She wears
the blush of flesh
lit aflame
with the wild wonder
of an untamed
parallel passion.

being a poet is not planned

~for Gabriella Garcia~

~~

a sixteen old soul says she understands,
being a poet is not planned,
forcing an old mans re-collection of the first time,
he made love to a virginal white
papyrus with muscles trembling,
body bent, chest bursting a rockets red glaring,
eyes marking the sheets with salty drip spots

what possessed the wrist veins
to wrest a cheap ballpoint pen to transfuse pain,
in a semaphore of uncoded ink blotches,
what was he thinking

was he thinking?

that it was an ejection
that it was an *******
that it was a tribulation expiation
that it was a tribute explanation?

that it was an injection
that it was a circumspection inspection
that it was a circumscision surgery of emotional complexion
excising an infection with a written genuflection?

try, but no might, the first is subsumed
by the thousands that followed dutifully
though his one poem  flawless, expertly recalled,
it will always be the next,
and unplanned just like this one too

who anointed his brow, the hair and forehead,
with oil pure, dripping down onto, into his cut cain marker,
who is not answering a query relentless
is this his plan, his appointment,
is this his flawed excellence,
is this his imperfect penance perpetual?

knowing well and full
now

the unplanned is his plan,
it’s his faceted flaws
that refract his coloraturas

~~

upon this he reflects,
praying that
god protect the
young poets
from planning
____
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2893127/unplanned

I like the
kind of people
      that get
  excited over
the stars at night.

    
                                                                                          Jon York    2019

When you talk about her
You look in love
When you hear her name alone
You smile as if you’re drunk
When I tell you she’s nice and beautiful and great
You nod your head
As if you’re only subconsciously paying attention
And say,
“Yes. She is.”
But when you hear my name
Nothing comes to mind
Your face shows no emotion
And I don’t know what to think
You’re so oblivious to the fact that
I love you

No one sees what you see,
   even if they see it too.
        She embraced
           the chaos
    as it painted her life
       with purpose
      knowing that the
   heart will  sometimes
                 break,
    to make a better shape
        and she said to me,
          "no one's soul
               is pure,
      we are not here to
            stay clean."
                                                                         Jon York   2019