I saw a farmer fly a plane
Above the clouds, I saw his hand
Lift up the burden in his arm
In the air, he tossed the seeds

The swift cold breeze headed South
Dragged them downwards to the ground
Each was scattered all around
To various sections of the land

A seed fell down the good soil
It grew healthy, nice and strong
The sun looked down, it looked up
Water sprinkled; it received

A seed fell down the grasslands
It grew weak, sad and stubborn
The sun looked down, it looked down
Water sprinkled; it got none

A seed fell down the stones
It grew speedy, tall but weak
The sun looked down, it trembled
Water sprinkled; was too late

A seed fell astray by the wayside
It stayed asleep and sprouted none
The sun looked down, and water sprinkled
The fowl passed by and ate the seed.

Our hands paint intimate conversations
on the canvas of our flesh.
We speak without word or voice,  
guided by the whims of our breath.
In the ebony of this night, I am not afraid
Because my heart is bound to yours
with a ribbon of November silk.  
I consider for a moment, the way
your flesh responds to my touch.
The moonlit ebb and flow
of shadows upon your skin,
glittered with sparks of ecstasy.
Lying beside you, I close my eyes
And you turn towards the cave of my neck,
taking your rightful place in my arms.
My heart quickens in anticipation
of the intimate moment when
Our breathing becomes one and
I am unsure of where I begin
and end in this embrace and
I do not care because I am certain
at this moment I do not need to exist
Apart from you.  
The chemistry of our breath swells
with the nectar of dreaming  
and I catch a waning glimpse
of a glowing butterfly fluttering
in the aether above us.
I will never untie this November silk
to loosen the tether between us.
I do not want to be alone
in the ebony of this  night
without a word to say,
Without someone whose heart
is bound to mine.

No one calls me by name anymore
I'm the Poppy Man to most
At least that's how most folks know me

I've been selling poppies for the legion
Since 1946
Let's see...yep...it was 46
Went over in 43 at 17 years of age
Home in 45, and yep...46
Same spot too.
There's been two owners here at Danny's. Funny thing though....
neither was called Danny. Turns out Danny was the brother of the original owner, got shot down over Germany, so they named the place after him.
I guess that's why they let me come here and sell poppies every year.

Good thing.
Now, I'm getting up there, they let me sit inside the door. Have a nice little table for myself, and they keep my cup full.
I start selling November 1st, at precisely 11 o'clock. That's just the way it should be....11 o'clock.

Over the years, I've put up with wind, rain, snow and I've always held my post. Lost a few poppies in the wind one time, and the funny thing was...people came and paid me for them afterwards. Told me they found them blowing up the street, figured they were mine. Funny things that people do.

I'll tell you 'bout the name The Poppy Man. It started in 1952. A young mother and her daughter were inside having lunch, and I heard the daughter going on about saving change for the Poppy Man. I guess, I was the Poppy Man.
One of the waitresses put a sign up by the register saying "don't forget to save your change for The Poppy Man"....and it's kinda stuck.
That little girl came back every day with her mother, dropped her pennies in and saluted. You know the way kids do...hand open and all. I guess I owe the name to her.
I've collected lots of memories over the years, most of which I can only smile about now. If I start talking about them, I'd just tear up and you wouldn't get the whole story...so, I'll keep them to myself.
I'm a bit of a celebrity in these parts I guess.
Teachers bring their classes to me, every year to get their poppies. They always send me nice letters too, saying thanks Poppy Man. Cute little drawings, and big printing. Nowadays, I appreciate the big printing more and more.
Over the years, I've collected pennies, dimes, nickels, the usual suspects, bus tickets, candy wrappers, subway tokens, whatever someone had in their pocket at the time. I've seen it all in my tin.
The last few years, I guess since about 1997 or so, the cadets send someone down to stand with me for a while during my stint here.
Good kids mostly, dedicated, and with the same determined look I think we all had back in 43 when I went over.
Most of us didn't make it back, I'm one of the lucky ones. Some who did, never came back right if you know what I mean. But, that's all I'm gonna say about that.
There's only 5 of us left now from the old regiment. I can still see their faces when I shut my eyes....young, virile, strong. I miss them all.
I guess that's why I do it. Sell the poppies every year. It's for them. And for the new kids. New soldiers, new wars, it never changes in that way...just a different style of fighting.
Every now and then though, you know I hear that old bugler tuning up his bugle, and I think "not yet...I'm not ready to have The Last Post played for me"...."not yet".
So, that's about it for me, The Poppy Man....everyone knows me, and I'm easy to find ....just head to Danny's, I'll be at the table at the front.
Don't forget now....save your change for the poppy man.

The memory of your lips, stained in a stubborn
shade of November is my favorite affliction.
Frosted absinthe dripped from your tongue,
spilling from those November lips, forming the words
which fertilized the garden of my anxieties.
In the nocturne of my imagination, past the perennials
of blue memory, I still nurture an orchid of deep
reverence for the irreparable manner in which
we damaged each other.
I endeavor to tend to this garden, to finally take care
of it.  Of me.  But all I manage to do is **** out my confidence,
settling for the deeply rooted progress of paralysis.
I regret letting you drink from my cup.  
Absinthe did not mix well with the curve of your complexity.
When it spilled, I watched it drip from your mouth,
knowing, with no uncertainty, that you would slither into my mind.

I carry an imbalance in my blood
That affects my brain
That makes me feel
What is not real
And so I call its bluff
I deny its anger
Its sweating
Its annoyance
You are not me
But sometimes it comes in sadness
And its darkness almost drowns me
I was the one built a swimmer
So I keep going
Praying for the shore

archeologists brush dust away from bones,
like memories from empty homes.
here i sit among rubble and ruin,
amidst broken picture frames strewn.

this is the scene i remember the most.
my words are written, jagged,
in a notebook forgotten, ragged am i
as my eyes shine like broken glass.

my bones turn to rust, to dust.
i brush away my remains from this grave
of a home i no longer remember.
among portraits i am no longer a part of.

november comes around with its bells,
bellows loud that i am not welcome here.
it brings fallen petals of blood red rust.
i am stained with agony and painful lust.

for a time that does not forgive,
and as the cold sweeps in i know,
november is the time of sin, for me.
i was born in a time that does not forgive.

the picture frames will not let me back in.

i / am / absent / here

Dean has been sleeping on my couch,
creating mountains of trash and ***** clothes.
It’s been hard to keep people around
Tears and broken hearts are swept in dark corners and under rugs

There was one year, I thought Dean had left for good.
He had been gone for 5 months
and I could feel a smile grow on my face.
I found a lover to bloom with,
to grow old with.
My heart, shining across valleys and through the night.
That was, until November, when Dean came back.

November night so cold it shook our bones
Our friends out in the grass, singing new age songs
You kept talking about the stars;
I couldn’t stop staring at your eyes.
Who needs lights when the moon was so bright,
Even the insects felt something in the air that night.
In the light, it’s funny how far it seemed
When you sat by me on the couch
We watched a movie that made you laugh,
But all i could think was how close you were to me.
I was left behind to clear my mind,
I had no space for dreams
How could i dream when the only thing running through my head
Was your laugh, the grass, and the stars?
Now November ends but my heart was left in it,
my heart, your laugh, and the stars.