#natty
there are many places one needs to be strong from within,
periodically differing.
but there are two places which be deemed
Sine qua non
meaning
"without which not,”
referring to indispensable, essential condition
ingredient absolutely.
the strength
of the heart and the hands
didn’t not think there was within me this day,
a new morning blessing, a first poem of the day,
the weakened mind was troubled, the uncertainties were /are
surrounding the wagon train, and the strength
of my keys were, tired and de energized, and there
is no Amazon listing for electric charger of alternating
body parts
sitting in an orange sun suffused room of near total silence
(always something somewhere beeping, whirring)
which is the near indispensable silence
beloved best,
for it be a cold cream soothing of mental quietude reflective)
and the truer strength in my
trembling heart and hands
surprises me pleasantly
affording me the necessary internal intestinal quietude
to be seeking out
these two parts and ones place
for to
write me a poem,
a consoling ode,
will not detail this poem onerous unnecessarily
though words keep on slipping from my thoughts
begging me to be joint contributors;
but I gently sweep them aside
for a later day, later time, another
focus group of intro inspection
at this particular,
the heart beats emphatically and empathetically
the hands type and also (!) suckle my heated mug
and here I cease, resist,
leaving you to delve on your time the whys of,
how the combo’s of
heart and hands
came to rescue me
just now
and
you will let me know
in beautiful crafted poems
of thine own quiet~attitude
how they
two
came to save you
too
——
fini
7:43am
nyc
mon morn april 20
Apr 20
Apr 20, 2026 at 7:13 AM UTC
Dream on
because
without dreams, the human existence is pointless
Mar 9
Mar 9, 2026 at 4:53 PM UTC
for A.
4:13am
~~~~
there are languages that come out
machine gunning nearby bystanders,
there are musical languages,
lyrical, melodic, rhythmic musical,
there are the guttural,
oft the most cultural,
that sound like a chemical formula
expressed in numeric notation,
so many languages, so many unwrit poems,
you, new poet, in every language,
use your natural affinity to language,
and all your altering emotions to test and improve
your comprehension of self-understanding
and the journey we all must travel daily…
begin to look outside yourself, the world entire,
nature, time, what makes humans unique, good,
and ****** your talent into new paths, new worlds,
new hopes…become an artisan, artist, wordsmith,
take your language, any and all languages, pour
uniqueness from every pore, examine you exteriors,
wield your tools like scalpels and hammers, drills
to break our crusted earth, our jails of humdrum,
commandeer the ship that sails through storms of
seas that would drown us, save souls, and start,
foremost and first, firing bursts, aiming to release,
give forth your due, paying your
dues
to journey on to being a well being, and
thrill all
who come along to share your storms,
and better to learn how to navigate
our own
Mar 4
Mar 4, 2026 at 5:32 PM UTC
*** poetry pills protein.
the first calendared reminder
of every day of my life
empty
fill
maintain
sustain
body&soul
<nml>
Feb 27
Feb 27, 2026 at 6:05 AM UTC
never have I ever
started a new day without
reading 3 dozen of your
newly coined,
freshly green minted mints
of your poems
syringe injected
into my fingertips
within a solution of mugged coffee
for the assured high of hero~in~cised
inspiration
laughing out loud,
announcing to the dark room
filled with ghosty musies,
poetry groupies…
<nml>
@ 555am
This,
The next-to-last day of a
“now, we may begin!”
