"lateness" poems
It is 1:20 am
And I am at 7%
And I have only one bar of signal
And my screen tells me
"Reconnecting..."
I'm 93% done with 'us;'
You have drained each per cent of my patience.
I'm getting mixed signals
From the language of your body,
And very few at that.
But I take a chance on us,
Another chance,
At this hour of lateness,
Maybe we can rebound and re-bond
And not just reminisce.
I reckon we could
Reconnect.
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 5:31 AM UTC
I swear I'm leaving right now
Yet I'm still running around in a rush
&& STILL no pants on
They lie somewhere on my floor
If I don't leave now I'm going be late for sure...hmm got everything.. OH WAIT!!!
SERIOUSLY...again..WOOOOW
FUUUUCK quit messing with your hair & put down your BRUSH!!
**** 15 minutes later **** & I'm still NOT gone
Almost out the door...
SON OF A BITCH...WHERE THE **** ARE MY KEYS..GREAT!!
Now speeding like a police chase
Weaving in & out of traffic lane by lane
Trying to beat the clock & it's tick tocks
A sound I SERIOUSLY ******* HATE
I'm barely on time, a few minutes to spare
It is a WAAAY too familiar race
It's an endless ******* trend, driving me insane
It's like a whole day of me wearing matching socks
SOOOOO, SO WHAT if I'm occasionally always LATE
At least I'm always never not eventually there but still at least there
&& DOESN'T MATTER where it is I'm going
If there is a specific time of arrival expected
Don't tell me that correct time
UNLESS..... In all actuality the arrival time is actually irrelevant
Since I know you have a "PARTY ALL THE TIME" way to celebrate
Then please keep on shuffling when my face is showing
Lateness is something I've so EPICALLY PERFECTED
If I had a nickel for every time I was early, I'd have a MOTHER ******* DIME!!!
Being on time & I have just always been so distant
That's why punctuality & I will never relate!!!
A WHITE RABBIT
GO, GO, GO
NOW IT'S MY ******* HABIT
WOULDN'T YA KNOW
ALWAYS IN A HURRY
YELLING "IM LATE! IM LATE!"
BUT I UNDERSTAND THAT FEELING OF WORRY
TRAGICALLY IT'S NOT THAT EASY TO ABOLISH OR ANNIHILATE
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 3:27 PM UTC
I guess executives like people major in excuses.
Everytime something drastic happens.
We know the comment or generalization is coming.
We know when gas prices arises.
That an excuse is coming our way.
Do they think we were born yesterday.
If a forest fire happens.
If rain never comes.
We know prices of fruit will be like a track runner.
Excuses.
Some legit.
Some just given.
We constantly aware of that late employee.
Where you're just waiting to hear that one news.
Traffic was bad.
Or something else given to cover up being late.
Excuses.
Some confirmed.
Others unconfirmed.
A honest days work for your boss.
Just to hear them say get out.
Because we filing bankruptcy's today.
Excuses.
We all can't say we hadn't used one.
Because we are only human.
Late for a date.
You better have a good reason.
And, we complain about the lateness of the seasons
Excuses.
Something we never get use too.
Aug 10, 2012
Aug 10, 2012 at 8:55 AM UTC
Her fingers were covered in corn.
the corn after chewing, broken
pierced, churned- it could spread as butter
thick on stale toast, if needed
"it's fine, don't you worry, we'll get you all cleaned up"
she stared indifferently
Strings dangled from her mouth, unswept
full of necessary greens ---"mhm there there, this will give
you so much energy" --- drags of breath,
half inhale half choke. nothing to look forward to,
not the next soaking glob, not the cursing woman
in the bathroom, not the spill of light to her eyes
Where are the ladles, Did you check on it? The key? Just moved, most the suitcases aren't there yet. Remember to bring the Did you check on it? pay attention. Have you seen my grand kids?
who are you?
Sunday's are for the active ones
The games down the hall are too far. Why worry with legs, if she could just adjust to the left
the world could sag into an ongoing dream- No demands, no games, no movement.
