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Poetoftheway Feb 7
4:45am Sabbath Eve
~for she knows who~

2/7/25
<•>
the price of eggs is mundane,
controlled by supply and demand,
and the human need for
pleasure and pain,
delivered by merely breathing

what you are sensing
is a staple
that is unique and yet-ubiquitous,
entree always calculable
with math

With X being your financial
limitations, you can/cannot
afford
the pleasure or the pain
of eggs, especially the
Omega-3 Cage Free Vegetarian
Growth Hormone-Antibiotic
and Pesticides Free,
you so
Lazarus yearn to be free to buy,
but you’re free still
to buy and swallow the cheapest
eggs and still live another day

BUT THE PRICE OF POETRY!

Dear God, it’s beyond costly,
beyond mundane
it is pleasure and the pain,
in combination,
irreplaceable and un substitutable,
and happily
affordable and free
Incalculable and Unlimited
so unlike eggs

for I speak
of & to
your very soul

I would not die if I
never was to enjoy
an egg in any form ever;
but

if I-would
never write nor read another
poem, even then, I still would not-die,
but if only, and yet,
one could, one must
at the very least


live a life poetic

seeing and appreciating
the mysterious in/of life
the simplest complexity
of a stolen kiss,
the inescapable high
of one more spectacle
of morning sunrise
and the mourning meaning
of an evenings sunset


the precise mathematics of life
that is imprecisely inherent in it all,
of all that is
inherent in out
be~ing
and all that is
with~in
& ab~out us,


is recorded by our senses
preserved by memory
sometimes well, and sometimes not!

so we write to preserve it
better
in poems, music & paint

try to keep
the quantity of love and truth
given to us by family and friend,
in your heart+soul

but perhaps somethings
mathematically unmeasurable,
are harder to keep close by,
but this element of
the life poetic is corporeal
is measurable
determinate
effected
by the

unlimited availability of the
poetic life you
can choose to live
and the words
in your possess
you
can choose too

if
one has
to keep it
closer still


if you so choose to record it
with imperfect fallible
but yet useful
words
you live forever
<•>

(^And the muse is laughing at me,
She, giggling, saying
“you see why you rise up at 4:45 AM,
Only then can you see and love
and write of your poetic life!

and you willingly would die
when egged on to the beyond-you
on that day no longer do you ask
why, where when
and how”)
finished @6:12am
Sunrise will be at  5:59am
Sunset will be at 5:21pn
both calculable & incalculable
Poetoftheway Feb 2
before commencing his third
poem of the day, to review,
reiterate, reorganize his day’s
life, and his life’s day, to establish
better value, logical priorities,

He thinks,
better to let woman sleep,
as no pressing pressures
of  decisions or choices
need be made before noon,
and another huge mug of
coffee seems logical, wise
and a prudent next step

and no sin needs forgiveness,
by the act of sleeping late

He’s torn,
between readying the
coffee machine’s unending
needs for water, beans, snd
careful waste disposal,
shaving a  2 day stubble,
and starting his next poem,
when he grins stupidly, or
stupidly grins, for clearly
he has made and an acknowledged
decision, certified by a silent
exclamation of duh!

He reassures,
his inner demons
that all will be satisfied
in no particular order as
the day is young and the
coffee hot, good and satisfying
and he can  type letters without
spilling coffee (again),  and the
world will be no worse off
or improved if he focuses
on completing this dirge

here then the third poem:

life is nothing but an
endless series of decisions,
many, most, low hanging fruit;
ironically, the big ones,, the
important one, get made quietly
without malice and forethought, by
deliberations so quiet they go
unnoticed.

At Nine o’clock, he will
wake the woman,
because he’s lonely for company,
but wisely
will bring her coffee and breakfast
in order to
soften the blow of his arousing action
Poetoftheway Jan 22
morning, Jan 21~22, 2025

