"commencing" poems
reaching the back of you
not sure I could. not sure i would.
scent of the crime uncommitted uncovered
the meandering is the man demigod demagogue taking
time
pleasured mercy
the remaindered searchingly
suffices
you don’t speak plain english the only tongue i got
insert the coin in your slot commencing researching the
way in and
don’t think i want to find the way out to the
back of you hiding in the inside learning the way you visualize
playing amy winehouse as an overlaying graph to the autoroute
to the south of france, sur-la-mer, why ever leave and you come
in my mouth poems new each time
no exit. no back of you. stuck in a longingly heaven
this house is my home and I know the sun brightest
when i put my coin in the slot of play and press the
new tune button at 4:10AM
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 4:17 AM UTC
Mystique
- a framework of doctrines, ideas, beliefs, or the like, constructed around a person or object, endowing the person or object with enhanced value or profound meaning: "the mystique of Poe."
- an aura of mystery or mystical power surrounding a particular occupation or pursuit: "the mystique of nuclear science."
the mystique of Poe,
the mystique of nuclear science,
don't you see the irony extraordinaire,
the perfect intersection of
human and science?
atoms of a poet.
what, who better to
radiate
the profound complex meaning of
mystique
smile while
commencing the
delving, inhaling,
comprehending,
subsuming the
aura of human cells
odors of the atomizer
flavors mellifluous
chain reacting
the set theory of all my senses,
at the ultimate overlapping
of the primordial intersection
of the nucleus.
I am the living scientific proof,
the written poem,
the
realization of mystique,
the enhanced value
of the human you.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 1:28 AM UTC
Conjunction:
a small class of words distinguished in many languages by their function as connectors between words, phrases, clauses, sentences
- the act of conjoining; combination; the state of being conjoined; union; association:
- a compound proposition that is true if and only if all of its component propositions are true.
- the coincidence of two or more heavenly bodies at the same celestial longitude.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am in a relationship.
a colorless word
a word of no clarity
a good one? a bad one?
a professional deal,
or one that makes you squeal
with pleasure or despair
without context or content,
a description of a status,
not a state,
but a quid pro quo
I prefer
I am in a conjunction
*well recall the day
our orbits
more than crossed,
but synchronized,
when two bodies
began to travel
upon the same longitude
one direction
in conjunction
t'was the day we coordinated
on our mobile phone,
co-configured our future,
our calendars*
*nowadays,
I answer her questions
while she is commencing to think,
when her foolishness prevails,
she questions, "did you remember to..."
my answer, a question returned,
connected, constant and conjunctive,*
"and what's my name?"
an answer conveying constancy
*relationship
oft the farthest place from logical,
but you know that,
say I am in a conjunction
and the logicians will celebrate
the end of your lonely celibacy,
well they understand the truth
inherent in and of and about
your compounded proposition*
*what unimaginative creatures we be,
dispensing with beauty for factuality,
but facts are easily misread,
your fact and my fact, relationship,
the exact same fact, conveys neither
an agreement as to what that means
are we unionized, associated, or conjoined
what is the quality of
our related ships?*
so
Dear Mr. Zuckerberg,
amend my status please,
post me
as being in a state of:
a) conductivity b) connectivity c) concoctive
no, none of those
capture
what we have
captured,
so let create a new state,
a new world,
using a very old world word
post us as follows,
"Nat is in a conjunction"
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 6:32 AM UTC
Darkness
as black as your eyelid,
poketricks of stars,
the yellow mouth,
the smell of a stranger,
dawn coming up,
dark blue,
no stars,
the smell of a love,
warmer now
as authenic as soap,
wave after wave
of lightness
and the birds in their chains
going mad with throat noises,
the birds in their tracks
yelling into their cheeks like clowns,
lighter, lighter,
the stars gone,
the trees appearing in their green hoods,
the house appearing across the way,
the road and its sad macadam,
the rock walls losing their cotton,
lighter, lighter,
letting the dog out and seeing
fog lift by her legs,
a gauze dance,
lighter, lighter,
yellow, blue at the tops of trees,
more God, more God everywhere,
lighter, lighter,
more world everywhere,
sheets bent back for people,
the strange heads of love
and breakfast,
that sacrament,
lighter, yellower,
like the yolk of eggs,
the flies gathering at the windowpane,
the dog inside whining for good
and the day commencing,
not to die, not to die,
as in the last day breaking,
a final day digesting itself,
lighter, lighter,
the endless colors,
the same old trees stepping toward me,
the rock unpacking its crevices,
breakfast like a dream
and the whole day to live through,
steadfast, deep, interior.
