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Where Shelter Sep 2017
<•>



for all the Ella's of the world,
who wonder
"what the seagulls talk about all day long. while looking up at the gentle sky mixed with blue and purple, their white feathers glisten from the fiery sun."


<•>


one day when you arrive,
visiting, at my isle,
of Where Shelter,
(with signed parental permission slip),
resting upon weathered worn, Adirondack non-slip covered thrones,
in the official Poetry Nook,
a seashell throw from bay and dock, where the seagulls
thrive and dive, in between pooping, pollinating, and
rest up after day trip visiting the town dump

then,
together we will write a poem about
what the seagulls talk about all day long

having employed them long time as co-conspirators,
editors and a test audience (assayers of my essays),
sadly must report they
occupy themselves in mostly matters culinary,
local gossip of my neighbors and other avian interlopers
(geese and osprey)

hoping this doesn't disappoint,
but know this,
it was the sand, the breeze, the trees,
the moon and setting sun, the waving waters,
animals of all kinds,
that together, taking years,
taught me to write like this:

<•>

the sun 7 o'clock afternoon sky low,
warmths the world, as did its morning glory reciprocal,
a dozen hours earlier,
both a low heat,
a sky stove top
'keep warm' setting,
a desirable global warming temperature

recall that promise not to burden you
with a hundredth scribing of his
lottery luck, this poetry nook and the
idyll of its surround,
but!
its childlike insistence,
while stomping on the greenest sea grass
of this portly world, insistent,

"write of me, attention must be paid!"

the lightest breeze of excellent sufficiency
asks the trees to shake
their compatriot leaves
as if to applaud,
one more time, a lord of the ring serenade,
an evenstar song of
the solstice of perfection

a cloudless night but for
an occasional wispy white blemish,
hinting that the orb's final bow tonight will be
a forever remembered,
standing ovation performance

in an hour, to the dock we'll go,
joining  the congregant gulls
in appreciating the edging lower of
an immaculate inception
of a dying day's deceptive departure conception

my troubles, those that
furrow and till the brow,
105 miles away, as the crow flies,
for now,
suppressed into non-existence,
as we drink to la vie en rose,
our wine glasses, ****** the salmon pink
of suns rays rippling, tippling and reflecting
upon humans, who too reflect,
upon their good fortune,
this single and singular
peeking at the peaking of their perfection,
each wishing this be
their journeys end, their final solstice

to walk into a funnel upon the water,
into the sun and the
horizon in attendance faithful,,
alighting upon the wings of the most glorious of  inviting,
dying rays of setting,
answering the question, at long last,
a finale,

here,
here is shelter!
  ^

<•>

so be quietly patient and never
write in regret,
for you are but sixteen years old,
and could teach to this old grandpa,
(who, by the by, has an Ella-all-his-own that is
of your proximate age,)

how to write
with the simple grace,
and the fresh wisdom,
of being
sixteen years young again
^https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2044967/the-solstice-of-their-perfection/
<•>

https://hellopoetry.com/ellapopov/

f r e e l y.
all alone on the evening beach. able to take in the moment alone.
slowly falling back into the sand. as if I'm trying to sink and hide into it. grabbing the sand in my hands and counting each grain because I have all the time in the world.
  letting the ocean crash unto the shore, slipping me it's deepest secret. making me laugh as the Novembers chilling air plays with my hair, trying to convince me it's secrets are much more scandalous than the waters.
  wondering what the seagulls talk about all day long. while looking up at the gentle sky mixed with blue and purple, their white feathers glisten from the fiery sun.
  I stand back to run freely, away from my daring problems. as I run, the wind whips my face, blowing my hair back. making me feel the need to let my arms back.
Where Shelter Jul 2017
alas, the same promise,
yet again, broken, no more writing of
the lightness of perfection so real,
it cannot be a truly,
a man's one more poetic homage to improve upon nature's gift,
nary a single craft to be seen,
tho somewhere, a motor hums nearby,
a mechanical reminder that men
will intrude, even if unobserved,
not necessarily then,
a picture complete

the sun 7 o'clock afternoon sky low,
warmths the world, as did its AM reciprocal,
a dozen hours earlier,
both on a low heat,
a sky stove top
'keep warm' setting,
a desirable global warming temperature

that promise not to burden you
with a hundredth scribing of his
lottery luck, this poetry nook and the
idyll of its surround,
it's childlike insistence,
stomping on the greenest sea grass
of this portly world,
"write of me, attention must be paid!"