Freaky Freezing February
Feb 27
Feb 27, 2026 at 6:00 AM UTC
the commencement is
“will”
and the graduation is
“hope”
~~~~~
will
poem time
day love life
write poetry poems
man long good
eyes human heart
word best poet
body better days
place read mind
years mine night
god soul poets
light sun woman
single writing true
white easy keep
living water work
lost find forever
hands daily city
answer summer head
face things morning
hard sleep tears
left live thy
rest full year
moment free
real deep knowing great
three children inside
hand longer bed
ago making child
men born skin
red call early
sweet **** small
poetic side brain
truth return matter
times black speak
chest thinking thing
lives course oft
kind today simple
writ hear blood
young slow feel
tongue pain bad
friends sea fall
blue hours lines
high wrote dreams
people future tho
fresh smile perfect
till open sky
room thought written
death leave quiet
voice nat coffee
share sure question
late street coming
earth
hope
11:38 AM on Tuesday, February 24, 2025
Feb 24
Feb 24, 2026 at 11:07 AM UTC
throughout the day,
so so many times,
not to ascetically
ascertain the wind’s
tumultuous blustery re~direction
no far far more mundane,
as I sashay about my complected
complex of the single room of my
life,
with wetted finger tip,
from the floor, I deft retrieve
the detritus of my life, my
leavings become my takings,
many scraps of symbolisms,
actualized dirt, so named when
to the floor they are fall~felled,
uninterrupted
unnoticed,
white & speckled objects,
of all coloeurs,
chips and chaps of my existence,
floated or fallen,
to the floor’s dry ocean bed,
ripped paper scraps,
vegetable peelings,
in equal weight
nature’s man made fruits,
of daily life retrieved to
be re~disposed, reposed,
dumped, composted,
literati composed,
when the atoms of my many
saliva’d fingertip
electron edged magnetized,
lift these assorted sordid,
all are recycled, these
itinerant social words
and verbs, and
POOF!
“there goes another rubber tree poem…”
Feb 23
Feb 23, 2026 at 4:28 PM UTC
from my fingertips emanating,
wafting, waving, farewell,
overseas bound, many lines of
demarcation to cross,
I am now acquiring, acquainted,
e~spiced,
by your geo~locality,
feeling the acquired
cumin, coriander, turmeric, mustard seeds, and cardamon,
ah, cardamon!
upon us
thus my arrival, disguised,
and you sweet~puzzler
inquire of the clouds,
what is this vaguely, and yet, too familiar,
crisscrossed scent, tantalizing but
a strangely~familiar unknown?
and you reply to yourself,
thinking twice,
examining your heart,
unleashing with eyes closed
the
lashing aroma scented vision of notes,
that penetrate the
skin pores
and you say:
ah ha!
that name,
that. name.
I am that spice,
knowing that name,
I am
so named….
Feb 23
Feb 23, 2026 at 12:10 PM UTC
night/night
time/time
night overheats
wet awake, damp is the status:
mystery no more, familiarity brings unsurprise,
the machine issues environmental sounds,
cool air, deep cover, setup ~ perfect
wake up soaked/mystified/drizzled unhappy/awake to change/
meaning comes
/pieces of randome thoughts/movie trailer bite sized/
these are:
sweating words/eager for realization/escape needy/impatiented
by foible human/who needs sleep? is the unasked question...
dress for winter, may I? in May?????/!!!!! /!\
~change to summery
"ACTIVE WEAR" at-tire<>
skin expose<>
AM I NOT ACTIVE?
thus this oddity poem/product of sweat/
provides cooling panting/dog?
am I a dog?
that would be nice!
sadly or nat~not, a human
o verfilled / o verflowing
tale telling from evrey pore/ Alcatraz escape/ recaptured/twisted
d a m p
became a poem/d a m p is me
becoming/ reducing/emitting/inquiring/
enquiring/
aligned
will this be my last poem?
sweating with/from/AND
all the way over to............................................................Anticipation...
Apr 19, 2025
Apr 19, 2025 at 2:23 PM UTC
when the time is best described as
"the morning muddled middle"
for it is the middle of the night,
and yet,
we have crossed over the midnight divide,
the new day is well commenced,
but the prevailing dark sky says,
not quite yet!
this journey,
from the bed to the head,
is an abbreviated 20 steps,
you fall out of one,
unable to recall,
hours of vivid dreams,
now only scraps of script,
visions, whipped into the void
of the current blanket of a
night cosseting silence
in return for this
adventure travelogue,
you are granted free access to the top of your skull,
where apparently,
a new set, a fresh combo,
has been delivered, not by Amazon
not by messenger, not by the USPS,
but by your own,
fermenting, fermenting, formidable,
yawning
brain cells
and a poem appears,
wholly holy complete
space, typed and neat,
and falls from your lips,
filtered by your eyes
with no hesitation,
"and not a trace of farewell*
and this miracle,
is no miracle at all,
for it is routinized,
a daily occurrence,
the mystery of it
long gone,
The How,
dissipated, disappeared,
and delivered unto
You
your obligation, your need,
your urgent pungent
purging,
is strifeless,
and you owe
but you have no idea
to whom or what
to thank for this
bestowing
is this poem a stowaway?