After the death,
after the black of black,
the lightness,-
not to die, not to die-
that God begot.
2.3k
in the blue steel sky
where new northern
mornings arrive
and the stark chill
of predawn elementals
reign across the cycles
of timeless millennia
Orion stands, emblazoned
returned from a summer
season of hunting
in far off hemispheres
greeting old comrades
tied to the fixed points
of fluxing terra firma
with mighty sword
unsheathed and risen
to stalk the spare game
of a dire season
in seasons past
i too was once a
great hunter
now i thumb
the dull blade
of my ill used sword
commencing a search
of deep pockets
for a stout heart,
diligent resolve and
a sharpening stone
Philip Glass Ensemble
Orion: India
Oakland
10/25/13
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 10:02 AM UTC
~Enter~
Everything injected
Identity constricted
Breaths restricted
Fights enlisted
Words explicit
Pain inflicted
~Exit~
Withdrawing addiction
Half of me missing
Shaking commencing
Cold sweats kick in
Heartbeats lessening
Death's threatening
~Return~
Suffocation retired
Individuality aspired
Stimulation inspired
Culmination transpired
Life long love desired
Exact dosage is required
~Anchored~
© Tina Thompson
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 8:13 PM UTC
✓My favorite weapon
✓Bikini ski boat
✓Fluorescent sand
✓Her eyes immaculate
✓Keys to the prophet's house
✓Emotional screening device
✓1 cup of sun, 3 teaspoons of rain
✓Third world treasure map & saxophone
✓Alternate flightpaths
✓Extra parachute
✓Mediocre Shakespeare
✓Poison pen letters
✓Getaway car & escape route
✓Ladies in waiting (in lingerie)
✓Subterranean lips
✓A pinch of film noir
✓Night vision
✓Antarctic scenarios
✓Fountain of remembrance
✓Policy of containment
✓Silhouette machine
✓Water wings
✓Pillow
Mar 14, 2025
Mar 14, 2025 at 10:12 AM UTC
*Walter, I just want to sit on my *** and **** and think about Dante.*
—Samuel Beckett
All this fractures the Wolf. The ancient leaves
amid the ancient woods, wind riffling wind
in eddies she can see but she can’t hear,
the braying of a fatted calf which she
could eat, if she could hear thy call, O Wolf.
The tympani pretend to be a thunder roll,
the crashing cymbals mean to simulate
the distant lightning, all the strings—cello,
base, violin and viola—play the
pizzicato of rain commencing…
The Wolf sits to watch—what?—the floodlights fill
the stadium? the baton poised? the crowd
about to have their daily dose of not
quite silence served up yet again? She hates
that they have come to watch a prophecy.
It’s raining full blast now, the Wolf’s exchange
for music, how things balance out, how rain
fornicates in the forest, with its pools
and puddles, how it tenders lakes and rivers
and shadows… It can’t be! Ahead she sees him.
She sees Dante, the poet of the prophecy,
the one she has to drown. It’s why she’s deaf.
She will not hear him wail. **** him so he will rot
in hell before the other poet comes. **** him
and spare the world another poem about
another world. The rain and music grow
so dense around her soul. She is so quick,
too quick for him to flee. She drags him still
alive, drags him to the lake of his heart.
Sink and die. In Paradise only bubbles rise.
