Mr. Gibson penetrates my poem, my paining senses,
"When raw grief turns into aching music" by witch,
he notates my inundation (1), a summary succinct,
essencing my poem to its bare ***** cri de cœur,
it's comforting to be gotten, grasped, felt & taken,
for ten out of nine, times, when I compose there
is music aching in my muscles and in my perused
words, begging to be read in a thorough, careful way,
and he honors them thusly, and I am deeply touched,
at our conjuring conjunction of connection, a phrase
worthy of a poem in and of itself, but
let someone else,
perhaps him, perhaps you, write it, I am contented:

to be heard,
to be believed,
to be by, relieved,
to being understood
to be felt, given and +
taken, and given a great
musical measure of comforting…

in summary too,
here is where,
I thank you.



nml
9/12/25
5:15am

so, we all, grand and great nieces and nephews,
aunts and baby, fathers and mothers, nanas & poppys;
pick your preferred identifier; gather round to worship
him, but end of day, color us tired, and early to book & to bed

long drive, long day, to get to our
tiny slice of heaven on earth, a
no-points-required destination,
and the baby, with his roly~poly effervescent
charms and delights; oh boy! he's going to be
trouble for the ladies later in life;

he's a sound sleeper; twice-a-day napper;
great eater, and I inquire to the sky, can I?
order half a dozen more on Amazon,
exactly the same? is there any limit at all?

but its 3:56 am, the new master is fast asleep, the
funny smelling old man, tiptoes to the sunroom
sanctuary, bursting with three, count-'em three,
poem hooks in his convection invention mind

and now that the artisanal dishwasher, that's him~too,
is done, his two loads, yet he awakes to put the urgencies.
to bed, write his thank you note poems to his fellow poets
for gifting him insights and of fig tarts pies, that are
invading his head,
     yet to to be,
written, including this child's future,
who he, will write by himself

and this little ditty, though pretty, is just an appetizer,
to a beautiful life ahead, and substantive poems yet
to be written and hopefully read....

the baby cries out. a geschrei,^ but back to his
dreams of strange houses, funny cribs, and
senses going crazy with new sights and smells,
and instantly back to sleep, my god that's some
perfect baby!

and the old writer, the would-be-poet, knows when
not to belabor the point, and there's work to be done,
good weather requested, ferries to ride, perhaps, even,
brioche french toast for breakfast and of course,
miles to go…
    
                                                                ­                 nml
4:18am
9/12/25
Shelter Island Keep