or did it pay for its passage,
in cash, by credit card,
or barter ?
if by barter,
what did I surrender?
what item or thing of great value did I trade
for this permissive missive
that was created
for the soul purpose,
of being shared?
it's birth was painless,
the cutting of the cord,
was never felt!
and within minutes,
it went from birth to babe,
child to adolescent,
young adult to middle aged,
to now,
a senior senile senatorial
presents itself fully formed,
weaned wise and wizened
and served to you
on white porcelain dishes,
with black cutlery
so fresh, so hot, so new,
that you are the first
or perhaps the last,
even the only
to ever taste it…
I ask for your forgiveness,
though invited
on this journey to this meal
and it's many courses
and its mirrored ball of
disco discourses,
it is signaling,
like a wise fool frantically waving,
enough!
telling you that you
have arrived
at an ending,
that we each name,
Our Destination
so be it
** so be it*
so it be
now a shared property
<>
NML
April 15, 2025
labor commenced
at 2:27 AM
and the poem~baby
with all its limbs, all its senses,
was delivered to you,
its adaptive & adoptive
parents
at 3:22 AM
so good night, good day
and good luck!
Apr 15, 2025
Apr 15, 2025 at 5:24 PM UTC
>crumbled, rumbled, street survivors,
paper scraps that took the rage abuse rap,
dead love notes, bills red with overdues,
these pre-poems have traveled wind currents
some in from Jersey, some hailing Minnesota,
ain't never see one that crossed the Atlantic,
but reckon it is not a theoretical impossibilty
unpretty city streets, like a museum, collects 'em,
plenty of exhibition space, forlon, historically
orphaned, disbanded, whose paths all got confused,
some sweet, all beat, balled and thrown, no home,
no more, each a reveille, each humming taps, now,
all scented by strret odors, none pleasant, each was
in its prior life, the meat, the grist, the meal of what
was, coulda been, a poem that would have survived
yellowed in care, tender glanced, tucked in books,
safekept, but slipped away, victims of friction, fraction
look down, be unafraid, unravel them slow, careful,
abused, all these messengers all need a good home,
a box in a closet, a book of tenders, witnesses to what
they've seen, places they've been, hand held, tenderized
by words spiced, variegated, ink, pencil, typewritten, like
their prior human authors, all sizes, all shapes, some on
colored paper, a l l astrayed, accidental, purposed, details
and detritus, once deemed essemtial, important, necessary
and needed, even believed, but times change
you're stuck, brain ain't cooperating, tired of staring inside
your self's self, pull on a sweater, it's a chilly spring overcast air,
that don't natural warm, more naturally warn, be careful where,
you step, your next poem is laying right there, grab a few, take
more than a couple, this is like a school dance, try a few, until
you bank the right one in the till, the connection made, a kiss,
in secret stolen, and the drive, the forces, the perspiration urgency
leads to you desk, nook, granny's cranny, and the world of words
overflow like seagulls in a harbor, so many spilling, hard is the
choosing, but excited adrenaline, free basing, in your veins and
**** you gotta just write again, right now, add a ***** poem
back to its rightful place in a heart, upon eyes, tongue taste them
syllables, clap and laugh as they symmetrically form, subtle rhyming,
the sleeping seeds have sprouted, the brown brain loamy cells,
fertile and potent, energize, impregnate, and you just can't wait
to walk the streets, in search of many, many more
it's ok, you have permission to utter a whispery nearly silent
hallelujah<
Apr 13, 2025
Apr 13, 2025 at 10:31 AM UTC
(**~for Stella Marie, a newly arrived poet here at HP"
who asks, "when does a poem truly end?"~**)
She's off,
to a fancy, long gown, dinner dance, with her dancing partner,
a relationship that predates my arrival, my tired song reminder,
"but don't forget who's taking you home" has aged out from repetition,
and now she slips in beside me 'round midnight, and more often than not
so smooth, so silently, I wake up to early morn poetry writing time
and there she is, a Britbox ****** mystery dissolving on the tv screen,
earpoded and still miraculously,
deeply asleep
before she departs, poses for a final inspection,
demonstrating my wonderful
ability to adorn her gorgeous jewlery,
and sardonically modest, critique her with, an
"as expected,
you looking gorgeous"
which evokes her soft smile, at my soft edged compliment
but earlier, whine like a grown man on a diet (so pathetic).