The tympani pretend to be a thunder roll,
the crashing cymbals mean to simulate
the distant lightning, all the strings—cello,
base, violin, viola—play it soft,
so soft, as if the rain is about to start…
The Wolf and I walk the slopes of hell.
When Farinata and Cavalcante
rise up to ask her, ‘Who were thy ancestors?’
and ‘Where Is ***** she howls. O Wolf.
O Tuscan. She howls.
Aug 25, 2010
Aug 25, 2010 at 5:51 PM UTC
*A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing.*
Ecclesiastes 3:5.
long, long long
have I known
the contradictory meaning thereof,
for I authored it,
time immemorial
till the day came
when understanding parted,
left for another prophet,
another poet,
for this how the world's words go,
round and around
left me
re commencing
re imaging
re imagining,
new era words,
newer versions,
new heards
newer mergings
stones and embraces
ha!
"Two of my favorite things"
no, that's been done...
"Let's go get ****** and..."
nope, that's been done
So,
spark sublime divine
give me a second chance,
compose me a vision
that gathers these
mutual funds of
contrasting similarities
in a bow tied connection
singular, worthy of
song and daily recitation!
*her embrace was a stone necklace
around my throat,
sackcloth was my shroud,
to the sea bottom was impaled,
by the stony apparition
of the unrequited embrace*
Ugh
*My beloved's embrace,
cracked the stones that surround
my uncaring register,
the cold still waters that hid it
now boiling from
her gathering me in*
better.
one last try before I repent
*embrace the stones
that obstacle the journey,
gather them in, together keep,
for they are the markers,
you have used,
you have been,
you have exhausted,
so long after the body ashed,
these words will trace for
those that follow the path
you marked with
these same stones
you gathered in
olden days of
simple joyous embrace*
this will,
must have to
do,
for the stones of
the angels of sleep have
arrived and undeterred,
upon my chest have,
inscribed and placed,
while bidding me adieu,
tucking me in,
gathering me to my rest,
a closing eyeing embracing,
in drowsy voices half clear:
sleep prophet,
the work done,
the words piled,
the stones now
mark your the
you final resting place
upon them ecrivez,
In The Future,
Keep It Simple Stupid
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 5:58 PM UTC
Within my mind are heavy thoughts,
They do not let me feel at ease.
Everything i'd failed to do
Is coming back to haunt me.
Body withered and my mind
Is trapped awaiting for relief -
Heavy duty machines above
Will serve as bridge to a new life for me.
Heavy brain is in the skull,
Drinking blood that flows in veins,
The blood is pumped by a heavy heart -
A heavy heart is all that's left of me.
LONG WAITED ΣXTRACTION OF BRAIN IS COMMENCING,
Heavy heart has been put to rest.
As narcotics put me to sleep i imagine
What future holds for me.
What was it that made me who i had thought i was?
Which parts of self will be put to rest?
After-bodily life may just show me the secrets of who I am.
Is life within a machine equivalent to death?
Vivid images i had not seen
Yet imagined like they're real -
The brain is fed through metal tubes
With tar-like liquid that flows within,
The brain is speared by electric spikes -
They cut their way through every part of it.
THE DREAM STATE DISRUPTED BY A HEAVY DESTRUCTIVE SHOCK,
What are these sings i'm receiving? I can't make sense at all.
The feeling of dread is suppressed by machinery, i don't even feel any pain.
Yet heavy thoughts haven't gone away.
More than ever before i am wondering if a choice i had made was correct -
Eternal existence without a future or hopes and no right to be welcomed by death.
Aug 1, 2020
Aug 1, 2020 at 10:39 AM UTC
~~~
Happy Hanukkah Brother Nat!
