“it’s the time of the season
When love runs high
In this time, give it to me easy
And let me try with pleasured hands”

Time of the Season,
Song by Zombies
1 9 6 8
<~>
was 18 years young,
when first heard these words,
now in my-eighth decade,
times is both
plentiful
and yet delimited by the onsetting sunset finale,
but
and so are the
accumulated  dictionary of word’s available,
that I command,
legions, armies, corps,
all to command,
to properly say…
yes,
it is the
Time of Season

come to the. lean sheer clean paper single sheaf,
with no agenda,
perhaps to just amend an overdue,
thank you

these pleasure hands
have always been
greedy,
for the sensuality
that stroking fingers command,
the contextual sensuality
is far greater than you ordinarily
stop to think about…

but I remember
every face, every cheek,
that I have stroked,
think upon it!

the soft curvature of the skin’s mellifluous
shapely contouring to you
your pointer
finger,
thinking simple
nothing finer,
more pleasurable,
totally expressing
the emotive bonds
two human can share

mother trains her. children
with a deeper understanding
how love is simple,
enduring and stronger than
any time’s decay could contemplate
despoiling

and to those women I have
adored,
whose thieving stole my precious loving,
I
thank you,
for your taking was a giving to me,
making a whole person
understand than to be whole
was to be parted,
for two are the greatest
one,
an equation that proofs
our experience
that though solitude
inspires
our greatest creativity


is is only because my eyes are
infused with and for
love
aspired and  gained…

these hands,
more powerful than any other *****,
the eyes may have its
but will never touch
your child, your women,
your sense that giving up
yourself,
is an enehacemnt
of all you are,
a single finger
surveying the face of a beloved
is an electric shock
that soothes and satisfies
simultaneously,
unique…


keep those pleasured hands,
fully employed,
bring pleasure to the world,
so that others will understand
it is now or never,
a line drawn upon
a beloved
is
poem only you,
can write

Wether recorded digitally or with a pen
With or without hitting send
Questioning the subject matter, real or pretend?
They're all just thoughts that don't bend
The only ones I have over and over again
Not even hinting at an end

©2024

People are not nice,
They can dishearten you,
But don't be like mice.

Let me tell you a story,
My story of victory,
It's after the accident.

When I was in the ICU,
Thought I won't be consequential,
But I disappointed them.

This young man is alive,
An ex-SBI PO, now a DRAAO,
Oh I worked hard for it.

Did not I, oh life,
I don't play the fife,
You know, right?

Now I talk to you,
Yes, you, the dejected one,
Now I ask you this:

Being a survivor,
If I can be successful,
Why cannot you?

loitering with intent

a man stands on the corner,
in fashion most furtive, shifting
foot to foot, noting each passerby,
he retains, discards, sifting flour
for flowers, wheat chaff for pastries,
word streams for treasured heated floes

why this corner, why this point?

Here.

Hear is where.

Hear is where the poems gems
can be panned, nuggets retrieved,
smiles and grimaces projected,
laughter & tears mixology’d,
humanity, his, restored,
inspired life, restored,
for all.

<2:54 PM Weds May 10>
NYC, and whoever you are…