#leftfootpoet
the whole week,
reinvigorated dreams
of isolation in old workplaces,
ringing phones with encrypted,
urgent measures to be transmitted.
but I have no ones number,
no one to tell
school final exams, for a course
I did not take, in language
unintelligible
the cash machine states
my bank balance is $9,736,890.00.
so I check again,
the machine speaks:
DO NOT MOVE
THE POLICE WILL ARRIVE MOMENTARILY
So Wrote Poem, While waiting,
ridiculous stressful situations,
give me no respite, awake to feel
my body cloaked & soaked,
this has been going on for days,
no one asks me why I always
daytime napping
for fear, I might tell them,
and there is no vaccine
that protects one from someone transmitting
infectious night terrors
left foot poet
Nov 5, 2025
Nov 5, 2025 at 12:34 AM UTC
sift them with adoring fingers,
some small, through fingers fall,
with thumb and forefinger, lift
for close~on examination
loved for their color and clarity,
and for the skill of men who take
them raw, cut and carat to become
spectacular improved o'er god's
initializing intimation
one of the few things men improves from nature taken
lust for their luster,
their clarity reflects no impurities,
some merely hard, some hardened
enough to cut skin and soul
their origin?
from deeper within
the human organs
they are spawned
these sounds of newborn
precious words,
their pleasure given,
humbles me,
these nuanced miracles of human creation,
under jewelers loupe examined,
tongue tasted,
by eye clarified,
innate sounds modifiable
to please the human ear-ring
and born with a certificate of
commonality, like bread
broken for sharing,
and for those who eat these,
add them to your collection,
and by bespeaking, free them,
*read them aloud,
so they may travel to every country,
where hello,
and haloed poetry is spoken*
2:52am !0-25-25
Oct 25, 2025
Oct 25, 2025 at 2:53 AM UTC
gently bemused + angrily fused
at declination and declension of my words, more, my mindful
actions effected, as well, the the pressurized mania of performing the correctly serialized order, of thirty+actions, in a time + space efficiency manner inside of a tiny new york city caged kitchen…{2)
the search for the perfect, when the wrath of need, the obsessive~compulsive urge to create
(now understood
to be a superior description of the tense stranglehold that
overtakes me body and soul, when the curse of composition, the desire to splurge, excavate, select vs. annihilate, by releasing a torrential rain of verbs & words,much better than merely, write)
the circling, cycling search symbol,^ so universally hated,
that exists in my brain when the precision incision decision,
selecting the exactly correct word+tense+spelling,
I need. that is currently locked, and throbbing, on the chip of my tongue, and my eyes can see it when I stick my tongue out, as the tongue U curls laughing at me and my inability of my ability
example: it starts with an M; is it melancholy, Malthusian, malfeasance, morbid, miscellaneous, or just m0therfucker?
these ~then, are put to you, a handful of examples, both insight and foresight into my significantly slowing, the incremental speeding up of my declination; I added the word declension, for it captures attention~tension of my heart's deep clenching and deeper still, declenching, when the computer of my mind eventually offers up:
-word I need /the word I seek /the word that pleases/-
and the racing heart the blood pressure and all the other associated measurements of my eroding physicality simmers to a slow boil
of dissatisfied satisfaction
stupid
the processes of aging,
and I see the babies lined up in heaven before god's
final review before sending 'em earthbound to be born,
and the last item on his checklist
is in what manner shall this human return
check one box:
( ) sudden death; specify___
( ) with faculties intact, surrounded by loved ones
( ) declination and declension, slow 'n steady, @ a rate of ___%
and I ask myself,
does this deserve to be called a poem?
is it a desert or a dessert?
which the correct,
I,
is or was, was or is, or is it was+is? or just, was?
has the clenching seized my hoary heart,
or ceased?