The nurses hair net had more presence than the splotch of gray against her peeling itchy scalp. Drool leaked from leather lips, dampening the collar of her two month sticky blouse. Arms curled and locked,displaying under the wax skin cranberry patches-
she never wiped them off. Always the soft murmer of
a snore, always the smell of unbrushed teeth and hampers.
"Did you touch those where don't touch me scott scott scott leave my things alone thevenin I need a stop lying I want to go scott, scott? scott. I can't remember any"
I said my name four times before she heard me, knew me
I fixed her pillow and my sister marked off the day on the calendar.
We told her about school, the marching band, each word
filled with forced enthusiasm. She bobbed her head in circles, lazily
rolling her eyes, the curtain shading the empty space. We spent 30 minutes precisely.
She was more than I realized.
I never knew she had horseback riding, violin playing days. She traveled and hiked. We could have been close. Unraveling with the mystery, I felt the lateness of my curiosity.
It was 30 minutes precisely, always.
We acted as strangers, reciting routine and wishing each other a happy day and a quiet love you
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 5:21 PM UTC
My curfew is twelve
And tonight I ran home barefoot
Because my mother does not tolerate
Lateness, so it's 11:55 and I'm drunk
Running and wanting to
Stop because my feet are
Sore, but
I know if I'm late home I will miss a
Weekend of you, so when I run
With each footstep into gravel,
I think of the kisses
You put on my cheek, and
Run even faster,
Knowing I can't take another day
Without your gentle cheek
Kisses
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 12:24 AM UTC
Woke up this morning with a screaming headache
It’s 6am and I have to be at work by 8am
Feeling like I didn’t get enough sleep but have I ever?
Say a short prayer, that should make it all okay
I clean up as fast as I can,
but not without hurting my gums while brushing
Maybe once I had something to eat, it would all be better
Opened the fridge and the crate of egg falls off, Hol’up
I wanted scrambled eggs but not in this manner for sure
Aaahhh, I need some tea even though coffee would be ideal
But I did run out yesterday. Sigh.
Water’s boiling and I’m trying to get some of it into a cup
But the kettle cover falls off and the hot water spills on my hands
Burning me; today surely isn’t my day is it?
Tea’s ready, but I’m running late now, so I’m taking it to work
Got into the car, humming a feel good tune and sipping tea
Returning the cup to the holder now and again
Then I hit an unfortunate gallop, and the tea spills all over the car
It’s exactly 7.30am and my whole day looks like the mess in the car
I get to the office, couldn’t clean up the car, traffic enroute, made sure
I was more than 5 minutes late; I sign the register before the lateness line
Is ruled; something relatively good yeah? Yeah?
I’m walking to my office door, and somehow the key to my office breaks as I’m
Trying to open the door, no kidding.
They say they will fix it later and I pitch in one of the other empty offices
I’m on my desk, slow day so not much to do
Loud crashing sound, I’m awake and hurting on the office floor
Cos apparently I dosed off and fell off my chair
It’s not until break time and even more, the absurd amusing gazes I’m getting
That I realize I’m wearing different legs from two different shoes colored differently
And of cos my pants got torn at the back from the fall earlier.
Imagine how I looked and to think the day was only half spent.
Where could I have possibly gone wrong today?!
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 5:02 PM UTC
Yehudit lay on her stomach,
chin propped on her hands,
staring over the pond, she
called their lake. Ducks were
there, floating like small boats
on the water’s skin. Naaman
lay beside her his head leaning
on his hand. Last time they had
laid there they had just made
love in the dense woods behind.
Early evening that had been,
moonbeams played on the
surface of the water, the night
cool. She had been concerned
of her mother’s rebuke because
of the lateness. The *** would
have been beyond her mother’s
grasp. You used to fish here, she
said, turning to look at him. I got
bored, he said. I used to swim here
as a child, she said, until one of
the gamekeepers saw me and
informed my father. What did
your mother say to that? he asked.
Father didn’t tell her, he told me
not to swim there again. I missed
that then, he said, smiling. Yes, you
did, she said. It was hot that summer,
I wanted to cool down. Maybe it
was like a baptism? he said. In the
**** she said. Maybe it was a new
kind of baptism, he said. It nothing
like that. It was innocent fun, she said.