*what I did for love:^
these conversations
in the dark, where
lies and smiles and
visual clues kept
hidden, so the sweet
and the sorrowful
never fully disclose-able,
or totally hid, half-sin,
half-kin to kindness

even the evening passing
pleasantries fall upon
non responsive interrogatories,
and soon wonder wanders
into the dark, hid neath
a cloaking coverlet
that frees suffocation
to cut off the freedoms
of oxygen intake to
restore and keep embers
of fine memories just
barely alive. glowing
brightest before extinguation

life’s lessons, tears pooling,
of never ending schooling
granting due to the
primary notion that
nothing is given,


nothing is granted
except that cycles
are recyclable
Recycled Conversations in the Dark: Sweetness and Sorrow poetoftheway
Poetoftheway Dec 2024
i declaim, even bellow,
as she turn the a/c to below
the below, to sleep deep,
but then the chillers
invade like an army of Orcs,
now that my body fat now
three Yules gone bye bye
(and twenty yrs too late)

N.B. (FYI: she’s typically the one with
frequently freezing appendages!)

She mocks my screaming,
you are declaring decidedly,
me to be the hottest man-nequin,
with whom
she has ever slept~in,
has bed shared, for a consistent
statiscally valid time of period,
and the proofs
she offers is by
climbing aboard
my chiller self
,
to steal my entire inner warmth,
she being a skinny shapeshifting,
luscious figure whose body temp
barely registers 98 degrees

(per Ouro device!)

i scream out loud,
     the neighbors knock,
hearing me utter in agony
“your cold body is burning me,”
which with practice
SHE~IT
has learned to ignore for i
am  but the fly to
be engorged in her
Venus fly trap,
suiting  her purposes  
happily unwittingly

She tells me once again,
baby, baby
“you’re  my heart’s desire,
set me on fire,
once is
never enough
of a man like you,
do it again,
one more time!


and believing
she suckeredme again
wiley giggles
loudly in my
blueish ear
verily verity verity
Poetoftheway Nov 2024
Be inconsistent
Change your mind, proudly
To be great, is to be misunderstood

There is always one person
you can rely upon

Read the notes,
and take the
words, and
press them
to your
flesh
.
A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines. With consistency a great soul has simply nothing to do. He may as well concern himself with his shadow on the wall. Speak what you think now in hard words, and to-morrow speak what to-morrow thinks in hard words again, though it contradict every thing you said to-day. — 'Ah, so you shall be sure to be misunderstood.' — Is it so bad, then, to be misunderstood? Pythagoras was misunderstood, and Socrates, and Jesus, and Luther, and Copernicus, and Galileo, and Newton, and every pure and wise spirit that ever took flesh. To be great is to be misunderstood.

Ralph Waldo Emerson, Self-Reliance: An Excerpt from Collected Essays
Poetoftheway Nov 2024
But time makes you bolder
Even children get older
And I'm gettin' older, too

lyric from “Landslide” by Stevie Nicks

<>
climbing stairs, balancing two breakfasts,
two fill-to-brim-rims warning sloshing,
earbuds in place, always,
lest the news
interrupts and plunges me first thing into
moody murderous disheartened failure,
and Miz Minx Nicks lays me low

this lyric knocks me to rock,
there and then,
consequences be ******, the unstoppable
lyric rocks grinding me to an
immovable halt,
all spills,
don’t care, for the need to scream-
bleed-finally
write to understand why these
a l w a y s words arrest my soul

children
the most costly thing anyone can
create,
the lost, the found
the ones in the grave way too early,
and the ones who were born
knowing better,

children
whose inviolable sense of
totally righteousness
makes forgiveness
disabled, disallowed
for the poor clueless fools
them who naively know~nothings
who chose to raise them

here I am not getting,
no, unsteadily unreadily
too late
am older,
up-to the shaking-head age
so unexpected,
almost ridiculous
untimely unthinkable
‘cept for:

it’s an impossiblity ~
and just
don’t understand this injustice
perpetrated upon this
unsuspecting and in denial,
sorrowful old man


so I weep
on the steps so steep,
Woman comes to see if I'm
fallen,
my wailing at the realization of
my losses all
totally tallied
is heavy much more than
my now empty hands,
but busy them,
attempting to staunch the
flowing
overwhelming regrets that
gush from every pore,
and that no one can
ever be cleansed,
and the permance of
stains

for I am only
getting older too
killing me
way too slowly
Poetoftheway Sep 2024
come to sight this site
once a fortnight,
the volume, ***,
a straight line curve, - all
fingertips to the sky appointed,
my followed favored poets get
per force, my attention immediatement!