and smile when a strange voice,
whispers a precisely no~answer,
stay tuned
followed by a crackling, cackling laugh…
*******
Oct 22, 2025
Oct 22, 2025 at 10:44 AM UTC
YOU,
one of the mainstay sails of this ship,
a timbered main, like so many others,
who come here to pray and be blessed
daily, sometime twice, and rare absent
from this battlefield of word worthiness,
where so many fall, unattended, but you
are not one of them
you cross my mind,
and bring me a smile,
all the time. line by line,
your bedlam blue, is our custodian
I repost what intrigues, makes me gasp, jealous and desiring
why and how you found these words, that trick my eyes,
in disbelieving belief, that you got there first, com~bo~ing
craziness delightfully, and says me **** how could have I
missed this, the that, where you are at, a missive missile firing
in a million directions, hitting every target...
so I thank you, twice times over, you
are the sailor extraordinaire that keeps our
leaky (bad gateway?) afloat, and it is you,
X 10,000 that I wish I could repost, this worthy cause,
but here I must pause, for you have given me a pleasured
insight, in right, it is us who should be shy, for not
honoring
you ever so much more.
with affection,
even I, Left Foot Poet
get it righted, sooner,
but never, is not permissible
so let us sail on...together...
Sep 2, 2025
Sep 2, 2025 at 7:40 PM UTC
griseous risibility (the shrinkage of me, the hard way)
of course you're clueless
what the hll this means,
well, let your own fingers do
the pressing, cut & pasting,
my version, is the mockery
of me who grows grayer
daily, in every place, even
in the oddities where your
eyes cannot go, fingers can't
swipe, nor touche caresse,
alas, when I tell you, it's felt
in the tightening of the belt,
the squeezing of the vigor,
pressure on the mental vim
hiding under bed, doesn't
help the head, in fact, hesitate,
when you anticipate the congress
of neighbors called to get me
our from underneath, me, laughing
stock, the only stock I own that's
actually going up, yield to the
overwhelming defeat by the
totality grayness becoming
what's left of my shriveling self
cuddle, stroke pat & pet
what's left, of my disappearing
existential marking of the spot,
in this ha! expanding uni-verse
of the shrinkage of me…
the hard way
Aug 30, 2025
Aug 30, 2025 at 4:59 PM UTC
A companion poem to:
When Love Grows Old [1]
a differing perspective,
liking the eye opening
view this occluded,
cloudy closed Saturday,
a morning gray, early days,
it comes with opportunities
aplenty & new word combinations
in a new world awaiting a Magellan
I spy discoverer, and
we
two
have more than 150 years
existence tween us and that
makes me grin, because I anointed
her to a new position yesterday:
Chief Technology Officer
the very expensive machine
that supplies us with energizing
fresh plasma, clean blood invigorating, without which
we could nary drag our antiquated
bodies to the next day,
got on the phone, dialed an
800 number,
stuck het hand deep into it's gizzard innards, and released the
machina from it looping flashing
display of displaying its non-cooperation and its message that
It was unwell, abd she operated,
and made out coffee machine well
again
snd gave us this Sabbath, a reason to be thankful having righted this
left footed poet to a younger
poet boy~man
again, a gain!
Jun 28, 2025
Jun 28, 2025 at 8:34 AM UTC
it ain't easy, when you relate, restrict and delegate,
when you draw a narrow lane on a highway that says
only left footed
poets need apply
<>
it does not say
**slow cars stay to the right,
only trucks,
or oddly even,
no trucks**
I love seasonality,
without thickly thinking
you take a break
from the poetry writing
one day I'll figure out a way
to monetize my love poems,
publish them as Shakespeare's couple(t)s,
"new edition plus
a couple of
newfound poems!"
maybe some fools will buy some thinking Shakespeare has been, resurrected!
*love grows goes hot all over and
grow slower older
and grow colder,
in between those fine
ticklish teasing moments*
when the miracle of resurrection repeats itself
something is said
a gesture is made
a finger strokes the cheek,
unexpected
and it all comes
rushing back again,
overfilling
that coffee cup mug she bought
just(ice)
for you
*ain't gonna check how long it's been
since last I declaimed, disclaimed,
inflamed,
these pages with an only love poem
but I do know this:
it is something I think about,
It is something I know about,
it is something I feel about
daily
even on the nothing days,
when routine takes over
I know you couldn't remember of its passage,
is the waking up and the lying down to sleep*
but the poets eyes are always open his emotive secret senses,
always alert,
what's that thing they always say,
his heart just wasn't in it!
