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The curve of your smile
The curve of our land
The fruit on the trees

The bull frog sounds
The crickets too
The heat of the sun
The heat of you
Lovers in love with
Nothing else to do
But be in the moment
This moment of me and you.
<>
The Instigation:
Edmund  Black, commenting on “weary weighted,”

I agree with Kim; This is poetry at its best :)“

<•>

both of you shush!

there is no “better” in poetry

mine yours theirs, alive or not,

just gasps tears and blood
whimsical smiles and isles
cuts and burns of pained revelations,
hidden in fog,
that words try to delete away,
through the shrouded mists of
human tissues,
unconstrained by the
bounded shape
of the human cell,
our first, our own
self-imposed jail

tissue, too,
baby soft, or,
purple beating majestic bruised blotches
by those weaklings whose
kindness never
fully developed;  
or old man mine whose
skin cells erodes, so poems and light
weary weighted, lightly flake off
for your “betterment”
mostly tho for worse

good humans all await,
in patientce lightly hidden,
residents of dark sunspots
in the glaring existence exposer
of the unlit lighthouse whose time will come

they get it

how we get there unimportant

get there

GET THERE

get there
that is the poetic
mission critical

no path best or style preferred-
no compare just, but,
any path that
lifts and elevates,
to the commonplace


the common place

where all costarred, universal,
where common is the temple mount
of highest praise, holy smoke rising,

a place that
that discloses and closes,
is scribed/described honestly as
a connective,
which is the simplest
successive

call my poems,
blessedly common!

that an honorable,
so gladly accepted
and
so much more meaning-full
than merely best or better



for that,
I’d gladly weep,
for no praise
ever been
bettered





8/2/18 406pm
on the jitney to my isle
the instigation: Edmund black › “weary weighted, I agree with Kim .... This is poetry at its best :)“
It’s like watching a flower bloom from a bud
or a seed pushing through the soil
moving onward and upward
slowly but surely
toward the sky
to eventually arise
in its fresh green glory
into the light
right before our eyes.

They are taking that old house
into their hands and hearts
removing dust and accumulations
of two full and splendid lives
molding from the clay of the past
moving through the soil of a present
full of challenge and struggle
into a new, alive
unpredictable
future
together.

This new growth
fashioned from precious artifacts
and art of these two mature siblings
is not a shell which is a house
but a new flowering
which is a home.

What a delight to observe from afar
this new creation
taking shape
knowing
that their roots and ours
are emmeshed
and inseparable.

Watching these two
bright, precocious ones
so precious, priceless and cherished by us
is as delicious
and delightful
as sharing a meal
prepared in the ovens,
homes and hearts
of our mothers.

In this dynamic present
we are grateful
for parents who taught us what it means
to make and keep a home
to love and be loved by the children
of generations.

All these children
are present in the creators
and observers
of this new home
taking shape
being painting
into a landscape
that will one day
sparkle
with joy.
Note: Dedicated to Ginny and Richard as they journey together, sister and brother, creating a new home in an old house.
I could stitch the sky shades of beautiful
Hang sadness upon the horizon
Patch multi-hued joy all above
And place a bright light of hope on high
Like embroidery for the soul
(9/16/13)
By: Cedric McClester

Pardon me
If I may be so bold,
But doesn’t it feel
Like we’re being rolled?
How many times
Must we be told
NO COLLUSION!
Before it gets old

Almost every
Single day
That tired phrase
We hear him say
He turns it on
And lets it play
Must we give in
And say okay?

As Shakespeare said,
And such
I think that he
Protests too much
To convince his base
Cuz they’re out of touch
NO COLLUSION!
Serves as his crutch

And when
He’s challenged,
It’s fake news
Or another label
He may choose
In a vain effort
To defuse
Anything that give him the blues






Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2018.  All rights reseved.
There’s fire outside, fire in my apartment.
Swelling in this humidity.
More uncomfortable than Vietnam.
It is not easy to hide.
Even sitting on the roof writing poems,
there is fire.

A thousand words yet to write,
a thousand words yet to write.
Thoughtful girls with their umbrellas.
Dancing dragonflies,
ascending and descending.
Like a madness of Sisyphus.

And then the sounds of this fire.
The bedroom sounds, a taste that will last forever.
The sounds of the late night Baijiu drinkers,
trying to find the garden of love.
And the unrequited who cry alone at 2a.m
Endless, embracing with a glad sadness.

That is the fire in this city.
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