the lightest breeze of excellent sufficiency
asks the trees to shake
their compatriot leaves
as if to applaud,
one more time, a lord of the ring serenade,
an evenstar song of
the solstice of perfection

a cloudless night but for
an occasional wispy white blemish,
hinting that the orb's final bow will be
a forever remembered,
standing ovation performance

in an hour, to the dock we'll go,
joining  the congregant gulls
in appreciating the edging lower of
an immaculate inception
of a dying day's deceptive departure

my troubles, those that
furrow and till the brow,
105 miles away, as the crow flies,
for now suppressed into non-existence,
as we drink to
la vie en rose,
our wine, snatching the salmon pink
of suns rays rippling and reflecting
upon humans, who too reflect,
upon their good fortune,
this single and singular
peeking at the peaking of their perfection,
each wishing this be
their journeys end, their final solstice,
to walk into a funnel upon the water,
into the sun and the
horizon in attendance faithful,,
alighting upon the wings of the most glorious of  inviting, dying rays of setting,
answering the question, a long last finale,
here, here is shelter!
a  sincere apology for writing of, again and again, the perfection of this place in our lives

Silver Beach, Peconic Bay, S. I
e fields Jul 2019
Huddled by the bypass entrance
The sun glared at the Earth's
Asphalt facade, walloping it accordingly

Cameras sat patiently on the
Sign-beams like congregant birds
Waiting to snitch on someone
Behaving out of turn
Those adoring paparazzi
Admonishing, admonishing

Wannabe-rapper-wannabe came crawling
Out of the watering hole
Still parched yet gasping for air
Looking like he'd been swimming,
Looking like he'd been up against a current
That traveled generations wide

"Spare change, anyone,
Spare a quarter, help
Little old me?"
Tsk. - Doors locking
Tsk. - Glass shimmying

"I'm not out here for fun, man"
The whimpering stray
*****-slapping the open air
"Well, ******* all, any way"

The drone of throttled engines
Rubber to road and fleet vanishing
He's melting, on the wing of the onramp
He is being drunk whole
"Man, ******* all, any way"
An echo's trace as the ghost ships depart.
Nolan Bucsis Mar 13
I journal all this.
Internet graffiti I spew.
In public.
For your conisderation.
Lest someone call me a coward.

Inauthentic.
Weak.
Pathetic.

But I'm not that.
I'm a pent up pipe bomb.
A shockwave.
I don't ever get better.
I get much much worse.

And these idyll iterations of words.
Imply.
I often write things I don't agree with.
Just.
Cause.
They say I can't.

But, I dunno that word.
Can't.
It's not a command.
It's a weak suggestion that I'm not inclined.
To consent to.

And I dress myself up so dramatically.
I add flair to the self destruction.
Of someone too smart for their own good.
A rebel without a cause.
Beaten down and **** on.
But, I get up if not only to spite.
The little **** who knocked me out.

I am divine in my filth.
I am a mendicant.
A Bhikku of Yama.
Lord of Death.

And, oh.
You say I can't say what I want?
Well, I never asked your opinion.
Please,
arrest me for all of these hate crimes.
These taboo pantomimes of a free speech activist.
Just make sure you find intent.

Life isn't worth living when all this 'art'.
Is the same fictional balderdash they've been.
Spewing for decades.
Nothing reflective of the human condition.
Nothing novel.
Just the same rehashed formula and historic art movements.
That died decades ago.

So in this collaborative fiction.
I write my mythology in my own personal.
Mystery cult.
Residing with God.
Compelled to castigate.
Rewarded for being anti social.
And, principled.

And, no.
You can't come along.
You weren't invited into my church.
I am the only congregant.
The only priest.
The only crusader.
Out here trying to burn down reality.

Endogenous
In group of one.

— The End —