#1300
You're an emerald zipped up
you are like a thousand eyes;
that traverse the Universe ...
you are like stone
made new sand and water.
Grain to Ladder Magda sand
I take you with my arms,
because my tears
reel in your mermaid kisses.
Magda mother you are full;
like a statue of sand,
leave my rib and my hip
to be attached to your zipper.
Where should you be and how are you?
if you are not dressed as a skirt,
all skirt all whole
all mine, without a change,
makes us think Magdalena.
Emerald impregnated in the stone ...
no one will change your world,
since the world grows like the wind;
like the one who catches your nose
like the one that ages your brain
spawned in fields of mist ...
You are wind ... from the high tree,
of the highest in the world,
of emerald paths ...
you are the indifferent wind that carries your weight;
condense your grief ...,
and rush your sweat into the most beautiful sand ...
Hey Magda sweat;
sweat beads raining sand on you,
you don't aged and you don't die ...
Well you and heaven
they are a poetry family
that pierce your eyes and mine,
in the conquest of having you Magdalena ...
Jun 10, 2020
Jun 10, 2020 at 3:25 PM UTC
The Deepest Twist
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for my friends who know that when HP says this my 1300th
poem, it’s off the mark by hundreds; nonetheless
1300 is worthy number to celebrate your affections
nat
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***you return back my older children, fully grown,
my eldest word babies who never ever visit,
blessing them anew, lavishly, with special wishes
I,
take them,
with both hands, a reacquainting occurs,
the old words, deep twist, now hurtful hurt because
reimagining when and how easy they came to be birthed and
how the replication of that process is now a
practiced impossibility
how they burst forth, in purple majesty, wheat waving,
wholly formed, bathed in holy water, leaving no stretch marks,
only just an empty sac inside instantly needing,
needling me into auto-refilling right away
even the twenty four hour, hard deliveries,
long and arduous, were so easy created faust-fast,
that the errors of typography contained,
became lasting hall marks, iconic nomenclatures of
passionate loving-nonpareil
now, well past point of urgent addiction,
unlike then every glance, each sidewalk cracking,
lamppost shadow casting was
a sea story for a deep dive delving asap
I,
supplied answers for the internal badgering incessant
happy ****** need, mine, to go, spill the words,
cab or bus motion nursing them,
now they come slowly strolling,
semi-formed, needy, inconclusive, reused,
and feeling as trite as a cloth coat from an old thrift shop,
so wanting for tender loving care,
which is to provide when you are
four score
wondering how easy it was in prior times when inspiration
fell like a deciduous tree’s fall colorings gifts or
as little children’s nightly multitude variety of dream tales,
when whole worlds uncovered, nay, universes,
hidden between summers green grass blades,
or in unique snowflakes
the semi-forgot love affairs that parented poems
by the score of scarred orchestral scores,
now love circle-turn in holding patters in the
crowded skies above nyc,
awaiting for a trafficked man to give permissions
to “run-away”land that rarely is granted
once, poems in turbulent fluid born, noisy ripping of skin,
****** by the emitting of constant calming tenderous words,
wonderful drippings, so many multiple births in a moment,
even the OBGYN is complaining,
give other poets a chance at parenthood!
the awesome anger of human tragedy is now so shopworn
from over experience,
even god visits less and less, for it is written,
nothing new under the sun
though soon his annual visitors day approaches (Day of Atonement) and god will require new
words of human comforting,
a new poem acknowledging that being godlike
is god **** hard work,
for humans are annoyingly capable of incredulous kindness
how can one justify allowing unlacing acts of insane violence to tear
the hand stitched lacing fabric that’s ever ready
to bring us together in an instant elegiac joining
the truth is every one of todays poem are clawed,
shovel dug out from cavities and crevasses,
your new words of recognition of the oldies but goodies,
iron of irony, make it hard, hard, painful to write
without an epidural to numb the painful
dumbing down
when I am breaching my waters, I am hard to spot,
we ancient humpbacks live beneath the deep distanced,
cold waters for many more minutes
than we need surface for breathing,
the show-off fluking, less and less,
and when we birth,
every two years,
must bring the calf-poem to the surface instantly,
to breath, lest it die,
all the while repeating to ourselves:
what was miraculous writing is now nearly invisible,
to blinded fingers that arrhythmically cane tap,
words difficult to recall, recalculate, recalibrate
into a wholly poem
only the **** tears,
that same shameful violin permanent-accompaniment,
they laugh at me when now, they alone
come first quickest, all too easy,**
appearing nataurally,
without a formal
written
invitation
Aug 23, 2019
Aug 23, 2019 at 3:54 PM UTC