(🥴if they only knew the truth😘)
Jun 25, 2025
Jun 25, 2025 at 6:04 PM UTC
why when we compose
on matters urgent
oh my love
are we not provisioned with
beginnings and endings,
opening and closings?
We know what needs to be said,
the symmetry of butter and bread,
but how to begin and how to end,
these difficulties, not easy to comprehend
how to get
to the heart of the matter,
the door to the hallway
leading and departing
to
the front door entrance,
to the front door exit,
don’t know the words to begin,
the words to end,
which way does
the door open or close?
so read this, please, sit beside me,
while you place your fingertips
on my lips
and encourage me to
just say it!
Mar 2, 2025
Mar 2, 2025 at 10:32 AM UTC
first, please see the Mary Oliver poem below
<•>
Oh! you you puncture me with your words,
direct to the sticking place, where the insertion wound cries out,
but does not bleed
my life punctuated by the, no!
punctured
bye absence of wild,
did this permit it precocious
preciousness to deteriorate?
The safe route, the wrong Fork chosen,
The tings impale, my pretend satiation,
My life is nearly over,
should I get plan?
this poetic life struggles within and to get out,
but there is no plan to let it escape,
me remake,
turn me to a peripatetic bee,
pollinating a wildflower as a mere messenger,
a carrier, only to return home to
deliver and die
*precious poem
on my lips*
February 9, 2025
Feb 28, 2025
Feb 28, 2025 at 4:22 PM UTC
thank the maker who knew
that we did not require a
trained eye to love, appreciate
the reading of a poem
no the untrained eye still
leads the words for dispersal
to the other senses to ingest,
invest, instigate the insight
insides, to be moved by the
gifts of piety of poets, whose
eye see the life poetic and
command any all words
to train us to better understand
what it is
how it is
why it it
where it is
feelings word flowers
of that which is undeniably
essential
Feb 9, 2025
Feb 9, 2025 at 12:30 PM UTC
i place my head beside her thigh
as if to sleep in her warmth,
I say Twosday,
she says,what?
I repeat, Twosday,
Yes, she say, it is,
pausing to consider
and connect
my dots:
Ha, you’re writing a poem!
“head connected to my thigh bone,
drawing from within me,
the necessary ingredients to
inspire, perspire,-and respire
this agglomeration of the
in and out of your surroundings
contacting pulses”
I think, ah,
she’s got it,
but all I say and
state with definiteness,
by repeating,
and breathing out
Toosday, Twosday!
Jan 16, 2025
Jan 16, 2025 at 11:09 AM UTC
Dec. 2024
this woman is my destiny,
so much to believe in,
she loves me when the
world disbelieved in the:
the who,
in the,
we~hope,
of a
we~too
on the fusion continuum
we slide, on playground steel,
shiny, hot, not caring, playing
grown up~maybe, one behind
the other, gleefull shrieking &
screaming upon falling into
a pile, a jumbled unity, of
tumbled older bones
now decades later, we play
at forever, when we early morn
seek out the empty places,
and play once more, now shoes off,
but slip~sliding full of
undignified noises at the top
to the
all~the~way~down,
we wake up
tbe neighborhood,
and once in a while,
people cone running
to see who are these noisy
usurpers identity, and we
climb up to the top,
lungs expelling a shout,
*”so much to
believe in!*”
Jan 14, 2025
Jan 14, 2025 at 4:42 PM UTC
“We’ve engineered the world for comfort and ease. Most people rarely step outside of their comfort zones these days—we’re living progressively soft, sterile, temperature-controlled, overfed, under-challenged, safety-netted lives1. And it’s slowly limiting the degree to which we experience our, as the poet Mary Oliver put it, “one wild and precious life.””
