Pontificate
Set to sojourns music...?
And thrown the light of reason, to sate
Weal is a known seeker, of life intrinsic...

Westerly, the face of men
Has a column of seclusion, adding the facts
Of pride before litany's passage, a wisdom's question
Come to pass, with a realer first of lest, we act:

In favor of solemn derision?
The found privilege, has a callous fate
Where we are, the paces and passion of intuition
Hadding the silence we evoke, is a moment come too late?

Hatred, or by excessive gesture, the world?
Place a future of benevolence in front of a child
And the willingness of wishes to give a gift, or take one for
The lips of destined forces, the actual and the meager keep while...

A babyish face has the time, to remember the day as a friend has
Has a shown turn of courage, beginning and ending with cause
Sought the better of you, like a thread of persuasion is to ask
Can the arduousness you describe as a friend, be at odds?

The worth of hosting, a day dream...
Still to fore, the sanity of regency in the name of future loyalty
The winds of omnipresence, have the sense to live well, to deem
The stir of vanity in the lead, the welcome and or the doubted, to be...

A king about the reach and notoriety of views, here is loves vote:
Meant with maying guests, and the hope of virtue to come
With the worth of anger and bother, the vice we hold to fears cope
With the lip of liberty to prove, is our gift to teach its love?

52 Weeks: Whitman

The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab and my loitering.

I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow’d wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.

52 Weeks: Mullein**

The Red-Tailed hawk swoops by and catches just a glimpse, he tilts his head Dionysian style mouth slightly agape.

I too am a wild thing, I too am untethered,
And I sound animalistic in the dining halls of the tamed.

The final missile thud holds me in a sweet caress,
My likeness rockets earthward … tried and true and tired and truer,
I am coaxed into existence once again.

I maintain my aetheric ties as I know this is the roadmap back to you,
It’s nice to be enmeshed in the living once again even though they drain,
To drain is to live, one gives eternity to be mortal - it’s the only thing that ever made sense.

I won’t depart, I dig in my heels,
And I turn my back on the organized.

I am of the earth because I understand my antecedents … my mother’s mother’s mother …
And because of this knowledge of ante’s I can set prece’s, hopefully precisely.

I hardly know who I am or what I mean (on a good day),
But I am good for you none the less,
As our tastes and sounds and smells and touches intermingle.

And always I wait patiently,
for me for you,
for us.