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Where Shelter Sep 12
the words don’t come easy (Poet’s Nook)

<>

nah, they come
too easy,
from me, for you, doesn’t mean
they’re cheap, quite the opposite!

hard earned, been through the
washing machine so often,
they claim recyclable status

ok, so they are worn, edges raggedy,
they don’t care, nor do I, cause you
can’t find me any that never been fired

in the kiln of experience that came before
the crucible of my eyes, that says to them
welcome back! old friends, easy and familiar

stay for a few minutes, before you must get
snatched by some younger person’s heart,
send them along with my thanks and my

fare-thee-well, bon voyage, stop by one more
time, if you pass this way, I’ll be in that place,
Poet’s Nook, in our atmosphere of inspiration

where we have cohabitated, cogitated, and
wept together, co-created, and dreamed of
new combinations of our old souls’ cross currents

8:11am Sep 10 ‘20


In the Nook,
S.I.
Where Shelter Jan 2015
are you seventeen yet?

have the berries and the shells
stained impossibly
your youthful heart permanent,
have you matured and learned
to end sentences
in question marks?

surely certainty and
alack, its absence,
haunts
all your waking poems,
wonder does your mother know
what you’ve purloined,
stored in you
from her withins?

so young, so much love
oil spilling,
do you wonder about
the depth of the field
you are drilling, extracting -
is the soft supple supply,
so, close to the surface,
endless?

life so far is but a draft.

take copious notes
for the best is yet
and I await patiently
the novella of your
adventures!
Where Shelter Apr 12
the worlds illness so pervasive,
the pandemic horror stories are my-brain-endemic,
so pervasive, every ache, tremor, is now virally suspected,
proof that my customized angel of death has arrived, I’m seizing up.

the latest wave session of walking depression, conflates both sides
of my brain, the intersection at right, left, the intellect is mowed
down with woe-down, by the stark reality of emergency facts,
apex or art, looking at months and lives ever trembilzed.

don’t even bother like I did at early firsts, when?
by asking where shelter, the raison d'être of my existence,
the poetry no longer synapses, the currents loop over and over,
the intellectual processes neutered by sadness virus un-encountered.

once upon a time I thought, even believed, that my life’s inquiry,
was answerable, with customized solutions for each,
but now, don’t believe in shelter of any kind, no,
acknowledging I’m so lost, no recovery efforts,

will be attempted.
Where Shelter May 2017
The Prism Through Which We See Clearly

~

light saws our untrue selves with acute angles,
piercing our holistic pretenses, daily disambiguation features,
our sheltering disguises into our essence refractive elements

this is not a cute rainbow poem - run from here

it is a dissection of our true nature
why belabor, why elaborate?

through the prism
you color-coded self, tracted,
a mapping of your intersections,
what each color speaks, needs not an explication,
your hidden humanity comes to my eyes, in full revelation

at last I see you clearly

the lost and black withered limbs,
the stirring, leaping, enflamed flaring, never ceasing, breathing elements that mark your singularity

did you know your eyes are constant singers?

through prism, each note heard distinctly, as it rises uplifted,
your song, mine for observation and weeping exhalations,
your song, the production number of thy own composition,
through prism, our interior visual disinterred and released,

here I must cease, for what seen, grievous weeping deepens,
from the glory and the pain my blurred wetness overwhelms
the clarifying crystal useless when tear coated

through the prism,
before the full length mirror,
my own, unowned, never could be owned,
'mirror mirror on the wall,'
warped weave of tissues, mine,
the song sounds, mine,
from lungs disgorged
myself, diagnosed and displayed

of what I see, spitting speech
ceases and desists,
the only thought permitted, repeated,

where is my shelter now?**


5/13/17 6:49am
Where Shelter Apr 2017
I The Hard Part
~ be a good friend

II The Easy Part
~ write what you feel
12:00am April 5, 2017
Where Shelter Jan 2015
bare it straight...

the knight-fool referenced here,
me, scrabbled, scrambled writer,
moat-surround builder,
petard hole-blower in walls of captivity.
letting those inside out,
letting those outside in...

all the beloveds from
ailments hurtful,
in and ex ternality
fearful of eternality

guise of knight errant,
salve and solve,
two pocket protectors,
needy, downtrodden, love-hurting,
slip inside and hide till ready
to come out on acceptable terms

entrapped, locked down and in,
show me the walls for to break,
make the solitary unobligatory
hands holding you will lead us,
all writ on clean new chance foolscap
open sourced coded for sharing

knock knock knock
come calling,
my calling...
to come...
I love cheap money

I love giving it away

cheap money is
that which you give
to the the brave ones....

