<>
the wee little ones cry out loudest
fearful of being dying unnoticed
for they're not the stoutest
or profoundest

“we’re always among the forgot,
for we come so quick, oft left to rot,
as you street walk in the early morn
composing on and on and on

and our
sweet little rhymes, smaller than a dime,
oft arrive as twins or even triplets,
so fast and so furious,
they go unwitnessed
so we can’t be recalled,
stillbirthed, unborn,

therefore
we’ve decided to take you hostage,
treatied with your leggings,
no home return permitting
!
until we are recorded,
and given up for adoption”

P. S.
how do ya like them shorties now?

(trigger warning: my apologies to the long poem haters,
nah, not really)

<>

Dawg!

your last and latest test be driving me crazee-
the poem conception birth rate is out of control,
them titles intriguing, stinging,
falling like curling up and dying oak leaves crunchy neath my feet,

and this little town don’t allow no burning thereof,
inclusive of leaves, poem drafts or witches

it’s not only the skin-pores, inhaling,
but the braniac neurons
that are clogging up
(ex. where’s my coffee mug hiding
when it ain’t hiding in the microwave)
and there ain’t no legal Drano for the
upper cortex contextual,
and condoms on my ears looked upright atrifling,
small & unbecoming, 
so pse. put a lid on it,
without sacrificing my nice head of grayling fibers
you graciously let me inherit ~
(thanks mom!)

soooo,
need to provide a method of contraception, legal and100% poem~proof, to keep me in decent metal health, with a natural speed limit on steadily in~fluxing immigrants of
seditious inspirational insights,
and these insider’s outside sights/sighs that
my eyes catalogue, and remind/tell, as well,
my buddies, the animals and the elements,
who constantly are hinting ‘n suggesting themselves
for yet another scripture of praiseworthy adoration

(esp. the rabbits, the ospreys, &
the nighttime starry skies,
a living tableaux de peinture…)
to pretty please
cease and desist
before *I
seize (up) and de-exist,

overwhelmed by piles of dead leaves
and out of computer memory
for anymore inspiration retention

Your earliest attention to this
Matter of Urgency to me, and

What‘a that you said?

Start a petition?
You kidding?

Might as we try to buy indulgences,
in bulk at Costco,
though they are never in stock!

I get it.

Using Pandora as your voice never fails.

You just played Judy Collins singing
Pete Seeger’s Turn,Turn, Turn.

Unsubtle.

This is my seasonal hint too,
part of my timed descent towards the
shadowed valleys + visible peaks I’ve
occasionally reached

My finale’s approchment nigh,
yet, don’t turn my heart or my senses
just quite yet,
from the spark divine you have placed within us each,
don’t let it burn brightest before
it flames out of existence
into extinction.
Appreciate the heads up, really

Most don’t know ‘bout this method of our conversing,
and the hint, the seasonal changeover, taking place now,
is mourned by my utterance with every breath of
a Kaddish prayer
contained within
a larger message:
natty, it’s time to
turn, turn, turn

Which way when,
of courses,
you’ll musically clue me in…

but you impatient being,
drawn after all in the
shape of humans,
fast forwards, nay hurtles this human,
with chariots spun from a summer sun’s
fonts and hints,
accidents and incidents,
by spectacles through spectacles,
colors emboldened by  
in a glory, glory, glorious
sun-nation

****!

Vienna Teng sweetly invades singing
Homecoming (Walter,’s Song):

“but things are good I've got a lot of followers of my faith
I've got a whole congregation living in my head these days
and I'm preaching from the pulpit
to cries of “Amen brother”
closing my eyes to feel the warmth come back
and I've come home
even though I swear I've never been so alone
I've come home
I just want to be living as I'm dying
just like everybody here
just want to know my little flicker of time is worthwhile
and I don't know where I'm driving to
but I know I'm getting old
and there's a blessing in every
moment every mile…

well I'll kneel down on the carpet here
though I never was sure of God
think tonight I'll give Him the benefit of the doubt
I switch off the lights and imagine that waitress outlined in the bed
her hair falling all around me
I smile and shake my head
well we all write our own endings
and we all have our own scars
but tonight I think I see what it's all about
because I've come home
I've come home.”*
(lyrics by Tom Hall)

Got it.

so many summarize better,
but even still a bit heavy handed when
you follow up with  Sting’s “Fields of Gold,”
and even, jeez, Louse,
“Danny Boy?!”

Your DJ is a ham
(I know, not exactly kosher).

It’s my season of the muse,
extracting every remaining incantation,
knowing  there are hundreds, thousands,
of notional ideations
in my draft files,
some born even before HP!

But deny them not their use,
they cannot remain forever
unemployed,
but at their peril, double toil and trouble,
be them entrusted, encrusted, secreted
in someone else’s existence,
by your annoying divine persistence

Demanding Being,
have you no sense of
sufficiency? (1)

Eva so sweet Cassidy
ends this trip
with “Who knows where the time goes ?”

Gonna pack up this ditty,
containing a peace of deity,
drive back to the city
where all my sorrows
are streeted above ground,
inescapable resounded …

now down to  2% battery (ramming)
and this cracked -screen
whispers too gently,
“no mas”
my dearest companion,
you still don’t know
when to shut up,
or call it quits,
but I’m hearing a new crew
old familiar poets, awaiting,
who will take one up & in,
relieve you of you earthly sins,
and I hear up there,
you’ve got
unlimited
data storage
and no need for cords
and
batteries

Seeing the schooner drawing nigh,
must be the season of
‘at last, here is Shelter,’
repentance (2)


<>

n.m.l.
Weds. Sept 4,
2024
while sitting by
my dock on the sound,
who insists that it’s
soundless wavings of water
get the last silent
mention
published Friday Sept. 6,,
Sabbath Eve

p.s.
(and that’s how u put the playlist
in an Audio Visual poem,, kid)

it had better be
the best
of me

want to go out
kickin’ & screamin’
with words that rip
those ***** bandages
holding us together,
rip’em with more than the
merest passing ounce of
a simplistic
ouch

poetry,
a sun reflector of
the daily of living, you’re up,
then floor crawling,
not for the first time,
and most likely,
you
never saw the sucker-
sunburn-(pow)-punch
hitting you from behind

the muddling of memories,
them, that can weep and sweep
you into comfort, sustained,
by the knowing at that exact
moment, I,
gave you
the best of me

no joke;
yeah I’m young(ish),
partied hard, fell hard-in love.
only to be busted opened up,
like too many else…nothing
there to write home about,
but to write a poem that
survives in someone else’s
heart, that would be miraculous,
as grand as the grand things
and truly great people I know,

but hello, poets,
this promise, for real

but David Foster, et.al,
said all this better,
and so melodiously
~~~

“And I think I've gone this far
Because of you
Could be no other love but ours
Will do
No one will ever touch me more
And I only hope that in return
No matter how much we have to learn
I saved the best of me for you”