfully awful
is the complaining without cessation
of busted everything;

recall the the doctor’s office sign
"no cure for the broken heart here"

so when I hear a Buckley sing
the words of the Cohen, High Priest of Songs,
I, a broken hallelujah,
smile with recognition
  though the true cure is
yet  still forever being researched

patience is a patient within me,
for my muses and their endless,
poking aching whispers of write, write, write, right,
they are the company I keep,
they are the company that sweeps me up
I, a broken hallelujah

they are not the desired flesh, true,
that affirms confirms and denies me
denying my needy frailties
but for now,
mine company to keep,
so when we do meet and
you greet me with a
tell me about your previous lovers
as you humanly must

will recite my poems from
from before I knew you
Left Foot Poet Feb 2018
what does the W stand for


my 2:00am friend?

left feet touching and yet I am clueless, unsure in what language I should compile the possibilities and

reread my poem and shotgun taken aback

you make my urgency feel so trifling

and I read your are back but you are more gone for,
love’s  misfortune has you, graced,
like a hole in the barbed wire fence,
had bled you dry and let the seeds for
the next planting go astray;
this is comprehended for my fences
are so busted in so many places that
all the animals escaped only to return
at feeding time, their curiosity of the outside world
limited

and W has limited infinite answers

for there are no names that begin with W
for farmers in our native tongues

suspect if you are reading this it must be after 2:00,
indeed it’s 4:07am, and the puzzlement is face flushing,
annoying and curiously intriguing...

and i remain,
“sincerely” yours

L.F. Poet




p.s. thanks for reading my stuff
Left Foot Poet Feb 2018
the disagreement palpable
gotta seriously disagree
the reversal is the course proper
*** backwards you are, right back at ya
forward forward, never confuse what’s past infused
never go back to old, it’s a dead weight carrying
the past is now a pretense, what we saw, believed and wrote
shuck that mao shirt, those cowboy boots, older vista visions,
the capsule you saw gone immediately to forward the blessing
get some slim jeans, fancy sneakers, a new way of seeing seeking

then the music muse interferes interfaces!

There's a feeling I get when I look to the west,
And my spirit is crying for leaving.
In my thoughts I have seen rings of smoke through the trees,
And the voices of those who stand looking.

Ooh, it makes me wonder,
Ooh, it really makes me wonder.

And it's whispered that soon, if we all call the tune,
Then the piper will lead us to reason.
And a new day will dawn for those who stand long,
And the forests will echo with laughter.

If there's a bustle in your hedgerow, don't be alarmed now,
It's just a spring clean for the May queen.
Yes, there are two paths you can go by, but in the long run
There's still time to change the road you're on.
And it makes me wonder.

“Your head is humming and it won't go, in case you don't know,
The piper's calling you to join him,
Dear,  can you hear the wind blow, and did you know
Your stairway lies on the whispering wind?”

*exactly
Left Foot Poet Feb 2018
commissioned by and for those
who constant comment on my
            poems, my indenture


moi,
handy with verbal weapons,
cut down a few trees for my necessities,
duels or dams, written Odyssey long and Tombstone OK quick,
who was it said, I lay down verse cause it’s my daddy’s curse?

why it was me and thus the free and easy flowing from the obligatory urges, cannot be disobeyed or disturbed, ignored,
this one, inherent, so fast comes the flow steady, unbending,
the six easy pieces come up half heads and three tails

it is just dictation from the *mental musing committee
and  as far as they’re concerned, they’re the tator and I’m the tot, the
dic who just has to get it down like I knowed it complete
before they decided to speak it

ain’t deprecating and ain’t saying that a thousand or more poe’s ain’t time used well, but this one has a pale, almost Elizabethan white powdery dusted pallor, caused it spilled out in 10 minutes
with no time to get tanned or tamed

to the skilled individuated commentators
who Tennessee volunteer their skill, sight, their time, unbidden to savvy and to savage say what they see beneath the surface,
a place I’d prefer not to visit or even, just hang,
lest I find out what the heck I actually meant!

hats off to the reactors and the actors
who write their own lines
pithy and for pity sake,
hot and cold, youthful and old,
who speak without long considered pauses
and so often write in two lines the summary
of hours labor and the product of decades,
of the good and bad, the thirty one flavors in my mind stored

hats off to the gallant and the uncredited uncrowned,
who are the validators and the gladiators who enter the arena with but a short sword and yet subjugate the army of
the many verses and see close up and offer freely their
heart warming frostings over my écritures

you gladden an old man’s heart,
by the hearth, and egg him on
asking without asking for but one mort~more,
with the unintentional inspired commissions
that their comments instigate

you lay and slay me down repeatedly
and I ‘m held harmless
but not wordless for so oft have I exclaimed:

anything you say can and will be used by me
in the court of poetry**

the next to the bottom line is this:

those who comment commend condemn are the extenders
and should claim legit the greater credit

<•>
2/20/18 2:00 ~ 2:10am.

writ in a single seating without hesitation and consideration
the sojourn a quick ten minutes and with thanks and bowed head to all that commentate on my given words, a hearty god bless and accept my pitiful thumbs up for annotating isn’t a skill in my possession or my permitting; thank god for emoji's and icons and
XOXOXO's
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