Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
~for SB~


~


answer simple

in the
asking
is the answer...

now we comprehend true

ask

and ye shall receive,
for who could

ask

for anything more
Sally how can I help you Mark Upright
Third Mate Third Feb 2015
bitter month,
bitters in the mouth,
bitters all over the world
snow is Campari red

burning alive,
dying while flying
or just train-commuting home,
or even but taxiing home,
this month racks up ruin,
like keeping score at bowling,
Strike!
spare no one anywhere
this month is more cruel,
for its nearness to spring,
but offering no hope, no buds,
just random mayhem

slipped on the ice in the dessert
burning ice,
I hate this month
red, black snow
and no summer visions
only cold bitters
season of resolutions,
new year's first born,
even quicker, first to die...

written in January

bad companions,
bare naked lady trees,
leafless branches upward pointy hands,
prayer-poking gray cumulus suffocations
that brandish distempered depression,
but disembowlment,
alas fails

awake to January snows,
a few days happenstance
quick to mortify in hours
to city-blackened slush,
from the winter's seasonal menu
fast removed,
spoiled come-on appetizer

lament the cold,
the quick passages
of stern resolute aspirations,
laying on lying sweet snow coverlets,
all of sugar made,
rapid dissolution
as expected,
momentary melt in your mouth
not in your mind

written in January

dreams of summer rejuvenation,
season of asking for nothing
for cosseted by nature's free bounty,
ask for no more than my
stern but comforting
Adirondack pillow chair coat wrapture,
the summer elements teamwork
salve save safe sundry effects
tan the disaffected interior most

wiffy cloud-banks to safe deposit
January weariness and dismay,
face-stroking downy breezes
deftly engineer a physic
another, yet once more,
summer soul
forgive-thyself-salvation,
unasked for but
answer-granted nonetheless

written in January

sum sum summertime
easy eyelashes love licked
gentlest happy bay waves,
rocked body forgiven a
winters pounding and poundage,
rolling down now on sunny easy street

written in January

living room fireplace-glow ignored,
unneeded, for t'is the season of
whole rooms food fed sun-suffused arias,
bathing brain in sundown's
late afternoon long languid
indefinable colors of providence's provided
uncommon normal natural spectacular

written this January

troubling majors mining minor discomforts surge,
distractions fail,
memorization of growing up
a lonely long bike-ride mile from the Atlantic,
genetic makeup says
amidst the
written in January
nightmares
therein exists a seeded summer sensuality
that pleasure grants
poems written ***
summer-life-dream schemes,

happily
betrayed by my inner owned,
I am still a summer man,
writ larger when
written in January



~~~~~~~~~~~~
by Wordsworth
http://m.poemhunter.com/poem/written-in-march/

by Nat
http://hellopoetry.com/search/poems/?q=I+am+a+summer+man
I know a bad poem when I see it
yet strange enough
never seen or read one,
my tablet refuses me,
my writing hand shakes
incontrovertibly
the dictionary confirms,
proper usage forbids,
the conjunction of the words
bad poem,
t'is a linguistic impossibility

every poem ever writ
resides inside my customized
pantheon,
tho spell it a tad different,
Pantheone

every poet/poem lives forever
in a
pantheon of one
for the courage to expose,
deserves the honor
accorded by their fellow immortal muses
weary of mothers and friends
losing their children,
before their time,
weary of failing
to achieve reconciliation
with whatever one nominates
the force that regulates,
fate, Name-Your-God,
deity of your choice,
nature, laws of physics,
the "whatever"
that controls, interferes,
that you think to believe
wills these event's occurrence
non-randomly

cessation of formalities,
one sided truce
signed and delivered,
unafraid to call this
what it is,
**** and damning fate,
for no god
could be so cruel...

If only there was a
Dislike button
for life and the poems
wrenched from death

at 5:00 am
this thought is my
sole inhabitant

once again,
nature's bosses distort,
another friend's grief
asks, cajoles me
to betray my/thy belief

banish it or me,
for we both cannot be
cohabitants
under the one roof,
of this limited mind,
where flailing
poems
never good enough,
failing
to express my
sorrowed rage
also see part one, so to speak

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1052415/a-personal-god-wailing-and-complaining/
~~~~~~~~~~
meet me
where the broad teary rivers
both empty and fill the oceans,
takers and givers,
swapping sorrowful fluids constant,
these loyal thieves,
from the sky, robbing a soul's moisture
selling what isn't hisn't
back to the soil

