~my poet friends and friendly poets~

(written in anger, then sorrow,
tinged with regret, but in the end one
has no choice but to forgive and forget)

<•>

the ghood poet knows no boundaries,
lays down tracks of a New England
pond of nirvana,
or across Siberian froze wastelands,
another
salves the wounds of dying soldiers,
and gives away comfort to the dying
with the freeing oxygen of
comforting words

the world of self,
that thing we know best,
thus encouraged by the textbooks,
well,
to have at it, plays whacamole
with your  owned flirtatious emotions,
none too imperious or low down or
garbage dump *****, that yet
cannot be validated by exploratory
over-the-line words pithy

even the florid, tiresome nickel & dime ing
rhyming scheming crutches,
we so oft employ,
yields up stuff that ain’t half bad,
periodically,
though, the blunt of words well crafted
needs
no such delimiting amusing playthings
or imprisoning
I-am-amoebic-pen-tata-meter

take you inspiration from here and there,
the proverbial deep dark of the mind’s recessed corridors of
corrupted consciousness,
or, the
contrail whiffs of the steaming steaming of the contradictions of a
newborn first day’s contrast of-
the wet dew on toes cooling,
while the simultaneous sun warms all
the cheeks,
heats the blood with
a thanks-god-I’m-alive
overwhelmingly overall tickling,

or
not.

write with the tools you have, but keep
them well sharpened, with
insight and revelation,
exploring the rain’s windowed
navigable rivulets,
the musical tempos
of waves and their multi-mystical variations,
and the readers will come like
pilgrims to your  holy land,
wearied and yet so delightedly hopeful,
with tingling contrasting dictions,
to capture and release,
by shattering any
stale notions of adulation
will bring your
audience of holy voyagers and voyeurs
to imbibe so deeply your creativity for the quenching, and the
amen gasp escaping tween
their lips is just a simple holy,
gentling thank you

discard the bad words as ornery and
distracting, veiled in pomposity and
highfaluting, self-saluting, arrogance of
those deeming themselves critical thinkers,
who thrive in the low mud flats of
self-pretension and the reassurance
of a mirror’s reassurance

write straight from the heart,
fill our eyes with the
complexity of the simple
and
grant us the write to share,
in your humanity

craft the work
and
the work
will repay
so stealthily
by secretly
crafting you




                                   nml

to
elicit the secrets of my senses, never to miss the little miracles, my impoverished ones might not intuit or recognize, though
they, si, very alive, for all have left me
new words

to ***** my existence into high gear emotive,
this, their very motive and together we are
in

in each other’s motion perpetual
whirling whorls
of worldwidewords

Disclaimer:
an unintended very long poem
from a very long walk,
hoping it might come
to rest within your
heart
but feel free to go your own,
another direction
<•>

“Another writer told me a few weeks ago of his New England Yankee mother,
who believed there are no problems
that aren’t made at least slightly better
by a long walk, and
none that are made worse.“
<•>

a moderate walker am I,
on the Promenade,
hard by the wide & narrow strait,
a tidal estuary, that divides our urban island
from its suburban Longer cousin,

this my path, most oft traversed,
a time spent usually creating,
reciprocating verses from a
copulating mind

every walking expedition is
an-in-transit composition,
an enchantment by a song
anointed, appointed and a
derivation
of a song about
going home

the last of my family
to be buried, l,
to be interred,
finally grounded,
in a park of cedar trees,
next to my immediates,
for can’t think of any other place
that might, would willingly,
not resist mightily, taking me in

it will thy will that they bury me
there if they can get permission
from the heavenly authorities,
but told the betting odds
are 3 to 1
against,
the Lords of song not so happily
with the quantity and the quality
of my unseeded spilled,
of my un-indeeded actions,
they were not entirely
rainbow colored,
some very berry blackened,
urgently misdelivered
with no justifiable delicacy
warranting memorizing or
further discussion

most likely will continue
to remain a pedestrian,
though unlikely I’ll have to
look both waysides before
crossing over

I’ll carry copies of  my scriptures,
psalms and even my one and only
flawless poem in hand,
wrote here so long ago,
s small proof that my theorems
were not
always entirely wrong,
but my replica action figurines,
were posed and struck,
were sufficient evidences
that my overall demeanor
of demeaned marks,
were negative numbered,
irony, they were unlettered
and ungraded,
mostly average, only worthy
of a place in the sadeyed lowlands

So walk I shall,
hoping they give me decent
walking & wailing shoes,
a warm suit,
a fedora or a watch cap,
cause it is more than chilly
down by the uninhabited riversides

this thinning vision is not
tinged with
any tingling regret,
nor sorrow,
what I did, what I wrote,
every word mine alone,
the way I lived,
walking solitaire is
something grown quite accustomed,
and a pretty fair pre~text of a
judgement coming
down

on the morrow,
will walk with no
measurements needed,
not speed, nor distance,
not counting crows or any other
unenumerated birds of a feather,
those on a wire or a river railing
spying observers watching,
who will go unnumbered,
as will all my
steps of no value

so this poem’s title absolute right,
no needs for solving
for absolutions,
was never ever sorry for
taking a walk,
and there are no more vocabulary
modifiers,
unneeded words left, like,

but nonetheless

only
just don’t know how
this river poem got
so long

genuine

so many ordinary bees in our vocab hive,
workers, important, but rarely seen,
some never, or rarely trotted out,
no-fresh air, we just must be too too, too
busy, busy

had occasion to employ said titular
queen word recently, a love story
that strummed a chord of the
randomness of good love,
genuine slipped out unexpectedly,
this word, a crowning modifier to a
love poem herein written

truly a word not used too often,
perhaps because we live in a time
when it is a quality rare, though
much celebrated, like so much,
has becomes a debated talking point

but genuine is not hard to be
uncovered, it has a warmth heater
generator internal, a signal signal,
that is hard to be disguised or
mistaken

but our sensitivities are dulled,
easily misled, by the shouting and
the latent bitterness that runs through
the veins of our ordinary conversations,
making it more difficult to believe our
five sensory discernments, to what is,
and what is not,

but love, perhaps, is a genuine genetic,
at a cellular level quality that has evolved over millennia, so easier to spot, it’s heated hot, and awhy a love story should be the focus causation of my happiness, that it
yet thrives, and functions and supplies
we humans, a chance to see, to believe,
that genuine yet exists, inward and
unwarped, within we ordinaries

~Jan. 9, 2025~NYC
<•>
The words of Walt Whitman (1)



~~~~
The origin of all poems!

Oh what a sweeping promise
does Whitman, proffer,
you to entice, to succor.
ease out from within yourself,
that which is therein ready,,
to organize
what be the
fermenting stack of seeded cells of
fomenting
stacked
multiple
simultaneous
observations,
poetry lurking, thine owned senses,
a catalyst cataloging constantly
and you happily despair  to
capture, retain, s u s t a i n,
the pieces of a whole that
knowing only you possess,
that only you can
perfect as the combo
expression of
your
pre~owned assembly
as a solitary protagonist, witness,
and audience!

Understand the origins of the poem,
because it is original to you,
comprehension of this principle,
means that you will never be
starved for inspiration,
record the ordinary and the peculiar,
the off drink that when mixed,
shaken and stirred
that only you
can pour and better yet ,
s h a r e!