~~~
*this poem is not for young lovers,
seasoned soldiers of the heartfelt only need apply,
give me my merry mercy-naries to save me
from criminal holiday insouciance,
shoot me with the rounds of caring,
that come so fast
and last as long as I can
nod and wink...*
~~~
used to drink inspiration
from Manhattan sidewalk rain riveted cracks,
turn half overheard street conversation snatches
into half decent poems by Nat(chez),
professors turning phrases, upbringing a brain ratcheting,
choreographers, dancing in body and spirit and word,
in summation, a thief of opportunity...
these days, the pattern prevailing,
the El Niño de Natalino,
is drawing up works
from the wealth of messages and comments,
my troubadours, my y'all youse guys, share,
so as I compose,
not knowing where this goes,
I'm just simple knowing,
that a heartfelt reach out,
addressed as
Happy Hanukkah Brother Nat!
deserves the recognition of its sweet intent,
in a lyric all its own,
like a traditional festival
Hanukkah jelly donut (true1)
t'is the seasonal affectation of salutations
all commencing with happy,
never struck me as anything deeper
than surficial superficial,
but this time its textual emendation -
the inclusion of genuine brotherly love,
loops, Humpty Dumpty cracks and swoops,
and here I am fastening word combos,
when the clickty clack of the clock
says uh-uh, poem in the making,
natural verbal child birthing, sleep hours docked,
and here I am,
begetting instead of shushing
a day-older brain to get-thee-to-a-hideaway...
*this poem is not for young lovers,
seasoned soldiers of the heartfelt only need apply,
give me my mercy-naries to save me
from criminal holiday insouciance,
shoot me with the rounds of caring,
that come so fast
and last as long as I can
nod and wink...*
sooner than later it will be the Fourth,
and in my eyes a day-deserving of a fireworks spectacular,
though the month matters not,
the sentiments of brotherhood and live love,
independent and freely given,
deserves enhanced ignition recognition
and herein supplied...
you had me at the greeting so fleeting,
then ask my advice,
is there to be had a greater compliment,
so my mien and demeanor are now modified
an oath sworn, till the infamous 31st,
every passerby and child
will be bequeathed a shockingly rowdy,
Happy and Merry,
sincerity coated
and tinged with you know what...
~~~
Dec. 3, 2015
nyc
11:12 pm
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 11:27 PM UTC
Pulsating honor doth corroded hearts impound
A blustery breeze echoes cries from each, preceding battleground
A recurring, eager parade of reporters, gawkers freely roam distant mound
Below, fatigued, tidy mass of steeled infantry; to death's throes bound
Neighing horses conditioned to mayhem the pageantry doth confound
On opposite ridges, mounted turrets prepared hell's fury to expound
On signal, a synchronized, concussive chorus doth its dark melody propound
Scraps of metal shards initiate; commencing another, toilsome round
After lengthy barrage, wits collected a more lethal volley to stound
Familiar, urgent order to charge christens hallowed ground
With youthful ardor a wide-eyed bugler doth the bridled expanse unbound
Shrieking rancor from recoiling rifles; a familiar anthem doth resound
Recurring cacophonous medley, weathered nerves drowned
Once more, a mass of flesh surges into the abyss with mortal hopes crowned
Anon, shattered limbs; gory wounds misery's cache compound
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 9:59 AM UTC
As the Nightingale sings...
His sweet song of happiness
Driven by bountiful liberation
Relieved from timeless crappiness
Fluttering, making a joyful noise
Trials to deprive him of craftiness
Surely fails at inflicting such harm
He sings gleefully, free of nastiness.
As the Nightingale sings...
His wrenching song of fear
Realizing his time can easily fall
At any moment danger may appear
Songs of melodic screechy whistles
Alerting of predators lurking clear
He's hurt, used to frequent viewing
His kin die, for each he sheds a tear.
As the Nightingale sings...
His sensual song of passion
Strong vocals of desired courtship
Refusing to share his ration
With many rivals upon his branch
Alluring females with his attraction
Mating rituals commencing in love
His plumage thrives in new fashion.
As the Nightingale sings...
His saddened song of sorrow
Wishing for better times to come
Hoping to make it to the morrow
Living below a abundant food chain
With a short lifespan to borrow
Singing til his last breath is breathed
Eloped to heaven, a angel he follows.
