within
every five
inhalations
of life,

there is a
new muse.

in a
  mirror,

your eyes
  are the

hungry
    language
of love

the moon,
it just lingered
and lounged
in the sky

wolves and
most humans
hunting, reflections
of a full moon
in their
eyes


almost
stalking
as if only half
of it was
privy
to the chaos
below the
evening prior

daytime
lunar waves
crash upon
an afternoon's
shoreline full
of wanting
desire

hanging in
the sky like
an albatross,
it stalks
and it
looms

swinging from
east to west
like a pendulum
of doom

as sunset
takes hold
and night
rushes in
fast

the hunted
lie down...

"please indulge
me at long last"


'Yours and everyone's concrete poet'
👷🏻‍♂️

It's like watching the sun melt into the horizon at sunset.

It's two sets of eyes locking into one another's like neodymium magnets.

From afar you, yourself, anticipate the moment that their lips taste the others.

Chemistry builds as does the heat now watching two, impassioned lovers.

The moon could fall right next to them and they wouldn't even notice it there.

Loving deeply as one, which once were a pair.

Gasping for breath,
they are now each other's air.



'Yours and everyone's concrete poet'
-👷🏻‍♂️-

Little by little we all fall apart.

One by one, we disappear from this Earth's landscape.

Our memory fades until,
it finally drops below the horizon, permanently.

Remembering those lost ....

Once a day becomes once a week.

Once a month becomes once a year.

Our body, our memory is now but dust upon the wind -

But....

A gentle breeze through your hair I might be  -

A grain of sand in between your toes along the shoreline -

A shadow at 2pm beside you -

A drop of rain running down your cheek -

A ray of morning sun light that warms you through the blinds -

A snowflake that lands on your eyelashes -

A cloud to bring you shade on a hot summer's day -

A pumpkin orange leaf that your eyes just can't deny -

A star that appears to be falling out of the sky -

A light from the moon that guides you through the darkest night -

One day,

these will be the ways of how we will meet again,

how you will remember me once more .

These ways,

may be my encore.

Moments are memories, delicious ripe fruit in a fruit bowl.
Memories are meant to soothe a lost and nomadic soul.

More memories were made last night.
Memories forever that will turn a wrong day into right.

Moments and memories-
Memories and moments.
Moments and memories,
life's most intrinsic components.

Đaviđ

I wish not to wither from whence a region is in the throes of the season of death.
Salted roads, unknown footprints in the snow and minus a breath.

Lifeless trees against the canvas of a grey and slumbering sky.
I wish to leave when life and robust colors once again make love to thine eyes.

'Yours and everyone's concrete poet'
👷🏻‍♂️

we separate ourselves,
   for sanity.

we separate ourselves,
   for serenity.

we separate ourselves,
   for lucidity.

we separate ourselves,
   for stability.

we separate ourselves,
   for breath.

we separate ourselves,
  to push away death.

'Yours and everyone's concrete poet'
👷🏻‍♂️

A physically saturated pluviophile is a soul that craves to intertwine themselves with the very deepest parts of thee.

In the eyes and heart of a pluviophile,
the rain is sunshine on an otherwise grey and cloudy day.

Make no mistake;

I am a pure breed when it comes to being/representing a "pluviophile".

The rain elicits the very deepest part of me without one moment's struggle.

It's a cleansing.
It's an act of purification.
It's a new beginning.

     A feeling of     new skin
and afflictions
  washed away.

A few still moments
  to breathe in
    the roses of
life.

  If you can not
=connect= with a
  "pluviophile"?

You're not
   'all wet'
but rather,
  as dry as the
saharan sand.

Come get
   wet
      with me...
        in
  the
     p
       u
         r
           p
             l
               e
   rain """""""""""
              '''''"""""""
    """""""""""""""

"""""­""""""""""""""""
        ' ' ' '    ' '
           '  '   '
               '

It is like
A cup of tea

Chipped porcelain
With a broken handle
Missing its saucer
A couple of hairline fractures
Some parts glued back together

An acquired taste
But I find
Beauty in its strangeness
A comfort in its quirky
Lopsided grin

Others will wonder
Why of all the ones I could have chosen
I picked that weird one

But if they only knew
The warmth it gives and how it feels
In my body and in my soul
How I cherish it all the more
For its imperfectness
And awkward cuteness
Off kilter appearance
Whimsical oddity
With its crooked little heart

When I think of you
I can’t help but smile

How foolish and silly
I must look
Deeply drinking you in
How I am peculiar
And you are unusual

Not everyone's cup of tea
But

Love is funny like that

sure,
  i've been
a fool
  before

but your
  whispers
in the dark
  will never
fool me
  again

As one wave crashes up against another

       it reminds me of what takes place between two very passionate lovers

         out of breath after colliding underneath the waves... the covers.

in today's
world,
you
'get together'
why?

to sit across
from someone
that you
barely
even know
any more,
and perhaps
more troubling
is that you
don't even
care to?

to sit across
from someone
that rudely has
'earbuds' or
headphones
covering
their ears?

to sit across
from someone
that has their
face buried
in their
phone like...
you're not
even there?