for this is the human condition,
the foaming eddys where
life becomes words becomes life,
infintum
~~~~~~~
Inadequate to the task
Humbled by the enormity of our love,
The perfection of our joining,
Where are the words kept that sufficient
Honor and portray what we have achieved?

You seated, beside me by the bay, finally,
Two old adirondack trees side by side,
By the sheltered place you bequeathed me,
Where poems are raindrops, so numerous,
And you, if not the subject, the source.

The waves rolling in, mirror the
Fluidity of thy dancing,
Fluidity of the adaptation,
Two lives, now one bay blue colored,
The merging, the unification,
Many waves, but one bay,
The Bay of Us.

Yet so different.
We are cloud worshippers,
Does not the Skye's Tableau inconstancy,
Mirror our ever changing form, individuality,
Yet, one sky,
The Sky of Us.

So many times have I lain be-sided
Even as we this afternoon sit now a-sided,
Tears welling up, above and beyond control,
This man's steady nerves, constant on patrol,
Our secret open, visible, un-hided,
Your are my Magi
My Yogi,
i.am, your, obedient devotee, shaped to you please.

This is the birthday present my words present.

Words, unremarkable,
Except for the contentment
That lies within them.

Let me love you more,
Recklessly abandon norms,
Kiss you at the supermarket, at the opera,
Unashamedly, take you in my arms
Wherever wonderment and wandering lead us.

T'is so very hard to compose
When tears flow upon my writing tablet,
To wipe, blot them away, I refuse,
For tears are joyous emblems,
Salty badges of love,
All compliments of our complementary beings,
The Tears of Us.

The soaring music we gather in.
The shimmering sparkles upon the bay,
My gift of natural diamonds better, this day,
Than jeweled glitterati I hide in the refrigerator.
All this treasure, part and sparkle of
The Treasure of Us.

T'is truth,
I know not, forgot, your age nor care,
The day the time the year,
What matter they to me these artifice markers,
I weep carelessly, undone, overcome,
Every day, but this day, most, united joy.

Need-No reminder,
I am a survivor,
From a concentration camp
That slow programmed to destroy,
Perhaps the kindness you claim
As the hallmark of my fame,
An inadvertent gift, from the devil?

You shook my hand on our first meet,
Don't think, have I ever let go?
Let me be your driver, entertainer, your only poet,
Let me be whatever you need,
Even as now, I laugh-cry, your tissue carrier.

For t'is I who weeps and keeps
These tissues as part of our history.
You are the first,
Who has ever read
The Words of Us.
Happy Birthday, my darling S.
(For Sia Jane)

once he wrote:

"Writing is more important than any of the individual senses that feed this (writing) addiction. Without sound, sight, touch, smell and taste, I can (still) live quite well."

and she loved this,
for well she lived this ideation

so textual emendation
for this girl,
one of god's human poems

irony kick in the head,
truth driven home by body of late,
crossed and staked,
weeks pass, I cannot taste or smell,
eyesight distorted by streaming eyes, no matter,
sight, sees only a decrepit man lousy
repeating repetitiously older spasms of writing,
all this time he is one
who touches nothing lest he infect the world,
with something other than joy...

all thanks to some insidious bacterial invaders
and one or two Lifetime Movie Channel dramas
playing out in full color in his own sad reality

so let me amend my prior write,
for this time, I make no overly boastful claims,
for I could pen nary a verse all these hours,
that was deserved of your affection...

write I could with any one of the five,
if four were repleted, deleted, none elited,
but one is
this man's de minimus

need at least one to function,
to master the bronco impulse to create...
don't matter which one,
which orifice writes the code,
all sensory inputs end up residing
in your heart and soul

but gotta have at least one in order to
express my love for love...

and if I can't do that,
then experience shows,
no way can the being supersede its
thrumming, hum drumming, existence,
motoring along highways circularized
of watching old tv shows

if I lose my hands I will write with
elbows, nose or toes...

my tongue cut, my mind will love more,
its recollection of your taste, delicious twice over

blinded and bereft, my mind's eye
will do double shifts, get paid overtime,
for reliving connecting your birthmarks

my jesting muted, my seers closed,
my nostrils sealed, even terminated,
dare you think, that I cannot hear or
smell my thoughts,
of the pleasure of a world in which
loves existence demands we heal the sick at heart,
so we can
extend love to ourselves and others
beyond the mere limitations
of our corporeal senses....

one, but one, all I need,
any one,  in order to
sense who I am,
to love, and be loved,
therefore,
to write
Sept. 7, 2014
but what if forced to choose one sense above all?
Once he wrote:
what then, weary reader,
is the supposed Laureate's approved analytical tool?

Taste

Each letter, a morsel in your mouth,
Each phrase, a fork full of pleasure,
Each stanza, a full fledged member in a tasting menu,
Perfect only in conjunction with the preceding flavor,
and the one that follows,  and the one that follows.

Taste each poem upon thy tongue and then pass it on,
you know how....

Each word, whether chewed thoroughly,
or lightly placed upon a bud for flavor,
needs the careful consideration of your mouth.

Feel the light pressure of the tongues tip upon the roof of your mouth
and the exalted exhalations of air rushing past thy cheeks
as you messenger breath from your chest to be shared with the world,
over the poem's interpreter, your tasting lips.

As I lay each word down, a brick by brick edifice construct
of mine own design, I am sated, fulfilled only,
when with I see your lips move as you savor my words,
my taste you share, and we are closer for it.

Deaf, dumb and blind, all such travails can be conquered, assailed,
but when I cannot, no longer anymore taste
my poems upon thy lips, then I breathe no more.
Next page