© Michael P. Smith
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 9:52 PM UTC
The strings were pulled of a bitter signal
Erratically hateful in their draw
Commencing the judgment of her mental state
As a bloodthirsty crowd looked on in awe
All her pleading notations were met with objection
By all their unfeeling eyes
Who merely wished to bear witness to the surrender
Of sanity and to see its quiet demise
Suddenly without warning an onrush of light
Blinded the probing eyes of the crowd
A curve of great decision was suspended in space
As they began to read her crimes aloud
Guilty as charged a voice rang out from the light
For moving against the grain
For not following behind the shadow of others
She is guilty, she must be insane
Completely unnatural, no control of her faculties
She cannot possibly be competent, the voice loudly rang
Daring to be optimistic in the face of grievous pain
She holds no resentment, she must be insane
Her sentence was pronounced for the entire crowd to hear
Claiming her incompetent and unfit
All the eyes in the crowd remain blinded by the light
Yet she doesn’t mind at all as she smiles and sits
She smiles into the faces of the blinded crowd
Knowing she has not changed a bit
****** she may be to the unfeeling eyes of the blind
However, they can never take her own happiness
Jul 30, 2010
Jul 30, 2010 at 6:13 AM UTC
Picture it when in a flash of a description, brought you the news
it said was your derelict.
when in becoming we ultimately fail
our being championed by our unbecoming
seeking the real scathed by a sizeable truth
like a persimmon in your tender hand.
This is the default
sketched over a sagging paper, plugged within the air
the motes depart and is as easy as it is explained: an elusive
thing that may never be captured. Something the arriving
betrays then assuages with a word treated benignly:
a transit.
let gray define the day: let the file describe the motive:
let presence soil where we stood our place
like a monument: let it seek a real object
or a found language
a wafting presence is lost somewhere gliding over unnamed territories
commencing a displacement said was our undisputable location
roads becoming roads vehicles becoming salvage
birds becoming orchestra shambles becoming complete
thus dearth becoming us before our denied image
from a source that was our implacable place like a deadspot discovered
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 3:03 AM UTC
then I am wearing black suit,
white shirt, black tie,
pockets full of tissues,
most crumpled, mostly used,
like my spirits
If it's 2pm,
I am in Augusta,
in a baptist church,
a nice jewish boy,
fixing his askewed tie,
doing what
The Lord commanded of him
If it's 2pm,
I am in Augusta,
sunny and 72 Farenheit,
inside of me its a different forecast,
y'all decide the condition,
the condition I'm in
I'm in the way back row,
humming so softly,
me and Johnny C.
nobody hears,
nobody cares,
*She stood in the crowd and shed not a tear
But sometimes at night when the cold wind moans
In a long black veil she cries over my bones
She walks these hills in a long black veil
She visits my grave where the night winds wail
Nobody knows, no and nobody sees
Nobody knows but me*
nobody knows, I am there,
nobody sees, nobody believes,
but god only knows I am here
my spirit taken here
unasked, unaided, unabated
did not have to fly,
the ship that was to take me,
busted on the rocks
for
*the words that are used
to get the ship confused
will not be understood as they’re spoken
for the chains of the sea
will have busted in the night,
will be buried at
the bottom of the ocean*
still
If it's 2pm,
I am in Augusta,
at a funeral,
my words gone silent,
even store bought stock phrases,
so sorry for your loss,
not for sale, all gone, all aloft,
all sold out on
this Sabbath day
If it's 2pm,
I am in Augusta,
in some form of which
not readily acquainted,
my new context a riddle,
never knew this morphosis
till now, until
it was needed,
all on that day
If it's 2:45pm
can't understand
all these people standing
over me, and the sidewalk
taste in my my mouth
it appears I appeared