but
costly for/to the new writers
whom with so few (‘cept Le Gomez)
panning for gold, mostly fall posthaste
to add to deep sea coral reefs below
where lower & slower is an unnoticed
state of sleep, you be the carnival barker!
or a Moses
crossing a
black letteral sea, by the hello,
repost please, the new babies,
otherwise they suffocate from
the unintended lack of oxygenation

it’s a small and costly gesture tho
$$$ free, we well risk losing the new perspective, updating jargon (parole gergali!)

we risk absence by obsolescence, if using
old software, astride our high horses,
putting our heads  up our __
in a nosebleed trivial Jeopardy stratosphere

so shrewdly share, share a link or like,
for we all would be dustbin paper, better
suited for beach bonfire shredded kindling
    if someone
had not grasped our words for even more to
love
Poetoftheway Sep 2024
Perhaps
you divined
everything, each word,
is musically inserted
in the bonds tween us

Them
those
poems that untie with
shoelace knots so quick
reveling, seeing her bare back,
is but a bridge over waters
that demands crossing,
for a mid-way joining

When the night is dark,
trembling, each, we stand
by each other, tumble &
fall where we stand

Anyone can see, our unique
trinity, the admixture of
she-me-us, as we untwine
rolling downwards
on a staircase to Heaven,

Nothing makes me wonder
  more; she is east, smoothie~polished,
  me rough hewn from cacti
  and dusty dirt, the only thing
  polished is the tune, sung to her,
  much practiced, strummed upon
  her cheeks, hummed into her soul

If
I had a box of wishes,
  they would each be a
  song that we sing, that
   made angels cry
you should be able to divine
exactly which songs were heard
while scribbling this
Poetoftheway Sep 2024
“Pages of my life sealed inside a book
like bookends at a fairground
holding steady until the rider mounts;
Still unwritten not yet ready to wear,  
this garmented padded book of tales
isn't finished yet”
~~~
from
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4871833/sewn-to-the-pages-of-my-life/
by

Vienna's Bombardieri

~~~~~

it is not a total rarity,
but not an impossiblty,
that one of yours
scripts feels
that it has been ripped
from mine eyes,
necessitating a gasping grasping of me as
if her Vienna words,
like stout hands,
squeeze my already
constricted throat to close in entirety

near ceasing my breathing

<>
for the writing comes easy,
add a page daily, sewing neat stitches,
smooth connecting linear designs
but the book
never finishes, and Wonder
if this unending is
a knelling death mark of Cain,
that my mythology resonates,
boasts of no resolution

this possibility previous unconsidered
now seen as a likely vision
and do not comprehend how to
feel
becoming
a page in a book,
to attic directed,
boxed for the
eventuality of removal by the
1-800-GOT-JUNK
a very busy institution
and put my shriveled fingertips down
in contemplation of
my erasure
Poetoftheway Sep 2024
this,  their-poem, emitting their call-sign,
those who once checked the box
of in love..a status of joyful revelation,
for all to see, all passerby’s, all witnesses
to the outstanding glowing skin,
the perms-frozen half smiles that
never are erased, you secret it not
so much,
for your body entire expels
the scent secreted of a world
in orbit
around
each other

then the unexplainable, threads go worn,
a slower tearing, one by one, till there
is not one, nary more any, you then
check the invisible box,
“not in a relationship”
and it feels like
a load has
been dropped onto you
from on high, flattened,

now cloaked in a demeanor
that cries out
they
put a load
right on me,
and you seek
excuses to recall ecstasy and

you start dancing to forget,
like a centrifugal whirlpool’s vortex,
whipping up the air surrounding

to heat a forgetting, till the until,
of collapsing shame offers up
arms to drown you, a relief offering,
and the words to “Yesterday”
are everywhere
reverberating


walking down the street
a somebody smiles to at, just,
for you,
without cause,
but a causal triggering
a singular event,

just a smile with edged up corners,
and suddenly you feet golightly,
and inexplicably inextricably
in the moment it is
all you can see,
and one starts to dance
to well
remember

and a poem
forms upon your silently moving
lips,
and a dance to remember
is finished,
starts up
a new one,
with similar familiar steps
a dance to believe  in~

and laugh when
you say your name

out loud

you!

are the poet of the way,
a new word choreographer


and there will be a way,
always another way…
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