there is nothing
sweet to eat for my apres dinner just(ice) dessert,
and leaving me chicken soup salty and
aggravated...she in a neutral tone,
a child practiced tone,
"go check the fresh fruit drawer, there is fresh fruit aplenty,"
and I, mentally comparing my desire for a raisin scone,
or vanilla butterscotch swirl,
to the taste bud reaction unfufilled,
find the clear plastic box of fresh blackberries,
like Leornard's tea,
that comes all the way from Mexique,
and inelegantly stuff my face...
been writin poetry since early morn, pre~sunrise, through first daylight,
and now eventide, she's off, the apartment gone quiet, as I munch on twelve blackberries I have extracted to ease my sweetness lacking
but blackberries are **** ****** that won't quell my inner needs,
of course, the notion of twelve blackberries, says, mmmm, could
be a poem in there somewhere, and the muses whisper asides, clues,
hints and apparitions of trite not quite ripe lines and verses that might
be apropos to a poem so ilked and milked (sorry), AND that word hits me
tween and behind my blue gray eyes,
T A R T
----------
with its mulivariable shades of meaning,
which amuse. and I love,
but also accuse me of possibly be distracted intowriting
bad poetry,
and wonder how the tongue disassembles our food,
separating their essence into the varieties of taste sensations,
sweet, sour, salty, bitter and savory
and reflect how wise these tiny tatse buds know
just how we humans sort people into categories that
mimic
just how knowing, assess, categorize,
our fellows humans
along the same principles,
how can there not be a supreme intelligence,
that designed our bodies so similarly
and yet so differently,
and efficiently?
something if we thought about more,
might make us less inclined to blow each other up
with such genteel aplomb.
apologize for dragging you through this rambling essay,
**but it came about when Stella Marie
asks, "when does a poem truly end?"**
it ends here, when you captures the flows of the living currents
we surround ourselves with, reaching out to capture their
flowing parfume essences,
the sweet, the sour, the savory,
and connecting them to a larger envisioning,
which how we operate,
why we do not ignore spectacular sunrises, sunsets,
the "curve of a wrist"
how an ankle turns a leg into a finished sentence,
how tears confess true emotion and clarify,
even though they actually intefere with seeing,
and now its time to depart, end this long rhyme
about longing,
for something sweet
and the short answer is,
jumbling and humbling,
"you just know"
for she's back and read this poem,
and tartly replies directly,
and answers your question
nml
Apr 8, 2025
Apr 8, 2025 at 10:00 PM UTC
Ye olde Yo-cum, advises get thee to a nunnery of trees, leaves of sunlight scorched sunrises and sunsets to clear the cobwebs and recall more fully the good stuff, like in Oregun,
allow it to resonant via ****** shots of temporal, but seasonal natural harmony, a more regulat visitor of the upcoming comes of good weather and the life by the water, on a tiny islansd, long lazy days, and a lessening of the
mental haze-ing
punctuating life with long walks and teardrops of tears, poetry suggestives, will be dropping from icy white cumulus every day clouds, moving to uncover the elaborate and running trills of colutara words lurking within, no more the blaring horns of trafficked sounds of First Ave., trucks fighting to de-liver-er the urgencies of consumption (a most excellent disease) and the potpourri symphony of marching bands blaring of ambulances, fire trucks, and the EXTRAordinary impatience of horn blaring taxis up and down York Ave., dropping off patients 24-7 at a laundry list of "specialized" Hospitals with "views of the river in every room"
I miss the quietude noises of summer breezes tickling minds, trees frothing a
cappucino sun heated breeze to stir the blush and rush of words forming faster than the mind can absorb;
alas, alas, this same mind can never fully squeeze out the sins of memories of winter's travails and yet, the mere suggestion of my old friends embracing me, sun, wind, green landscapes, sea and land animals coming to greet the human interlopers makes me all stirred up, like watching white milk in black coffee spread its cooling affection and lightening the black; aerate and mixing the perptual continuum of my ever slowly chilling bloodstream streaming to mind
and I sigh, for many reasons...but in my heart, I am, and remain, forever a summer man...