Michael Easter, Substack
<>><<>
five months have expired
from when this notion
1st caught my notice
but fallow lay,
unattended, unremarked
unforgiving
of my ignorance and inattention
but it freshly, rightly,
core challenges me
guilty of the underbelly softness
so well described,
I
choose to scribe,
wrestle with angel and devil,
two~on~one human,
and yet, still a
fair fight
"wild and precious!"
how rarely we employ these
adjectives,
that conjure the edginess of an
existence
lest you think,
that we are here to implore, urge,
skydiving, remote wilderness trekking, or other physical states
that set adrenaline on fire,
I am not
afterthat for them
oh, my
wild and precious
is far more treacherous and enthralling
what I beg you to embrace is
no farther than
nubs, knobs and stubbled nibs of your fingers,
the taste buds flowering invisible
on the wily, twisty tongue,
the tiny-vibrating little hairs of your nostril,
two extra large eggy pupils of your two eyes,
here lies danger,
your customized throbbing throbbing your drumming,
leadings
access to the garden of
The truly wild and precious,
the poems you will scribe,
from the safety of your captains chair,,
Throwing caution to the wind compose and depose yourself with bitter questioning,
For which the answered answers must be truly be
wild and precious
cyan sighs,
oaken cries,
furious colorless invasive tears,
steely stabbing personal truths,
yes those wild ones,
in your. chest close held,
spill them like cold coffee,
surrender the precious, and
inward confess your
shame, gains and the relit
that you are not merely
wild and precious
but a sea borne sailor,
a navy voyaging to
to where
danger enthralls
enlivens!
Jun 21, 2025
Jun 21, 2025 at 10:23 AM UTC
Sabbath 7:31am Jan 11, 2025
<•>
For later, forecast proclaims:
snow showers for much of the day,
but in our temperate clime, rarely
do we get inches or feats of accumulation,
but it will be chill enough to turn my
heavy duty “Icer” navy coat to its
whiteout version, where the flakes
individually attach themselves to
to fat fabric for self-preservation,
displaying their distinct DNA patterns of intricate crystallization artwork on a
gallery of me…
assuredly, some will attach to eyelashes
and extruded tongue, perhaps inhaled,
in nostril and open mouth, as I employ
all my senses to retain, retrain, my brain,
to walk alongside a saltwater estuary that
welcomes every flake as a long lost son and
daughter, who has returned from its prodigal global journey around the world, to melt back into a mother’s currents embrace, returning
home to my patch of briefly occupied spatial, white palatial existence
I anticipate the taste of snow to be a
multi~flavored cone, souvenirs, accrued
while globe trotting, with hints ofAsian
spices, on a riverbed of Italian red
peppery tomato sauce, the crusty
spicy fabric of the fried chickpeas of the Middle East, the cilantro stinging of Latin continents,and pretend that my nature
wetted cheeks are so because I cry & walk alone, sadness flavored, wishing I could partake of this snowy journey repast, with you by my side, for how much better would this global travelled whirlpool repast of white ice and scented airs, tastes if it could be joyfully shared
but I am by myself,
sensibly refused companionship
by others, and my
voyaged meditation now,
well ended,
well recall,
Whitman’s Song of Myself (1) conclusion:
“**You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self**”
join me?