Helloooo...
I am right here!

no thanks.

i will pass
on those
'get togethers'
with folks that
it seems have
turned into
total
strangers.

once, twice,
three times
a year?
i consider you
a stranger.

and then,
when we
'get together'
you have music
blasting in
your ears and
your face
buried in
technology?

no thanks.

let's just
continue being
strangers....
thank you.

no need for
awkward
silence...
no need for
feeling alone
around a
crowd.

no need for
a feeling of
needing to
be drunk
to deal with
this complete
waste of
time.

heck, i can
have much
more fun alone
getting drunk
and writing
poetry and
having a
functional,
creative
and
entertaining
'get together'
with...
me, myself
and i.

so,
"why even bother"?

i'm not
  impressed....
with your
  'get togethers'.

with Jesus,

i will
finally be
whom,
i struggle
here on
this earth
to be.

here,
i am
broken promises
i am a
broken spirit
with an
unmendable
broken heart.

most days
i just go
through the
motions,
just enough
to get through
that day and
get away
from the world
and the pain
that the world
causes me.

i am a
homebody
because
i don't trust
most humans
outside of
my home.
i go to
work because
i must, not
because i
want to.

i can't wait
to one day
make a home
with Jesus.

i can't wait
for the day
for this anxiety
and pain
to end.

to finally
live with
Jesus.

I could write,
listen and read poetry,
all day and evening long.
Breaking down its core,
the meaning inside the poem,
by its author
is now,
one of my favorite things to do...
one of the things I look most forward to....
in
this life...
that is filled with mystery
and unknowns.
Is it because I enjoy distancing myself
from this world in which we live?
That's possible....----
indeed it could be,
quite possible.
Or is just because I have this insatiable affinity
for works of art whether it be in written form,
painted form,
nature form or ****** form?
I suggest ---
to myself of course,
that it may be ....
a little bit -------------
of both.
Every day I need to FEEL a poem.
Live in that poem,
whether written by me....
or another author.
Entertaining my own mind.
My mind that is forever a playground.
It's nice to get away.

wet are
the
winds of
missing,
of...
sadness.

the winds
speak of
pain,
of
throated
screams.

the winds
blow on
by,
the winds
return
like boomerangs.

these winds
travel
over land
and over
sea.

but
make no
mistake,
these winds
of change
always
make it
back
to me.

the trees
wrap themselves
in slumber.
birds try
to fly away
from december.
winter comes
and schoos away
my loathing
of summer.
i wish
summer never
had to be.
summer is
obnoxious
loud and *****.
nothing beats
a crisp white
winter's beauty.
the summer's
rank and stank
of people and
garbage lined
streets.
individuals
in sandals
offending us
all with hideous
troll feet.
when i die,
i want to die
in winter please.
i don't want
to die in
summer's
smelly person
breeze.
i'd rather go
in winter's
crisp and
fresh clean
freeze.

'Yours and everyone's concrete-poet'

On the night that we met,
like a mid summer's torrent,
I fell for you.

You, bathing in a
full moon's light,
I was powerless
it's true.

Your eyes were
one with the sea,
vast and deep...
I was drowning
    in you.

Arrest me
and take me
to live
in your paradise....
where all that's
left is to
  woo woo woo.

like the
   sensual
feeling of
     a warm
summertime
    waterfall

c
  a
    s
      c
         a
            d
               i
                 n
                    g

down your
  naked body...

   so do

a

  good
poet's

  w
      o
         r
           d
            s

ah yes,

even
today's sky
weeps.

the rains
cascade down
her body
of beauty.....

that houses
her soul
of integrity.

the winds
of change
have passed
her by.

lost love,
that pain
in rain
that hides
her cry.

grey skies
often hide
good things
that die.

That empty place at the table.
Or, perhaps the place not so void of another worldly presence.
I caught a glimpse of you....yes you.
A quick sighting of you in brightly monochromatic colored attire.
With a light so magnificent, so radiant.
Almost in trance by its wavelength and frequency.
The chair directly seated in this empty place.
It appears almost depressed with a form of what once was.
Beneath the chair , your slippers Sabre has brought with a wagging tail.
On the holiday place mat your black framed reading glasses.
The ones that made you look ever so wiser to me.
Even more than I thought could even be possible.
Also a number 2 pencil and a book of fabulous crosswords collections.
Challenging word games we both took seriously, yet enjoyed.
A navy coffee mug inscribed with your name.
Not a stain to be found on the USS Fort Mandan.
I sip from this mug , never to gulp.
I want my memories of you in stages....
not a gulping unsavoriness.
But rather slowly , cherishingly...  methodically.
I set your coffee mug gingerly down after rinsing it with care.
I will sip from this mug again another day soon.

let me know...
when you
think that
you have
at
long last
reached
my soul

odds are
that with me...?

you've yet
to pay
your specific
toll

i can be
a rogue wave
or i can be
cooling mist
on a
hot and humid
summer's day

you can
only hope
to "think"
that you
know me

i still have
layers that
you will
probably
never see

i'm an enigma
and i am
something that
you would never
bet against

but....

i am the
good time
that you
would
certainly
never regret

i'm the cream
in the
middle of
your oreo

i can be
......
your favorite
song on
the radio.

'Yours and everyone's concrete poet'
-👷🏻‍♂️-