aerate and mix and I sigh, for many reasons...
Absent brain surgery, the mind wanders following the sun's trajectory, wither?
Mar 29, 2025
Mar 29, 2025 at 7:40 AM UTC
musing on memory and all that
re its capabilities, its utilities
and wondrous
abilities, to cover, recover, and
surprise surprise uncover the known
and unknown, what was, what is and
what there is to dis-cover, for memory
is a tricky ole ******* you recall what you never knew at all, forget the address where you lived twenty years ago, and don’t get me
started re telephone numbers
of
old lovers, who get got gone good away
and the combination of a subset of their
digits is likely to be on a discarded lottery
stub, that stubs your shoe too
cannot remember all the women I’ve ever kissed, but I remember the kiss, and that’s
a fair trade off
pretty bad at remembering, birthdays, anniversaries, but that’s because my electronics believe me of this obligation;
Not the obligation to buy a present,
On time, but the kindness keenness of
doing the action, is you an in Nate satisfaction, One gets, when crossing off a line item on your to do list
Sometimes the choices between remembering,
and being dismembering, when is definitely preferable to the other, and though you are not present, I hear your moaning softly
I know I know!
So take a moment to make sure all those critical dates to others, are in your calendar, electronic, and I recommend minimum one week ahead alerts; and one day before as a fail, safe
Do it now or fail to be safe
Feb 11, 2025
Feb 11, 2025 at 3:13 PM UTC
Dear Patty,
I have never met a child or a poem
***born to live a free verse life,
willingly submit to patrician
powdered **** cheek horror at
the unconformity of escapading,
river rafting verbal tumulting,
never awoken needy to be yoked
by syllabic laws of brutalists,
jailed by autocratic diktats of meter,
or the iron confines of lines formatted,
imprisoned, once set free, they then opine-id
prithee prithee, prithee please sir
on
my license plating,
can I whine,
write free or die***
***bind me not by the rigid sharpies
of executed orders, or count the numbered
breaths tween my freedom riders,
escaping with grinning faces
shouting seen-u-around, and
don't forget to say
bye bye
to the tortuous
pretense of them
haiku hi hi hooliganisms,
and the amoebic
pentameter of a
speare chuckere
who was foolishly glad to trade
the kingdom of freedom
for a besaddled horse
led around by
the reign of ruthless rules***
is this crystal-a-line clear
my dear?
Jan 29, 2025
Jan 29, 2025 at 12:51 PM UTC
these are the scientific observerations I’ve
witnessed, recorded, tallied and allowed
to impact my judgement
compiled upon my diurnal voyages in the sea of humanity across the cityscape of my birthplace
this not a disclaimer, for I neither disclaim
or claim anyone, as my own, more a clearing
of the chest, that also clarifies the senses, to better observe, interpret and weigh subject to
human biases and frailties, which makes for
better poetry
<>
A women. a mother, beside her a daughter,
of the horribilis annos age of early teenhood,
her face a dull rose~pink, obvious tear streaked, but what strutk me odd, the mother
sits at a 90 degree angle, face turned down and away
and I suppress my urge to comfort the youth,
that things will by law custom history and
natural law of the philosophers, perforce
she~teen will survive, even prosper, as I speculate what ailment specific has caused them to sit on this bench, by my river shared, and find no comforting by its majesty, it’s current sweeps away the debris of worried fears, returns wisdom perspective, and all this will pass by my inpressed guarantee upon the air we both share full of
promise
but i am puzzy by the mother, who drapes
not her arm around, nor speaks as if she knows that volumes, pyramids of words have a pointed top, past which they can go no
further
sympathetic for I have comforted many,
and well cognize the tipping point when
the intersection of frustration, exhaustion,
and love succumb to the knowing point,
that only antibiotic soul salve is time,
and the silences of caring even when
unspoken
but I walk past, for in new york city there are
big boundaries one rarely crosses until and
unless invited
as I travel my well worn path on a sunny chilly October day, when one is capable of
delulding oneself that summer gods and
light
and warmth yet exists,
see many; the handsome and the overwhelmed, who move in vacuum tubes
of isolation, observing the First Rule:
Make No Eye Contact!