Jan 11, 2025
Jan 11, 2025 at 10:57 AM UTC
•*For Thyreez,
because she aspires*•
<>
most of us, no,
almost all of us,
collectors, of those little things,
real, substantive,
kept in that drawer,
reminders of collected moments,
of places people, successes, tragedies,
lumped together because,
just because
they constitute the pinpricks,
the meddles, safety pins, needles
of our lives, some treasures,
and a few collectibles of
black trimmed saddies
I have such a drawer,
admixture of single cufflinks, spare buttons,
Aaa batteries that might still work,
expired credit cards, charging cords for
devices long ago discarded,
a whole class of items I call
you never know when
some slides, pics from prehistoric times
when we never dreamed of magic phones
as life’s mini storage units
even I had
a lipstick kiss napkin,
just in case, when was required a
need a brevity taste of
a sad time-in-‘n-out
and back again
to feel human
but the mission critical
little things
do not fit in a drawer,
for they are the action’s & visions
we seize and keep in shadowy unseen
but inserted
grey cells
the taste, aroma, of that first cup of coffee
made by whoever was up first,
brought and placed on the nightstand
with a nudge, that failing, a very wet
kiss and a foot-beneath-blanket-squeeze,
the feel~touch of a particular locket,
the never-to be-removed-ever,
till it was
placed perhaps in someone else’s
drawer, shoebox, attic, or lost
in a ‘can’t be foundering place’
we probably have all three;
the drawer, the memory triggers,
the lost items that cannot be
lost, or forgot nor found
and I think and add all these,
I realize that this script
is
one such of the places,
where we put things,
we might need someday,
or maybe never but,
•you never know when!•
Jan 4, 2025
Jan 4, 2025 at 8:18 AM UTC
some sounds and guttural expressions,
unique property of individual & groups,
no, won’t explicate this
too much further
but…
anyhoo, in the realm of naked laughter ,
undisguised, unhooded,
a modest-ly hand-covered giggle,
primarly but not exclusively,
the propety of the feminine wile,
so much so, a ‘girlish giggle’ needs no
hyphenation, or hydration,
just imagining grinning
eyes and lips, crinkling
and the ability to easy while
through one’s
nose breathing
well understood it is the
la feminine,
this witty twitty
in the provence, of women,
particularly the younger at heart
who titter with the glee
of reckless uninhibited unlimited
gig-gig-gigl-ling-ling
(N.B. young st heart is an ageless concept)
the Frenchies in their
Frenchified (1)
(alt.; frenchfried) ways
call a giggle, a puff of laughter, (2)
which sounds so modestly ladylike,
but in the US of A, a girl giggle,
a really good GG,
needs not be so demure,
and can possibly extend into a raucous cackling infectious,
yet discreet
uncontrollable belly slapping laugh,
given the kerrect circumstances
love me them GG’s
Dec 20, 2024
Dec 20, 2024 at 9:18 AM UTC
”High agency goes beyond having a positive attitude or being optimistic, it involves consistently and determinedly pursuing your own goals, regardless of the challenges that may arise. It represents true empowerment, where people take full control of their actions and the results they achieve”
<>
A newish term,
popping up with
semi-regularity,
that is not intuitive
until explicated…
by yours truly,
a youngish
septuagenarian,
an oldie term,
yet one which
the poet proceeded,
needed ‘the google’
to be sure the meaning
of same, is what it is…
and is a qualification
deserved, earned…
he speaks in tales, long winded,
that few have patience for,
but he is a high agent & don’t care,
and he believes in himself,
no what the cost,
spit and ridicule no longer affect,
his poems here for the asking,
ask and you will receive his
chilly shaky daily poesy in a pink
ribbon tied, for nothing says more
than he is high, when he gives freely
this words for your taking!
Dec 7, 2024
Dec 7, 2024 at 8:40 AM UTC
“In some office sits a poet,
and he trembles as he sings,
and he asks some guy,
to circulate his soul around”
Joni Mitchell
<>
joni:
your both sides
then and now,
was my guiding glasses
for a life of motley loving
and love, gained, pained,
lost and found
as a younger man,
and now, as old soul
with rear view perspective,
the glasses tinted transition grey,
(matching his pallor, his hair.
his transient perspective,
trembling fingers as he writes,
with humility,
0
pleeze circulate these
decoded words
mate them out of clay
hoping come new daylight
one or two, even a few
will lend a rosy thistle, blow softly
an encouraging breeze
upon this poem
the freedom to burn into
glowing embers
in our circulating worlds
of pass/fail
it’s my mere soul
you pass judgement
with a hint of tasteful scents
on
and beyond
with an
honorable push
your mentioned
breath,
guiding them
to the currents
where poems go to
blossom
Nov 17, 2024
Nov 17, 2024 at 9:39 AM UTC
today,
walked the river arcade,
by the river~side.
