who can hold the wind in his fist?
~for Ken Pepiton~
your poems full of hints and innuendo,
most of them I don’t get, of stuff, I don’t know, no clue,
my education impoverished, which is why lucky me,
I’m getting my viral signed check for 1200 bucks,
yes siree
but some college educated sharp eyed feller,
said look, see how Ken keen, has the bestus, the real tuff stuff,
hidey holed in the footnotes purposed for you to miss it,
****, he was right, cause I found what you hided!
<>
who can hold the wind in his fist?
an inquisition worthy of a thousand answers,
my Roman slave cautions forbearance, whispering in
my one remaining unconquered Gauguin ear, just the best,
these time of times, hanging heavy, be sweet, leave out the chaff
I, cannot hold the wind in my fist,
for it has always befriended, going
over my life-coarsened skin,
through my-stubbled fingers,
cooling and christening, constant teasing kissing
as it was born anew, a first time poem,
it was meant to be unkept and unkempt
you might want to hold on, keep it, for its touch is indeed
that of a first time lady loved, savoring the cool,
and the heat simultaneous, no fool us, empowering,
the wind forever runs freely, between, never sticking,
going around my body, into my open orifices,
sometimes caressing, sometimes troubling,
its power leaving us atrembling, moved, straighter or bent over
those who created wind and water had many reasons,
but their first purpose was to constant enliven the human mind
with the softest message that true freedom is never bounded,
nature’s song is refrained, “man, be unrestrained,”
it’s majesty then greatest,
men may fool themselves with lines and divisions,
Earth’s best best seen in its unconstrained, searching character
