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Dear New Poet:

Then I'm your man,
your very own
Northern star,
one leg up of a
3 legged stool,
upon which all,
we, enthroned poets,
the world-over,
do rule

the honor you
bequeath me  
to be,
a first follower,

your very own
first responder,

cannot be
disdained
nor
diminished

this case,
this birth,
novice revival,
heart transplant,
makes it
the greatest
to be the first—

the quencher
of your thirst
so long in the parching,
the throat burnt

by a desert sojourn
of a now ended,
forty years

so come to me!

message me
a message,
find me a find,
your poem so fine,
I here now vow,
our embrace will
ne’er be broken

give me this
honorific!

let us together
be terrific,
raise our glasses,
arms entwined
toasting you  
all that mind and 
breast of yours,
bursting full of 
future~contains,
the full release of, 
bringing longer life
to us both

I am a father.
I am a grandfather.
I am a First Follower.
I am a First Responder,
for all who need a leg up,
so step upon my heart,
the first step upon a ladder
with no top, no end ensighted

my legs are as old as time, but,
measure me not by the rings and 
the metered scales of gray hair aging,
shock of white, a cain mark, wizard-wizened

but by the muscles
of my deep affection,
the solemnity of this,
my irrevocable promise

this,
the blessing
we both earn and make
when you write,
while we wait
in quiet attendance -
for all your good works,
your kept promises

Blessed
are You Lord our God, 
Ruler of the Universe
who has given us life, 
sustained us until now,
allowing
the reader and the writer, to reach,
meet, embrace and
greet this day,
this new born poem,
with hallelujahs
                                         together

The glass weeps first,
its surface swelling, a tidal ache
of what I could not say.
My face ripples,
a wound unwound,
a thousand silver petals shattering
against the silence of your name.

I drank the world tonight,
its bitter roots blooming
under my tongue.
Colors swarmed, fever-bright,
and the flowers beneath my feet
began to whisper—
all their petals
were made of your breath.

I see you in shards,
a thousand years gone,
your eyes like black pearls
waiting to drown me.
I reach for forgiveness,
for the hand I killed
with my waiting,
but the mirror
holds only its tears,
and my reflection bleeds.

Adorned in trinkets,
hollow stones that wink and glare,
I journey onward—
a pilgrim of regret,
wearing evil eyes like prayers
for the dark.
The gemstones hum,
an elegy,
and the road swallows my feet
as though it knows
I will never turn back.

The flowers grow brighter now,
their roots twisting into my skin.
I feel the earth shift—
a tremor,
a message:
Forgiveness is a ghost
that speaks in riddles,
a sign that blooms
only when the mirror
finally breaks.