on east 57th street
in my New York City,
it appears I appeared
to have
fainted dead away,
asking me not where how or when,
only why,
and I have no answers for
them or me or anybody who dare asks
a quest,
commencing and ending in
why
must have been the heat,
but decide then and there
maybe go visit
my Jordan and
my grand children
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 2:00 PM UTC
That dark patterned line
crossing straight the moon,
centering the frozen sphere-gate
of a misty autumn night-sky,
is not a cloud to sink down on only
and float subtly for a while
< so I can feel the aura of your skin mixing with the mine >
but it is also a five line staff
and tells me an aurally perceived absolute secret so that ,
through my hearing ,
you will
rise,
glide,
twirl
and cross
other lines,
tune my gaze
and engrave a mystic score beyond your shine,
plant each of ‘you’s,
note by note,
in ones, halves, fourths, eighths , sixteenths and ‘pi’s
in the heart of each
<beyond the clouds away from my reach>
twinkling star
so that anyone that could look up with a heart,
<maybe on a clear night sky>
would see a commencing song-
singing the dance of an ever weaving light-story
visible to those eyes with a knowing only that
<the knowing about a wish is
a wish that shall eternally be kept a secret>
has the enlightening technology to recreate a reflecting galaxy
with an authentic memory
that expands infinitesimally
<which we in our terms would say it expands by love
but in truth would not really know how
unless the terms are lost and we have got no time except to > - be now-
be now
be now with me now
and now and only now
be now and with me now
and only now and now
Would you come and meet me then?
there?
but I don’t know where… just there?
wherever all these sky lookers are
and be one of them, again ? as we did once– on a terrace
one summer night, we watched our own story under stars, among crowds while I asked for your light and you kissed me awake for eternity and so
would you let me kiss you this time - one more time
just for the last time and forget that eternity eternally this time?
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 11:37 AM UTC
always woke up with nothing to say to her
not a thing.
we slept in rooms separate,
but she would bust in on me,
occasionally, to have an occasion,
never knocking, just door pounding,
just to annoy, just to see
if I still cared, hoping to revoke
what passed for pseudo-serenity.
some times entireties
would pass
before you had the energies
to swing
your legs over the
side of the day~bed,
conceding, white flag surrendering,
losing the commencing-avoidance of
the start-of-the-day battle of
pseudo-existence.
hoping against hope
you don't meet,
hoping against hope
she doesn't say accidentally,
good morning.
so you don't have to
Lincoln~Douglas debate,
aerate, concentrate, orate,
how to answer without bitterness
intended to maim.
knowing you could not e'er possess
a good morning, day, night,
by definition, by ruling of the
gods in charge of never.
sometimes you made it out
of the apartment that had
no ingress,
only egress,
happy happy no converse.
used to go to a Barnes & Noble,
get a refillable endless Starbucks,
from open to closing.
read all day, sitting with strangers,
till my **** hurt so bad,
didn't think I could walk again.
now and then,
smiled at the ladies,
tho nothing could come of it,
nothing ever did.
she never asked me
where I egressed too.
didn't care, that was better
for sanitizing my pseudo-sanity.
came home cautiously,
door opening silently
in case I was home prematurely,
she still there.
sometimes you wake up with nothing to say
to yourself.
that is even worse,
cause the meaning clear,
breaking point is near.
have a picture of me from those days.
a cellphone photo I took myself,
of course.
serious, bearded, short haired,
red eyed, unfiltered.
Sometimes I think I will banner it,
so you can tap into a part of me
that words just cannot do injustice to,
more than was already done.
here, while composing,
I fell asleep.
tired?
maybe. maybe,
sometimes you just don't want to remember.