same,
where, & when,
a decade earlier
and a laugh ago,
we performed
a daily differential calculus
of the distance to that line,
a watermark,
where my accidental drowning
would be insurance covered
don’t recall, if back then,
poetry writin’ was a good
a daily companion, or-even
a mere passing acquaintance
but went to
all-in-all-alone-freedom,
found riches,
yet still pressed in rags
of remorse, mourning surely,
until & still a
woman, or
three, rated me a
good looking edible,
even
if only didn't always dress
in black, head to toes, like an
extra cool new yorker, or an
attendee at my own fun~ereal
since those days,
gallons millions, zillions
of brackish seawater has flowed
out to sea as far as
England, Philippines, New Zealand,
whichever be connected to the
rain water of Adirondack mountains
flowing past East 57th Street,
my salty tears replenished,
but time changed the causation,
from oy to joy in simp terms
that rhymes…with me and yours
water woman water woman water
makes the heart capable of weeping
tears of joy,
oh! happy drowning
how do
you cross from woman to water,
that, now I walk on a
water bridge of loving
hard, steel & liquidity of
concrete, smooth roughness
became the path to loving living
Nov 21, 2024
Nov 21, 2024 at 7:13 AM UTC
might surprise, but among the few
in my posses, my oldest,
frequent
visitor by night dream and
occasionally,
a summit by daytime scream,
why of course,
referencing the Angel of Death…
now for safety reasons,
we have never met
face to face,
(nor have
you and I)
but we are in
frequent communication
these latter days, though
our friendship began
decadent decades ago,
in my teenage years…
Sep 13, 2024
Sep 13, 2024 at 6:07 PM UTC
somewhere nearby is a closet that only ever expands,
and all sacrificial offerings of homage, therein, accepted,
I know of a t-shirt of a medium gray chesterfield, with
white lettering, in a simple font, waiting, stating that:
FOG HAPPENS
this blunt factual, a summary judgment, does not
do fog full justice, though on the islands where I live,
its directness captures the massive totality of the
power of fog as a gentler reminder by the gods of
weather, that they are in possession of tools varied,
and fog which exert no harm directly, yet is fearsome
paralyzing, and extraordinarily stealthy, sneaky and
some other word that begins with S but propriety forbids
my writing *****
is akin to an alien invasion, covering, never hovering,
taking all as prisoner, though never a full on
kidnapping, just an unlawful imprisonment -
sure you’re “safe” in the confines of your abode,
which is actually alarming, when you look out
the windows and see nothing, awaiting for your
own disappearance too but your cells knowledge
reassurance says not today boy, but do stay inside!
fog does not burn off. myth. it moves en masse,
in its beyond~bulky
undefined confines,
as a singular one celled amoeba,
moving at its own chosen speed, somewhere else,
to hide comfortably, knowing that its power is truly
awesome.
we watch it depart with relief, though it can come for
extended vacations in your environs, its peripatetic
course is such that it likes to lazy~leave, oft dropping
off pieces that are gentle called medium cloud cover,
as a reminder/warning/mission statement of
*anytime, anywhere, anyway and nothing can
impede, inhibit, interfere, interrupt, with its own
rules of engagement, and is always victorious!*
I will cease here, for there much more yet
to say about fog, as I’m watching its slow
withdrawal to caves in the sky, comfortable
air conditioned and above interfering rain clouds,
and the sun rays cannot harm its delicate,
deadly elemental,
shades of pale soft skin.
But it will be back, and so will I, to chronicle its
misadventures, describing better its blunderbuss
personality, hidden complexities, but for now know
in its abbreviated simplicity, eloquent encapture,
and all encapsulating nature, ‘tis no accident that
there are many things in your life beyond your control,
but this phenomenon unique for there is no
countervailing, counterwailing,
only a
just does,
but with no justification
only obsfucation,
when we state:
FOG HAPPENS!