a safety device to preserve you in a protective bubble of safety from the uncontrollable,
the risks of possibility, for failure has so
many imagined risks, and it is so much easier to imagine the worst, rather than finding tokens of the best humanity can offer
I know this rule well, for my experimentation
includes my walking with an always smiling
face, that ranges from whimsical to fantastical,
but for the little children who give me an unutterable joy, as they explore the world
with no hesitation and are yet unaware of the First Rule, not due to arrive to another decade
once in awhile other observers, see this well,
handsome,well maned, old man with the
fixed smile from the tiniest corner of the nearest eye, and cannot help, but instinctively
return this breach of the lonely peace the
river ample provides
and you tally this reactionary outcome and
well versed in statistical theorem, can safely
report that the frequency of said occurrences
is .01%, with a degree of confidence after numerous walks, that 99% this the best this occurrence that can be obtained
and you ask if this is a poem?
as you ask so often, when I lead
you down this gated garden path of my
envisioning walks, where I pluck poems,
good footed or bad, from the steady
breeze that whisks away my tears,
from whatever source they be triggered
sorried dad, or glad, joy or the Oy! of pain,
and apologize to old codgers with too much time on their minds, about its failure to be be brief, but grief is never short or sweet,
and when I'm on my knees still trying
to understand the ticking mechanism
of the human heart, there just never
seems to be enough letters in the alephbet
to say all that needs saying…
after I-deliver a real cup of
strong, no milk to the barely
roused woman, will dandy don
safari hat, binoculars, freshly scrubbed face, attach that grin to my outerwear, go forth and catch one or two stripers, perhaps a catfish, or
a porgy, a smile and even a poem too…
oh,
and yes,
this too, an only love poem
for us all*
Oct 9, 2024
Oct 9, 2024 at 8:42 AM UTC
~ for spygrandson ~
with deep affection
https://hellopoetry.com/spysgrandson/
<>
I am en~titled
by him,
commissioned by his exacting wording
of this poem’s titular naming,
all my previous attempts are failures,
over designed, too artistic
for his modest self~reckoning &
bearded demeanor,
they demanded
denial with
request for
simplicity of an unflowery
reckoning,
a clean shave,
so to speak…
a potholder of simple design,
a modest picture self-drawn,
but his stories are
sorties tall,
he draws you in, worthy draftsman sketches
of words, tales short, poems complete,
tales so sweet, of characters uniquely complete,
and you think,
can they not be fictional?