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 11:46 AM UTC
"May poetry be our salvation,
liberation and Nirvana"
Bala
*so many ifs in our daily lives
the ifs that pockmark lives individuation,
look-back crossroad regrets, daily harvested,
road poorly chosen, the kiss not taken,
a brother, for a petty sake, forsaken,
a sister, sea-drowned, left undefended,
by foolish parental expectations
many are the global conjunctions,
commencing and ending with an "if only,"
today's state-of-the-world curse,
uttered when reading the front page's
mayhem and senseless,
never-aging, new and old excuses raging
so many palliatives on offer,
what matters yet one more,
none seem able, none proven capable,
of essencing a humanity so simple basic
when the moment at hand needs a
redirection that a loving rhyme can sway
but in my inbox from India
comes a hope, a wish,
that leads a man to dream,
envision societies that could
surround-sound itself with wisps of words,
in the oddest places,
throwing us offsides,
in a make us see ourselves
in better ways
a morning poem before the TV weather,
a verse insert
tween news reports
of who murdered whom this day,
subway poems, a Super Bowl commercial
recitation that makes us lick our lips,
poetic literacy in small things,
a minister or president's speech
a recitation of a nation's verbal wealth,
instead of rejoinders and accusations
ah just a foolish notion at 4:22am,
there is no money in poetry,
thus its possibilities to soften and stem,
cure and elevate
enhance the perchance
of a different way to,
salvation, liberation, and nirvana,
seems so unlikely
but there is that small step
one could take,
leave a poem on the night table,
a first thought, a morn pill of humankind,
be a softener of a day just begun*
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 4:48 AM UTC
Conditionality (All love is conditional)
All love is conditional.
Even unconditional, a state in and of itself, is conditional.
So many love in silence, or unrequited,
or fear expressing the finest emotion, less rejected,
And precurse it by commencing with,
If.
And that is the worst condition of all.
When she whispers I love you,
And I ask each time, Why,
She answers me the same,
Just because....
And as I ponder that, I realize,
That is the only answer in the universe of words
that is without even a hint of jasmine, of cinnamon,
or conditionality.
Happily, I have proven myself wrong, yet once more...
8:48am
June 2
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 8:55 AM UTC
Now an annual autumnal literary festival visit
to our island redoubt,
the snow geese come honking down,
in linear formation
warning itinerant human beachcombers
of their arrival on the beach runways
of our sheltered island
This TripTik recommended diversion,
is a pleasure long anticipated by them,
seen as an intellectual rest stop,
with excellent sea snacks cuisined,
flying down the Eastern Seaboard
keeping Interstate 95 on their right,
an avian version of GPS
Our birds,
follow a minor route,
commencing in Nova Scotia,
the farthest north of all the species,
never making it to Mexico,
ending their travelogue in Georgia,
lest their true species be confused
with other kinds of Floridian snowbirds
Sit by my side they do,
one by one in assigned seats,
on the now scrawny grass blanket,
their attention span famously long,
unless a school of striped bass
seen on radar in the vicinity
I, on my Adirondack throne,
a poetry reading to intone,
with more-than-occasional audience input,
considered their right most fair
Critics one and all,
animated animal devotees of the arts,
unafraid to express their thoughts,
oft in unison or in
unharmonious John Cage
cacophonies of disagreement
Sadly, I only speak local seagull,
thus their effusive exege(e)ses and criticisms,
either damming or acclaim, indistinguishable,
their only "tell" is if
they stick around for
just one more...day...
That my poetry they did favor
was a conceit I feigned to believe,
loving their attention even if not deserved,
for in their service, and nature's too,
I am now trained to sit and wait,
a minor stitch in a famous tapestry,
for well I recall Milton's words:
*"God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts: who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best.
His state is kingly;
thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait."*
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 10:05 AM UTC
Starting a new day
As the creatures of the dawn
Awaken from their slumber
Draw nearer to conversing
As my tongue tired of lasting words
Exchanging an unpleasant battle
Due to stronghold blockades
Those casting does not work as one
But bitter with sayings of lashing
Commencing words
Which are not quite pleasant
But sends a signal
Commanding respect
Bow down to no flesh of unpleasantness
As the spirit ease me with new slumber
Thanking God for a sleep I need
For the next preparation
Aug 17, 2010
Aug 17, 2010 at 2:17 AM UTC