May 21, 2024
May 21, 2024 at 9:06 AM UTC
~ For Mike~
an abundance of:
illogical reasons,
of hate,
of emboldened badness beyond inexplicable,
and nor is it
episodic, not periodic, but abundantly continuous,
so
no need for a fan, one of those upright six foot tall,
MF’er tornado sounding fans, for the hate free flies every where,
damning the consequences, full speed ahead, spreading
medieval plague style, and as we two talk of this world,
on this world,
electronically a thousand miles apart,
we, worn and wearied, being ****** and awaiting the
spill doors to unleash officially tidal waves of
dammed up, still held back raging, hate
that is just edging over the top,
a nauseating goop (apologies to what’s her name),
I awake at 4:something
*(to complete six hours later
whatever this is, this lamentation, of woe and sackcloth,
ashes on my tongue,
commenced the eve before,
but genetically ancient and familiar
in all
my cells),*
to complete this heavy evensong,
commenced and begun seven hours earlier when one soul
states to another a simple,
*“forgive me, my heart is heavyweight heavy tonight,
the world’s disheartened burdens beyond bearable,”*
the quiet calm of a sleeping house pervades my soul,
and a lament is transmogrified into a
psalm of hope;
for having shared the pain,
when one asks the other for forgiveness,
for exposing the other to this sadness infectious,
then,
understanding and comprehension
overcome me,
realizing that hatred has failed
when two bleed into each other,
that
shared distress is
distress defeated,
by a large and grandeur
purer expression of connection
across state lines,
tween two souls
unlikely to meet,
ever,
and yet this cellular combination
is so powerful, so
a w e s o m e,
it is
indefatigable,
(incapable of being defeated)
and we are each others
Shepherd and lamb,
in a time of woe,
one more time,
but soon the dawn will come
to welcome us with
the embrace of a newborn,
uncontaminated,
and to finish this now psalm,
now, and forever
newly perfected.
Apr 1, 2024
Apr 1, 2024 at 5:25 AM UTC
where do a good man’s dreams go?
*they leech, from brain to fingertips,
they fall & rise slow to the toes, no,
not gravity, but the weightlessness
of good dreams, up and down,
lets them invade our extremities,
so the migration is a transformation,
from dream to possible, from ephemeral,
to hardened becoming, to a realized*
dream retold, nay, foretold,
in deed,
indeed,
always, better!
Jun 22, 2023
Jun 22, 2023 at 5:28 PM UTC
they hit you everywhere,
bruises, slow faders,
pretty much all over,
spaced out, body and time
some, they come back,
months, years later,
enticing, devising,
with revelations perfect,
you melt with helpfulness
some claim they are born
with only questions and an
insatiable quest for knowing,
but line in the soil tween rows
is there for you not to cross
some proffer their pain,
asking for ablution and absolution,
from demons they wish to share,
but refusing the smoke of my offering,
that could cleanse both our inhalations
like highway men of yore,
they hit everyone, below the belt,
stave breaking into the heart,
slow bleeding, with answers
received in absentia and silence
until the till needs refilling, and they
renewed, reappear, reformed, with
perfect words, even better questions:
my portfolio of replies mostly go/grow
old, noting the obvious, we are socially
distance by age and geography and
degree, I free and clear to provide while
they just free to hit and run, one more time
Aug 6, 2020
Aug 6, 2020 at 9:11 PM UTC
morning contradictories: mourning our poems, falling stars
awaken to a sunshiny Saturday,
the lazys, their coverlet of flowers,
inhibit our movements, now, as it nears
high noon, we have yet from our bed stir
August has be-come, the grass pockets
of gray and green, swaths of sunburn brown,
reveal how far along the North American
summer has poetry passed, irretrievable
reading your messages and notes from
world over, lazy licking you poems so many,
delighting, ponderous and oft heroic, as well,
weeping as too many become fallen stars
each grass blade, from earth born and returned,
the nutrients preserved in our sandy soil, intended
to nurture next summer’s poesy new birthrights,
green+browned, weep+smile, mutual contradictories
these poem best friends, passing by each other at lifecycle’s
multi-paths, metaphors for our too many morning stirrings,
most to be falling like stars that, though in motion, need not
come to rest ever, their movement attracts a one…lasting look
it nears noon, it nears this poem’s timely finishing touch,
straighten its tie, smooth its skirted pleats, a forehead
implant kiss goodbye, sent on its way to find its own weight,
no parent ere admit, it leaves, with tear-burst showers falling…
August 1
2020
noon
Aug 1, 2020
Aug 1, 2020 at 12:06 PM UTC