He touched her hand by the pond’s
edge. Her fingers squeezed his. Her eyes
smiled. The sunlight filtered through the
branches overhead, glimpses of blue sky
reflected on the water. That evening we
made love back there, you said you loved
me, she said, did you mean that? Yes, of
course, he said. It was special to me, she
said, not just the making of love of you
and me, but the evening and the moon
and the stars and the smell of you and me
and the flowery smell of it all. He watched
as a duck took off from the pond, its wings
outspread, breaking the air, and she looking
at the pond’s surface with her far away stare.
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 3:48 PM UTC
*"A lightning flash... then night! Fleeting beauty
By whose glance I was suddenly reborn,
Will I see you no more before eternity?”*
-Charles Baudelaire, "To a Passerby"
The material of the scene burns and
grays, burns and grays in my mind:
City soot in the frost. Cracked plastic.
Broken glass. Cheek creases where you
said your name. Salt stains on a denim cuff.
Scruff. Tartan scarf. Navy wool. Feather
down, laces, leggings, a buckle. Teeth,
fleece, a crumpled hotel matchbook.
No heat lamp here, where we wait and
meet, wait and meet on the windiest
night. Would you scoff if I said
"Love is two strangers trading fire.”
Smaller matter, now, an Altoid tin of
cherished ashes. I have it, and it murmurs
your lines to me, when I crave that kind of burn.
A familiar ice cube down the back of the neck.
These thoughts have sunken—a bag of pennies
in my gut like a phantom step on a dark staircase,
or the imitation of death in a dream.
Saying something about the lateness of the 16,
You cupped your hand, to shelter the flame.
I try to remember the melody.
The harp strings at the nape of
my neck sang mid-shiver, and you
said something else, which I couldn’t
hear over the choir under my hat.
This missing line is my mind’s one
sound conception of Infinity.
And that’s enough for flint.
A lightning flash…then night!
A flame frustratingly lit, but profoundly felt.
A gasp, a gust like a god's grace, like a song.
Like just enough time for a quick addict’s fix,
like the length of a single, ****** matchstick.
Will I see you no more before eternity?
And do you by chance have a light?
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 5:04 PM UTC
Pack it up, pack it in
don't throw my bolts there creating a din.
I won't ever battle you, that would be a sin.
Never will I stack up,
cos you just knocked me down again.
Trying to act higher,
with you and your godly crew.
But I'm the lord of the dead,
come on get your tombs up,
I raise the dead, can I have some hands up.
I have two minions, no there not yellow.
Pain is his name.
Getting splinters in your **** cheek,
stubbing your toe once again,
jump around, jump around
his confusion will get you down.
Then we panic,
who likes a bit of disco.
But he'll move your keys
just so you jump around, jump around
lateness is his merry go round.
I'll serve you up on the river of sticks,
If your coins ain't legit,
Throwing your cheap **** off the boat.
You get a special place for being tight-fisted ..
I've got more schemes, than any other villain,
copyrighted some cos others trying to steal um..
Tried to get Hercules on my side, but he was a
goody, goody, with piercing blue eyes..
I tried to ride his horse but it threw me off,
Slightly embarrassed by blue hair went off..
Yes I 'm bald and I wear a flaming blue wig,
but I'm a millennia old, and no sunlight down here.
You think Zeus locks are real,
More like Clouds that with a deceitful blow,
have his head looking like a shiny chrome dome .
My name is Hades and I'm king of the underworld,
I'll never rise to the top,
But I'll see you on the other side, enjoy it up top.