and you know they’re no such thing,
ok, maybe,
some taller and a few perhaps dreamed,
the big characters of those
giants of simple men,
whose deeds were not mythical,
ok, almost mythical…
but truth of the humans of the hammered and nailed tough skin,
who built homesteads in the
plain, in mountains, by rivers that snaked,
unmapped,
except on their hearts and feet
the humans,
that made up
the raw & naked bond holders of
these United States:
bonded by character to the soil and
its curvaceous dancing topography
from
& of the center of our country,
but with eyes keen enough
to stretch from
coast to coast,
to see to shining seas
yes, true,
the grandson be he
to/of an almost mythical man,
and so took thus
his penned name,
the grandfather, a real person
of whom stories are yet told,
for no one can be sure
that & of what deeds
this spy did,
on hostile, unfamiliar,
continents,
but the photographic proofs,
I have seen…
His blood thickened by many infusions,
a cross cultural experiment,
happily not unique,
just **** rare
but enough of this;
read him,
let his
tongue take you to
the unfamiliar,
a literary Ansel Adams,
who never saw the plain(s) men & women,
unworthy of being forgotten but
forever being
celebrated
ask him for a potpourri of his short stories
of war, the bonds that men forge in combat,
tween the dead that still live on and
the living,
who have unreadable dead spots within,
they carry their dying glances,
their dying wishes,
and who are honored by him
in his continuing recollections
with walking stick in hand,
even if going outside
to “just” measure the snowy depths,
he leave markers and trailers,
for us to recall how to weep,
from love and pain,
from following generations of his
beautiful blonde
children who are poster models for
the traditional all american imagery,
but thriving within,
with his
wanderlust, his mixed fiery visions,
and acting, singing out dramas
befitting their inherited
visions…
<>
here
I cease,
here
I weep,
at the impoverished words
scrivened in haste,
through tears of pleasure
intended to give honor
to this man,
who cedes me the pleasure of his existence,
and enhances my world
when he asks me,
unwittingly commissions!
a poem,
about
the human character,
who see himself unusually!
“as a potholder with a simple design”
and as usual,
I fail miserable…
maybe,
nick the outer edge of a bullseye target,
because the important words that he deserves,
I have not yet mentioned:
honor, loving kindness and friend.
perhaps he is correct,
but doesn’t grasp
that without simple men like him
to hold the *** upright and firm,
we all would be lesser or
even lost.
maybe,
now I am one
with
done
Aug 24, 2024
Aug 24, 2024 at 5:51 PM UTC
unbeknownst
to the human race,
every year the free trees,
those of the forest, the great gardens,
have an annual convocation, a solemn communion and a
delicate conversation
the gathering is attended by insects and avians,
for theirs is the heavy responsibility,
that which the trees cannot do,
they must do, i.e. move, be agents
of pollination
Trees gather, the sequoias officiate,
for they the elders, are wise in the
rings of history that tells of ritual,
sacred sayings, the reasoning,
the young ones don’t full comprehend
“Who shall give aid and comfort to the human dead?”
Who shall give of their seed
that will be carried by our friends,
they may be scattered planted,
in the graveyards where
those that tended and
sheltered us,
lie buried,
and the living
who tend to
their ancestral,
will adjoin, all
in need of shade and
comforting song?
there is great rustling of the wind,
the most honored,
query those attendees,
why must we choose?
let each of us contribute
according to their needs,
let the randomized
scattering by our winded
and flighted avian friends
best express our gratitude…
thus forests, parks, great gardens,
and yes, the cemeteries of mankind,
ALL
were seeded, deeded and refreshed,
and the world was cleansed,
commended, interdependented,
defended and extended…
Wed Aug 7 2024
Aug 7, 2024
Aug 7, 2024 at 10:48 AM UTC
~a unconscious commissioned poem~
<>
La Lumière est une Dame d'honneur
advantage Frenchies,
everything sounds
better in their language,
we readily concede
we make do
with those tongues
whose fluidity
clothes & coats,
those, we are
best at
confessing in
first light this morning
was emasculated, in thickened
first fog, eerie, discomforting,
but yet, mine alone to utilize,
and make discomfiture into
a poem of coffee and cream,
stirring within, colored dreams
Lady Light finally arrives,
descending on a staircase
from heaven, radiating all
with patience, the animals
all, proclaiming in a thousand
tongues, their thanks, their
love, for everything breathing
understand best she is the source
of creation, reanimation, and a
sharing, unsparing, birth mother
to animate and inanimate, and
the death father to all we & us,
