(and I cannot live
from with-out)

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a poem in appreciation to Rossella Di Paolo

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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

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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

Statuesque, cocooned in a living-goat of many colours,
Fastened by multi-hued cloven hooves,
‘Approach without fear, do not listen to rumours’
‘I am learned in lore and wisdom, a parting gift from the Elves’

I nervously approach, what shall I call you?
‘Name? so many, but call me Mother Earth’
‘I am the embodiment of all that is pure and true’
‘The virtue of flora and faunae from their living-birth’

You knew Elves! I am full of envy and wonder!
‘Yes, for many years, hundreds by your measure’
I once thought I caught a glimpse, made me shudder!
‘Do not try too hard! their spell is dangerous treasure’

Surely not! they are renowned for their kindness,
‘No! the danger lies in your malign-heart’
All I want is a quick peek, I have faith in their goodness,
‘Very well, come back tomorrow, go it is getting dark’

Sunrise beckons, into the woods I eagerly creep,
‘Do your parents know you are here?’
No! they have eyes only for my baby brother! makes me weep!
‘Step into the light, and see what will appear’

Imagine my surprise, before me my sobbing parents,
‘They are distraught, thinking you have been spirited away’
But, I haven’t! I only desire a few moments,
‘Even a brief visit will condemn you to be forever lost and astray’

‘What you see is their perpetual abjection’
‘Your jealousy is corrosive and spells mortal danger’
‘There is a hard choice, Elves and no way back, or their salvation’
‘You forget the intense glow of their love around your manger’

© Rob perspiring-poet

Like always you cut me exhausted hungry destitute alone freezing stuttering in coldness without you.
Unaware of how you would pop up with open ended questions
to decide my life without you.

To answer your question with awareness fairness realizing it was you who questioned me;
out of the blue using a new name de plume that I had to intuit it right
that it was you
or forever miss my mark.

No it's never too soon nor too late,
for lovers to meet face to face;
after each catastrophic storm
had ended,
or after a lifetime or two.

You were the only real man
back with me after each storm.
hopping I rescued myself!
You reappeared dead silent,
Talking your own language and you never hinted what hell I lived through.
How astounded in shock wounded i was you carried open ended questions
for me to make lifetime decision
with my shattered heart.
you failed to realize struggling to survive homeless without resources
have no time for healing wisdom.

Why in the world do you ask such questions behind this mirror!??
And sadly for me, in my own answer,
you found your road ahead
with a significant other!.

That was easy wasn't it!?

Should I spell the many
Name De Plume on here HP with your many windows you used!?
You closed some and left others open.

I know you read me on here
delivering anonymous messages
  was that fair!?
~~~~~~
I live by this biblical rule:
"Love is patient, love is kind.
It does not envy, it does not boast,
it is not proud not covertly hidden..
It is not rude, it is not self-seeking,
it is not easily angered,
it keeps no record of wrong doings.
Love does not delight in evil
but love rejoices with the truth.
~~~~~~
It was never too late or soon dear;
you just asked too many **** questions, and in my suffering pain
I missed my mark again.
You made me stumble and fall.

Yes fall always, with your help.
~~~~~~~
By: Karijinbba