In the Poet's Nook: Perhaps I should write less
Surrounded by a movie set of waves,
A just stiff enough, warm-to the-wet-finger breeze,
Temperature just touches 80 Fahrenheit,
Our shirts wind-ripple, the sun rays tipple
Our minds into a clarity of euphoria dots of surreal stipple,
One would never think to drink or smoke again.
Surround-sounded by waves rapping,
Pushed~pulled by the gusts, delivery messengers of
Air bearing, air aborning, of every flavored life's seedling needed,
We would freeze life as is, forever, unhesitatingly.
A cool woman from whom I sip, rip, and to her,
Tender my life, comes to kiss-visit me in the nookery,
Feeds me peaches, cherries, and a fruit as yet unnamed.
Called by some my muse, I call her my fuse,
For the disparities, the troubles I but hint at,
And all that is life-good under her roof,
Comes together here where there is only
Cerebral and sensual, for there is nothing else of import,
Even the not-good, tempered gently, and put aside.
You and I,
We know but small of each other,
Yet we reveal so much -
If I could summon you here right now,
All would be clarified,
No request denied,
Yes, every tear, every tear, would dry itself,
Promise. From experience, promise.
Wish we could compose side by side.
My perfection would be made more perfect
By its sharing, especially with those
So hurting-pained, suffering, I cannot all absorb it,
No longer stand this influenza wave of affliction,
Especially when I.Am.Blessed.
Come here, where I can promise slow and steady healing.
How can I make you understand what I write,
Where, here, I write, all comes so easy,
Every glance a poem formed,
Every phrase a title to a poem to be served,
Every conversation overheard, wind-lifted brought,
A seed, a germ, a word~worm hooked to the pole crook of
My finger saying,
See man, time to get more
Rod and reel, ink and paper,
Go, and catch us a few poems for dinner.
The snapper weakfish word colors are
Running past my-by the thousands,
We will need a woven basket to catch but a fraction,
Of what you see, more than more enough to share,
Only Happy Poems for all.
It is in this rhyming way, I view the world,
That is my freedom, my-present essence,
How the poems come, how thy flow,
Peaking, I cannot berate, rarely eat,
Sleep a thing of the past (as you be aware, beware)
There is poetry in simply everything.
A long time ago, I wrote a long poem that began like this:
Excited utterances, acerbic witticisms, utter stupidities,
elegant inanities, can and most assuredly will be used,
both evidentially, and eventually, about you
in the court of poetic justice,
as inspiration, original source material,
proofs of our collaboration with the enemy,
whom Pogo fathomed long ago is...Us
As I drink in my good fortune,
The enemy is clearly just me, overwhelmed,
Unable to choose, unable to distinguish,
Unable stop, out of control, I need perspective,
Both the scars and the successes, scar-e me
Perhaps I should write less,
Or take a mental rest,
Is not brevity what's in this year?*
But in this *not-half-but-all-the-way house by the bay,
Where lying about, in the Poets Nook, is the souls cure,
There is inspiration ammunition galore,
Brevity is but a demoted D list celebrity.
I need you to be at ease,
So my happy days can be full completed,
Meantime the pen is grounded,
I should put-poetry-writing aside and just think,
Read~Rocking the writs those little babies you send to me,
For my mouth to mouth inhaltion and
Return to them, children, the elements of a
Nook's Recitation of Resuscitation.
June 2013
