All this time,
I've been thinking;
I can't help it,
but to feel like
I'm sinking.

Drowning in my sea
of emotions;
only you have set
my heart...in motion.

For Al, who left us, Nov. 22, 2014

With each passing poem,
The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher,
Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised,
Domain, the association of words, ever lesser,
Repetition verboten, crime against pride.

Al,
You ask me when the words come:

With each passing year,
In the wee hours of
Ever diminishing time snatches,
The hours between midnight and rising,

Shrinkage, once six, now four hours,
Meant for body restoration,
Transpositional for poetic creation,
Only one body notes the new mark,
The digital, numerical clock of
Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing.

Al, you ask me from where do the words come:

Each of the five senses compete,
Pick me, Pick me, they shout,

The eyes see the tall grasses
Framing the ferry's to and fro life.
Waving bye bye to the
End of day harbor activities,
Putting your babies to sleep.

The ears hear the boat horns
Deep voiced, demanding pay attention,
I am now docking, I am important,
The sound lingers, long after
They are no longer important.

The tongue tastes the cooling
Italian prosecco merging victoriously
With its ally, the modestly warming rays
Of a September setting sun,
finally declaring, without stuttering,
Peace on Earth.

The odoriferous bay breezes,
A new for that second only smell,
But yet, very old bartender's recipe,
Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline
And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted,
Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings.

These four senses all recombinant,
On the cheek, on the tongue,
Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning
Merging into a single touch
That my pointer finger, by force majeure,
Declares, here, 
poem aborning!
Contract with this moment,
now satisfied!

Al,  what you did not ask was this:
With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me.
__________
(this poem more than most,
for its birth celebrates
my loss, your loss,
which cannot be exonerated 8/7/18)


__________
written at 4:38 AM
September 8th, 2012

Greenport Harbor, N.Y.

And while we’re on the subject,
I’m sorry in advance,
That you ever had to hear this,
For giving it a chance.

But I’m sorry is what I say,
When I can’t say everything,
It’s the lie I use to paint over the truth,
With a better story.

It’s the half-truth of apologies,
Ringing hollow In reality,
You see I’m sorry is my defense,
It’s the difference between shy and confident.

I’m sorry is everything I meant,
That went unheard,
The words that couldn’t escape,
The critical mass of anxiety.

I’m sorry means listening,
To the words I didn’t say,
It’s my apology to you,
For me feeling that way.

But most of all,
I’m sorry is every opportunity missed,
Every time I wish I had the courage,
To speak a little more,
I’m sorry makes it out,
Before I even had a chance.

They say, you can't see God
But in the dawn and at dusk,
In the daylight and starry night
And when the sky wears the spectrum,
I see Nature, I see God.

They say, you can't hear God
But, everytime I hear the burbling stream,
the soothing sound of the waves
and the chirping of birds,
I hear Nature, I hear God.

They say, you can't talk to God
But whenever I scream out my love
to the desolate dunes and
talk my heart out to lonely trees,
chilling under their shades.
I talk to Nature, I talk to God.

They say, you can't smell God
But in the sweet scented​ flowers
and in the wet mud after the recent rains,
I smell Nature, I smell God.

Everytime when the wind
blows through my hair,
Everytime when I feel
the fresh air on my face,
I feel Alive, I feel You,
I feel Love, I feel God.