not much of a poem

cheap
because it is the least expensive
way to justify your own existence
and better someone else's

someday I will write
actually share,
the poem long dusted on the bottom
of the pile entitled,

**Just Money**

a long tale of how I learned
the value of monetizing
happiness

but let us ask where shelter,
shelter is in the human embrace,
like I said,
not much of a poem,
more a good look
in the mirror

and the shelter of liking
what you see
Where Shelter Jan 2015
bed unmade days,
kitchen ****-all-around-roaches
email me thank you notes,
cockaround gratingly grate full

the dry cleaning unwrapped,
the plastic sheets dust covered,
can't recall why it matters at all
any of it

but she,
no
but she,
now-gone

pass by
the bed,
see the sign,
"to let"
on the toilet seat
upright

lie ever inwards onwards
idiots who let little things come
between,
wishing there were
ever still,
noisy
and so very
between
Where Shelter Jan 2015
I love cheap money

I love giving it away

cheap money is
that which you give
to the the brave ones....

not much of a poem

cheap
because it is the least expensive
way to justify your own existence
and better someone else's

someday I will write
actually share,
the poem long dusted on the bottom
of the pile entitled,

Just Money

a long tale of how I learned
the value of monetizing
happiness

but let us ask where shelter,
shelter is in the human embrace,
like I said,
not much of a poem,
more a good look
in the mirror

and the shelter of liking
what you see
Where Shelter Feb 24
~

shelter,

*two arms,
a human lean-to,
a pup tent,
all with a
welcome mat,
for you,
awaits

with graceful patience
simpatico smiling,
always avail,
awaiting,
no life clock countdown
prematurely pushing,
come when
there is
no other place

all,
on offer,
shelter places
that become
your home,
if you so
honor them thus,
your choice,
your decision
when to come n' go

shelter you,
no questions asked,
cloak you, us, even me, all, with human warmth,
easy silences, no unforced errors of pressures

for when my arms
bear your load,
mine, halved
Where Shelter Aug 2019
lay this body down, where shelter is..

<>

maybe you’ve been here, HP, awhile,
faintly remember the nook of poetry,
the four old soldier chairs, worn to a gray shade indescribable,
facing the merge of the river and the bay, lookin out southwest,
today, in nearly summer over Sunday best,
wearing a new old navy lime t-shirt,
ancient Champion grey cotton flannel shorts,
summer uniform of the generation that went boom and bust

as the sun escapes through apertures of now and then,
interrupting the partly cloudy forecast,
lazy me risking an end of summer skin reddening chastisement,
but life without danger, no life at all, especially poetry danger

the windy breezes jabbering quite excitedly,
deep in conversation with the waves
that loudly enough are washing the shore,
beneath my feet sitting in the poets nook

the gulls are squeaking their point of view,
at will, saying to me,
who asked you poet?

discussing they, the day, when the humans will be leaving,
they tell day and season by the degree of temperature reductions,
knowing full well it harbors hints that our departure sooner,
till next we poetry nook

the Adirondack chairs, with no cushions, are now described
as “scratchy,” by the Wendy of my life,
two and something granddaughter, who returns next weekend,
with new insights and open to opportunities to “use her words”
to teach me anew how to see the loveliness that is my blessing

sometimes a human takes an inventory of life’s stuff,
the ex and in-terior terrain, wades through the moraine
that his glacier has dragged behind, the coarse detritus of his course,
de icing/deciding what to keep, what stone skip throw into the bay

I could sail from our dock to the Atlantic,
meet you over a pint or a pinot, or head down to the Panama Canal,
north to Portland or Seattle, cruise the Willamette,
go as far as Vancouver,
before the spring winter runoff,
show you my shock, the shock of well past gray,
now the white feather of my head, signifying...old warrior, as it
falls over my forehead, a new signature of my ever changing body,
the city doormen see, shocked, now call me honorifically “abuelo”

read a story from a harvard doctor who believes living past 75,
makes little sense, cause we use up more resources
than we could ever add back

no, not saying go die, but give up the meds,
the artifices to extend life
once you pass past the inflection where you’re nothing but a taker,
which maybe explains why wrote a dozen poems this weekend,
trying to expel what resources I can add to the world before I

lay this body down

the cloud bank covering the southern fork of long island,
thickly viscous like fresh honeybee secretions, after which,
some will

lay their body down

next weekend is labor day, and maybe I’ll labor more,
disgorging poems too long and too varied, perchance you will
enjoy one or two, as we both be closer to the day when labor ceases,
and we can unhurriedly

lay this body down, sheltered at last

from wind waves and gulls jabbering,
the alternating current of cloud and sun



8/25/19

3:40pm
SI
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