guide to our ultimate end
the waiting is most interesting,
for indeed, there is honor within,
as I compose, the sunrises to the
precise angle to bar my vision,
power to blind and enlighten,
how can this be, but it is so,
my bones warmed, suggest I
do not complain, accepting with
no exception for this is the power
source to us all, and humility is
the key to acceptance & understanding
is this poem, is this the missive,
me~my, intended, to write,
know not,
for the words leech from my skin,
in format uncolored, uncontrolled
by mine minuscule impoverished
compost of senses, morals and my
compote of cells that are products
of a thousand prior generations
morphed into a mess of me,
as of yet, purpose hidden,
undisclosed, perhaps my
reasoning is unseasoned,
my presumption of purpose,
is just a fool’s ridiculousness
Lady Light smiles kindly on my
rambunctious ilreasoning,
for I just one of billions come,
gone, and rebirthed in chains
of endless possibilities, two
words permanently paired,
conjoined, and though the
light has now risen to heights
to totally absolve my sight,
can no longer track what
is being written, accepting my
temporally blindness with grace,
even with solace, and-bid you
adieu, adieu, (bye~bye)
so musically,
until relief will
honor me with its presents…
and I can contemplate my
foolishness once more…
and the letting…
of the
*Lady’s light
of
honor illuminating
(even me)*
<>
commissioned by Pradip
7:35 am
in the sunroom where
the intersection of all light
illuminates all kinds
<>
music:
To Try for the Sun, Song by Donovan
Aquarius/Let the Sunshine In by Fifth Dimesion
Aug 5, 2024
Aug 5, 2024 at 7:52 AM UTC
Relax, relief, Steve, a short one, I do believe,
is coming down the turnpike, a simple
thought kernel that occurs me to each
morning, and then gets swept out to
the sea, via the sound’s currents them,
a reality check on weather.com, an internet
a daily compilation of mispredictions,
guesses and disconnectedness to our
reality… that we yet must read first,
always & nonetheless…
so, here it is, a golden buttered kernel,
that flys past my poem seeking radar
so fast that, it has escaped for now
nearly sixteen years…
this spring chicken, lies besides his woman,
who wakes traditionally secondarily, and
she sleep best then, shedding the dreams that
come unwonted, the review and recap of life’s
tumult…and finally gets the deep sleep that
recharges our cells with restorative justice…
as she sleeps, her face sheds, a morning miracle,
deep at ease, she breathes soft, clean and clear,
silently and a m a z i n g l y, every line on her
face
eases,
disappears,
and her skin, smooth, tight,
and I’m face flushed, by guilt for never telling
her, and that guilt that has not been yet here
recorded, and yet…
a reminder that a first poem of the day (a FPOTD),
like morning *** starts a human off right, clears
forehead, like smooth writing, fresh oven baked,
blue lines on paper, begging, asking for fufillment
and satisfaction, that has no competition, for it is,
unique, that the first deep breath of a day, when
you take in all that surrounds, and observe close
the minor miracles, all an addition, that gives our
body, the reasons to wake up, with wet eyes, and
just…
a thin, curly, half grin, hall (half+all✅) whimsy smile…
natty
6:34am
Sat Jul 20
(and this one flies out the window, past the oak trees,
to the water and the wind grabs by its lettered bones
and is sending it out to Iowa, Travese City Michigan,
Missouri, Oregon and the great Northwest Pacific
over the Pacific, to the Philippines, India, New Zealand, Israel, Europe, the UK as in You Know) and back past Lady Liberty in the New York Harbor, along the Long Island shoreline, to a little house on a little island, where it recenters my body, asking why oh why, no way, natty, have you not offered me
my first coffee of the day, (MFCOTD)
yet, all this traveling, loving and thinking is
so very tiring… java, por favor señor!)
Jul 20, 2024
Jul 20, 2024 at 6:57 AM UTC
Ace is a waterfall
And I should never let you go first
Two is you
And you always pick me
Three is me
And I always drink up
Four, floor
And you're always last
Five, guys
And I smile as you drink
Six, chicks
And you laugh
Seven, heaven
And I'm never as close as you
Eight, date
And you're always mine
Nine, rhyme
And I take your favorites
Ten, categories
And you pick cars
Jack is Never Have I Ever
And I know how to get you
Queen, questions
And you know I always lose
King makes the rules
And on my numb lips
I only taste stale Natty
Instead of sweet words
To make you love me forever
But then
If it was a rule
It wouldn't be real
Just forced
Like my laughter
At your friends' jokes
So I finish my beer
Crush the can in my hand
Like you with my heart
And continue to play
The game
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 12:51 AM UTC