Apr 19, 2020
Apr 19, 2020 at 8:35 AM UTC
- Joseph Childress
Soft words
Are usually preferred
During pillow talks
Foolishly
I foolheartledly
Brought hard words
Harsh
& Disturbed
Which
Hardily makes sense
Since
Your sentiment
Didn't deserve
The sediment
Provided
From my concrete heart
I argue
Our argument
Was all my fault
I dumped asphalt
On the sandy beach
You provided
For our sweet retreat
You retrieved
My roughness
And smoothed
The edgy conversation
Tamed my
Toughness
And soothed
The painful consternation
You could
Ease the temperament
And impatience
Of anger management patients
All the while
Showing
The peacefulness in his
War within
Finding righteousness
In his right to yell
You respect
His freedom of speech
But with each
Negative comment
You seek
To find
The positive content
In the layers beneath
You see the beauty
In the mess
Like an abstract painting
Made for the
Artistically elite
My poor sense
Of creativity
Is lifted
From your richness
I dropped
Destruction
But always
Pick it
Back up
Like bad habits
Rehabilitate me this
Last time
And I promise
I’ll never
Cast a shadow again
I’ll shine
In every way
I direct my attention
Hopefully
Its not too late
But knowing you
My lateness
Will be welcomed
Like a homecoming
You seldom
Look at my faults
And not find
Greatness
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 8:21 PM UTC
I sense the lateness of the hour,
And I long for that sleeping power.
I want to sleep in my bed,
And hopefully I won't end up dead.
Apr 16, 2017
Apr 16, 2017 at 10:39 AM UTC
Thank you for the self doubt, today.
I was too shocked to retaliate properly,
it seemed too obvious to say
the words that I wished to.
That I am not you.
I'll not make your mistakes
I won't choose those men
the type you forever chose
time and time again.
I'm not you.
I am filled with self consciousness,
low self esteem,
my trust issues are high
and my confidence is not what it seems.
You made me a wreck.
I'm not you,
I'm paranoid and
suspicious and
tense.
Always waiting in
suspense
to pull up my
defences once
again.
But, I'm not you.
I'm always going to try,
I'll always have to
trust with
reluctance,
but trust I must do.
I am not you,
I'm going to find
happiness, this
I know is true.
I'm going to be with someone
who doesn't make me scared,
instead one who comes to my defence,
one who does not glare me into a corner.
"She was not like the mother who bore her"
Romantic I may be
but ignorant I am not
I would rather rot alone
then jump into bed
fully besotted
straightaway.
I'd rather wait and stay
wary. Rather
worry about their lateness
of arrival
then get on the first ride
I see.
What was it you wished me to be?
Stop being scared about your mistakes
and allow me to be me...
After all of that I think I know who I want to be.
Partly you
Partly Dad
Partly memories
Partly friends
Partly family
but, mostly and absolutely
Me. Why is this so difficult for you to see?
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 2:36 PM UTC
Good morning gorgeous!
You asked me why I broke up with her.
I've been thinking about what to say without sounding
like a disrespectful ****
Like you I've discovered it's easier to figure it out
if you write it down.
You're seeking and respect honesty so here goes.
I could not get you out of my head yesterday
and went to bed thinking about you last night.
I watched Tyson peck at the wood branch in his cage.
He bit me like the one he's named after bit Holyfield.
He loses interest in toys I buy him in minutes.
Reminds me of my ex she was the same way.
She never listened when I spoke and it was like I never did.
I lost patience with her due to her always being late.
Last time I took her out she was an hour late
with no good reason but couldn't decide what to wear.
She was adult but felt like I was involved with a immature kid.
Plus she's impulsive in a bad way.
She used the cards I let her use for emergencies
to gamble online, bought online and hid what she didn't need
and took her friends who were immature like her
out on the town at my expense.
Drove me nuts because she had difficulty paying attention.
Sometimes love isn't enough to over come her kind
of deafness or her thinking it fun to put aluminum
foil in microwaves.
She was the queen of drama and procrastination.
Her place was always disorderly and she swore to me
when we met she was a neat freak.
I don't mind a little daily life messes it happens.
Her chronic lateness made it a last straw.
On the night I was to introduce to my folks
she was late and they left my home without meeting her.
It's been over two years since I ended the misery
of her in my life but she's still bitter.
Unlike you she's stuck in hate mode and will
be there until someone else buys her
lies and manipulations.
Could say more but I believe you will
see the full picture.
I wrote this for you Betty Ponder.
