#carlo
this person, who reads somehow
almost every poem here deposited,
how he does it, a secret, well kept,
but hardly hidden, for he signals
his appreciation in so many ways,
and s p o t l i g h t s those who frequent
contribute, cheerleader and coach
with keen eye and sharpness of brain,
he affectively, affectionately, injects &
infects this little expanse,
this Kingdom of York,
where lovers meet,
speaking in their own
dialect of kindness…
writes himself with a uniqueness,
dare I say in his owned style?
there is never a doubt
who has authored his work,
so many superb scripts,
but his better good works,
present in his presence here,
bringing out the best of the
multiplicities of each of us
but of whom do I speak?
Why,
Carlo C. Gomez
of course!
Sep 1, 2024
Sep 1, 2024 at 12:05 PM UTC
The average person knows between 20,000 and 30,000 words.
~ and for Senor CG~
<>
*infinite then the multiplicity of combinations,
and yet we use so few,
and the comforting ones,
we repeat unconsciously
for they apparently applicable
to the boo/hoo/who in Who Me?*
*messing about in poetry,
an excuse to betray ourselves
to a greater audience with
hints and provenances,
secret’s subtle
could mean
trouble*
*I have revealed more than
I could believe ~
not the drabfactoids
but the insights*
*that flesh my self~sketches,
you could ask me anything,
my answer simple and
insane~same!*
*if you explicitly explain
there is no fun in that,
but the clues writ large,
answering questions you
didn’t know to ask*
plenty to hide, some too
well disguised
*but the hints are clear enough,
to make sure you’re
asking the correct ones*
so,
sorry apology
Senor Carlo
the doorknob to my spotlight clearly
visible
in the portrait of my preposterous
multi~nefarious words*
*no great reveal
no screaming squeal
for you to decrypt
still requires an
inning of
excavation digging,
for it’s in the over thousands of
psalms and prayers
and a few layabout
poems
who/hoo,
too*
(wink)
Dec 20, 2024
Dec 20, 2024 at 12:49 PM UTC
I am fickle. Let's face it.
I dated a lot of guys. I was
the girl in the red sweater.
Me and my saddle shoes.
I only wore Buster Brown
socks.
Look at me now. I am awash
In pink and sometimes yellow.
I don't like red and I don't like you!
Yesterday when we got married.
No 50 years ago. Was it really
that long? We pledged to love
Forever. Now Forever is a
painful scar. You were never
remotely interesting.
"so how did you like the play
Mrs. Lincoln?"
You say I can move on but
there is no place to go behind
the purple curtain.
Is this poem finished?
It would seem
that it is. I will take
my bows, shed the
years and put the
memories in the
cardboard shoebox with
the painted scenery,
(please forgive the
Feminine endings.)
close the door and
see
my next adventure
coming for me.
I get pills
in the night.
I am in
San Francisco
to see Ginsberg.
I dream of
poetry and sand,
swimming
naked in cold clear
water…
and I sing in
my
sleep.
Caroline Shank
Aug 2, 2022
Aug 2, 2022 at 5:33 PM UTC