for Richard Shepherd who wrote to tell me
one of my babies, (1) made him:
“Oh my, speechless”

my stated aim, my purposed gain,
is to write of only love poetry,
oh too human am I, going astray
the most human contributory trick,
is when “she,” temptation,
oft cajoles,
“this way please” and I easygoing
and submit obligingly

your words spontaneous, mark &
make me, likewise spit out gratitude
of words simple, informing you that
you are too, too kind, then pause reflective
does such a thing even exist?

bemusedly, smiling silent at my silliness,
as I debate~contemplate, the potent notion if kindness can ever be measured as in excess, by what  measuring cup system could we
contrive to ascertain if there be lines drawn,
for the most best of human attributes?

it is Monday Morning and such silly peculiarities have no busily business populating my gray matter, but compulsory
demands state forthright you cannot retreat
from this windrowed wonderland hedgerow,
for when seeing these deep waters,
can easy sink a poet
for a funking, dunking, nay, a drowning!

but I am only dancing around the edges
of a fire upon the beach, and gingerly admit
that there is no limitation to this conceptual,
can we be too human, could one ever not say

your loving, your essences~senses fragrant,
are airborne and therefore unlimited,
beneath this shared sky~sphere.
yet never my intent
to rob a human of
the power of speech

but this statement of de~unlimited awe
too much,
and therefore my understanding deepens,
when and what a heart feels
is without definition,
without lineage,
every time reborn,
and my loving of your kind words,
overflowing will be my
principled purpose
this day

that every person whose path
intersects mine,
shall be greeted with
the tools in my possession,
which thanks to you,
are identified as an undefined
unlimited
too, too much
kindness
and my one job is to
be a proof
of this
raison d'être
for all ofour
existences

this hen issue
now resolved,
be a lovely
au naturel love poem
and obedient
to my
only truest mission

there are thousands who know me,
the now me ~
too well…
an idea-phrase that stankles (rankles and stings),
for though my goal is a gaol to hideaway within,
betray myself too oft with my fingerprints upon the
cheeks of all I hold dear…

in that summer breeze you feel
tickling the hairs upon the back of thy neck like a
surprised,
unsirpassed
sunrise,
exactly like a lover who loves reminding you that love is the unexpected kiss upon said neck that weakens
you with pleasuring, and that,
a steady stream of surprises,
is the greatest loving,
treat of all…like that
morning miracle mystery
of a fresh baked
still bakery warm,
croissant
that tickles the taste buds
upon the tongue that tickles the
hairs on the back of your neck..

every croissant kissing butter fragrance,
the aroma of every day for
me knowing,
you moaning
and the fragrance
we together
create

(and I cannot live
from with-out)

<>
a poem in appreciation to Rossella Di Paolo

<>

I, too:
          - am an embryonic work in progress,
well into my seventh decade, with no ending in sight


                                I too,    
live in the house of poetry, the address likely differs,
but suspect the innards of the houses differs little,
the decor,  quite similar

         - my house shrewdly requests a rethinking,
                                    noting, it lives my artifice,

with in & with out

Then, we are a We:
                                  
          - my cavities house her, She, Poetry is of Ruth (1) born,

          - Poetry, She, reminds me, ”whither thou goest, I will go”


This duality:
          - where the haunting of words providential,
             emanate, both inhabiting & inhibits my breathing
              She, a fearsome creature, a fearful-something,
for it tears me and shreds tears its demands be wrung
from with in to with out

She, Poetry:
          - leaves me gaping, hollow, fills me with
            depressurizing boreholes exposed to the elements  of
            externalities of an admixed atmospheres, that nature demands             be refilled, fresh in, stale out,
for which the artifice trick is knowing which is which

when Poetry’s  birthing:
          - chest pounds, heart-rate beats heavy metal,
            abdomen contracts, there then, no languid in my language,
            no help untangling the alpha-bet jumbling,
            product of the screams of pushing,
squeezing it forth

you’re hoping to quick-catch newly formed combinations,
for if you fail, a poem
noisily crashes to and through the floorboard cracks,
where poetry’s chaotic glinting etes
maliciously glimmer~winks at me
with a sarcastic thank you

“ah, too bad, another creation stillborn,
gone to rest, biting the nether dust,
without hope of resuscitation…”*

just another unfinished work in progress

periodically
a survivor clean caught, transcribed, edited to be finished,
amniotic fluids cleared,
poem resurrected
blessed with eternal life,
readied to be shared and delivered,
affirmed

and you say to no one and to everyone:

this poem will be our poem,
wither it goes, ascending, descending,
all live in the house of poets,
one house,
many apartments,
each poem a god,
and
my God will be our God,
your God, my God,
in the House of Poetry

“Few people know how to take a walk. The qualities are endurance, plain clothes, old shoes, an eye for nature, good humor, vast curiosity, good silence,
and nothing too much.”
—Ralph Waldo Emerson

<>

A late-in-life walker, the words above resonate in my mind,
with a check, check, check, check and a voluble ding, reading

and nothing too much”

many a poem mine labored, birthed arrhythmically walking,
eyes see verses, verses fill the mouth, mind desperate as
the feet unceasingly trod round new corners, new visions,
Emerson’s words remind my well worn weary path daily renewed, a vocabulary child re-newborn, and how to keep all this forever,
until tomorrow, and nothing is everything all too much carried over

and nothing too much”

speaks to an openness in every orifice, be prepared scout-boy,
to adapt to nothing too much as hours earlier now recalled are ancient history, mind staggers at the minuscule differences tween yesterday and this exact moment in this exact place that has been reimagined, deserving of recording, notating, and my desperation struggle to
semi-successfully delineate, report, on all these
mini-magnificent miracles countenanced, overwhelms…

the brain furnaces/furnishes a thousand thoughts, a million worries,
slew of infinity-sized emotions like love of children, so it’s confusing to window-peeking  strangers watching for the walking man with tears pockmarking his cheeks, unaware that his each stride is a story, a unique grace forward and too, backwards, history mine, reviewed, graded, and the comfortable shoes, the old sagging clothes well worn and beloved, fit like gloves, whispering in the good silence,
a lamb sacrifice to the

good silence,
“human, your foibles and deeds, admixture of
blood inherited, a morality crafted by ancestors,
so the next step is
alway$

and nothing too much”* and everything…

Sat Dec10 2023
Shell Beach, Central Park, in my mind, and nothing is perfect