wish i knew you
way back then
but again then
you wouldn’t have
glanced at me once,
let alone twice

but them ole aphorisms
have their uses,
useful when dreaming
in colorful surrealisms

better later,
than not at all,
my sad eyed lady
of the highlands,
better for having
met you,
than not
at all...

the bookies of High Street North will give you odds,
1000 to 1, our paths will never cross, a simple notion,
we’ll never meet, it’s a sucker’s bet they’re happy to take,
despite, shhhhh, not that hard, truth be told, airplane,
Terminal5,  Heathrow Express, Paddington Bear Station

and yet, there are oceans to fly over, viruses in
every nook and cranny, and the biggest risk, those
what ifs...and the worries viral multiply as imagining
grows more spectacular than wild flowers on the
heath, bogs conjuring up Holmesian fluorescent hounds

she’ll know for whom this poem tolls, but
will never understand that my envision of her world,
through her eyes, unfamiliar words mellifluous,
for me, they, a nectar, the special Ritz teatime,
but don’t be mistaking me for an Anglophile

no, this Yank plainly loves her garden of nature,
and her own nature, beloved as well, floral blooming,
how it grasps his heart with her two hand’s nouns,
seizing and ceasing its beating, nicks it, his rhythm for
poetic composition, so little more to add, other than
writing this made both a young boy glad, an old man sad...


postscript

someday she’ll crook her finger, like the crook
of her hair, and this Tom, will no longer be waiting

After John Prine:
“There's flies in the kitchen,
I can hear 'em there buzzing,
And I ain't done nothing since I woke up today”

Mr. John Prine

                       <£>

There's flies in the kitchen,
all around my eyes and head,
they’re just gossiping bout me,
why most mornings
I’m still laying in bed
at almost near
noon-time, why too, them
angels and their a-fluttering wings,
a-flapping, still hanging around,
when they’re so far from home

truth be told, I kinda like new combinations,
the musical vibes, magic incantations,
boogie woogie, fuzzy buzzy eyelash sounds,
bluesy background harmonies against the
harps them angel wings are playing,
I’m getting every note writ down so,

I can play it well on the morrow, on my
following them higher up, all the ways up
on that glowing shining stairway to heaven,
guarantee-****-teeing entrance through the
pearly gates for the flies and a lazy, no-account
worthless S.O.B. like me

<>

reversed a verse from “Like a Rolling Stone;
~complements to Mr. B. Dylan, a Nobel man~

you, me, hear what you’re hearing, feeling it,
you, me, hear what you’re thinking, feeling that,
regenerating, excising, pinching a single word of Bobby’s
lyricizing, knowing, you’ve just handbag-snatched a poem full.

the rolling stone sings of next meal scrounging,
he’s talking to you, knowing you, you customizing
his lyrics modifying-jiggering, for your purposeful brain,
emotional crazed notions, your monsanto seed of needs and strains.

nah, I’m fibbing, polite-ly lying,
like clover waves springing up
overnight after a night’s soaking,
raining, picking up hints, misdirections, clues,
***, poem titles dripping from my glassy eyes!

des idées for the next poem, the one, in the garden hereafter,
now called thereafter, all arriving in tranches, backyard bunches,
just to write down the titles fast enough, sometimes, trouble,
oft easy, sometimes rough, but always a fast rush jiggling job.

yeah, I’m liking that word, scrounging,
got character, internal noises aclashing,

so I’m scrounging
while lounging , it’s so ******* easy,

it’s getting borrowed till you! steal
it out from under me,
like an ill reputed
good poet should...


P.S. don’t keep me waiting!
let the scrounging commencin’

tw36

what’s the difference tween ******* & writing poetry?




let us cut to the chase, cause I know how much-you
hate to be kept waiting, lest your addled, added,
impatient attention grow as big as the U.S. budget
deficit.

answer: not much

in fact, can’t come up with a single signal differentiation.

1. both require tissues when done
2. both give you short and sweet satisfaction, that is a renewable resource
3. serotonin levels up, up and away - yay!
4. long term impact for both is wrist pain
5. inevitably, makes you late for tedious life chores
6. doesn’t burn much calories, though you record it on your activity-tracker as “aerobic exercise”
7. one tends to exclaim “Oh ****” when completed.
8. both master bait you (pun. get it?) who’s the master, who’s the bait?
9. are you bored already? Go forth and do either activity, (I know you’re getting hot)
10. both leave you satisfied but the urge to purge returns very quickly
11. tendency to lock the bathroom door for both, when “composing”
12. filed on your computer as introspection and mindfulness (that cracks me up)
13. gonna stop right here so you take your ADD meds
14. you love them both in no particular order
15. you cannot get coronavirus from either (sincerely hope not!)
16. your denials deserve a retort: so ***** you too!

The Provocation on Highway 401/ By Maria Mitea

There will always be a provocation, temptation, elation
Someone inviting you for a fresh breath to take in, and out
when you, the day-to-day maker are driving, loving, or maybe make money
with a hammer in your hand hitting on a red iron.

Hey, you two, and three, five four, or maybe ten, and even thirteen
on a pin-up, or pin down you choose to live in Bohemia, or maybe,
not, or again maybe free love, wanderer, adventurer, or vagabond
with a hoarse voice, will invite you "Going Out West", and change your name.

I am in, even though I don't know what I mean, Please, before I start to write let me park at WalsMart, and my apology if you feel ignored or bored.
I have an important encounter on Wikihead with Tom Waist, intrigued if he meant anatomy or a cut of meat from the leg of a lamb, or maybe he liked to be, or feel in between for the rest that moved in thin blood and sotto voices.

I pulled in, and find out that Tom Waist was born after the ussr famine,
agogy to see what lives in his guts, what a bad habit, "girl! go back and read what's the challenge about." I hold in from searching his words and thoughts that he played on a yellow paper, and think " Hm, he was born after the famine, his music and poetry must've been concocted from hunger starving for life itself."

I click one more time wikihead, and I see that indeed he did all he could do on earth and not only, but he also dug underbelly, living in between starving his audience to tears with his hoarse voice and appetite for art. Then I need him more. I can feel how he invites us all for artistic addiction, and I need him more, on a smartphone, I am digging his music and stumble into the "House where nobody lives", bursting into tears.

There will always be a provocation, temptation, elation
Someone inviting you for a fresh breath to take in, and out
when you day-to-day maker drive, love, or maybe make money
with a hammer hitting on a red iron,

Hey, you two, and three, five four, or maybe ten, and even thirteen
on a pin-up, or pin down you choose to live in Bohemia, or maybe,
not, or again maybe free love, wanderer, adventurer, or vagabond
with hoarseness in his voice, will invite you "Going Out West",
and change your name.

I read again and again, and one more time I listen to a spot fyi " Going Out West", and ask if this was the "voodoo ... , I am gonna make myself available to you" without losing your composure you have your "voodoo" means that brought me back in tears in the "House where nobody lives",

Ones, hey, you two, and three, five four, or maybe ten, and even thirteen on a pin-up, or pin down you choose to live in Bohemia, or maybe, not, or again maybe free love, wanderers, adventurers, or vagabonds with hoarse voices will invite you "Going Out West", and change your name.