I know you know it's about you. : )
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 6:22 AM UTC
Making class again late at 8 am rush traffic time I really hope I don't catch a traffic ticket again
Already owe the school thousands so really don't wanna owe thousands in tickets to the cops. I'd really like to break big brothers eyes in the sky looking down at my license plate
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 7:44 AM UTC
I sense the lateness of the hour,
And I long for that sleeping power.
I want to sleep in my bed,
And hopefully I won't end up dead.
Apr 16, 2017
Apr 16, 2017 at 10:39 AM UTC
A poetic
password feels
right today
as she
drew lines
parallel with
her cadence
that logic
shorten arc
of real
flatulent her
desire now
circumcise blind
interaction to
dissect lateness
but to
ensure righteous.
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 6:18 AM UTC
they are all asleep
and I sneak under cover
of the lateness of the hour
to the comfort of my words
scrawled across a page in ink
from the nib of a fountain pen
they search for a target
I'll never achieve
on a journey through my head
reaching for perfection
I am tired by a world
always demanding more
than I'm prepared to give
always asking for more
than I could possibly have
but this moment is at least mine
stolen from the clock of life
Feb 23, 2022
Feb 23, 2022 at 6:57 PM UTC
Expected with lateness,
Destined for greatness.
My flavors are true,
So I hope you can taste this.
Live as a winner,
But roses do wither.
Was born in the winter,
I'll die with a shiver.
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 6:13 PM UTC
The Fillmore
It’s cold these days,
just ask a stranger,
saw a show tonight at The Fillmore,
Dave Chapelle with John Mayer,
Dave mentioned the show,
when I saw him at The SF MOMA,
John signed my Frieda poetry book,
that I got today from The SF MOMA,
how am I so in the In Scene,
yet at the same time such a Goner,
come on we’re,
trying to make Greatness,
so there’s no time for the Procrastinators,
and all of their lateness,
got Volume 2,
of The HH Trilogy,
coming soon,
5/5/17,
thought I’d put you on notice,
I’ve noticed,
they’ve noticed me,
more than they used to,
before The Trilogies,
came back to America,
from a few months in Australia,
now I find when I go out,
people recognize me,
not sure when it happened,
when my works became bigger than me,
all I know is it happened,
now people approach me like they know me,
“Haven’t I seen you before?”,
that’s a common one,
I guess I’m somewhere between,
Famous as Fck,
and quasi-obsolete,
I’ll probably be,
gone but not forgotten,
pardon me,
I’m lost it happens often,
caught up in the moment,
high off life and coughin’,
in the light trying to focus,
off my head and on one,
God ****
God blessed,
on with the show,
and off with his head,
and that’s cold,
cold as a guillotine’s steel,
cold as Chicago in the winter,
when it’s 20˚ below before the wind chill,
for real,
it’s cold these days,
just ask a stranger,
saw a show tonight at The Fillmore,
Dave Chapelle with John Mayer,
Dave mentioned the show,
when I saw him at The SF MOMA,
John signed my Frieda poetry book,
that I got today from The SF MOMA,
how am I so in the In Scene,
yet at the same time such a Goner,
come on we’re,
trying to make Greatness,
so there’s no time for the Procrastinators,
and all of their lateness,
got Volume 2,
of The HH Trilogy,
coming soon,
5/5/17…
∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
author of multiple best selling poetry books and publisher of more poems than any other living poet.
∆
Jul 30, 2017
Jul 30, 2017 at 11:13 PM UTC
fragments of sky
litter my thoughts like pieces of a shattered image
like scraps of burnt wood painted with
parts of some masterpiece scene
of a carnival in the town churchyard
with frolicking jesters and laughing children
a quaint country place where fiddle players
and young girls dance and sing
but such as this place is now no more than image
pressed into the fire consumed wood
no more than some forgotten place filled
with forgotten loves and forgotten lovers
i lay there in the ruins of the church
three hundred years on from the day it met its fate
where now a oak flourishes true and tall
such transient things such as our lives
have such beauty but fleet as birds to roost as
they disappear in the first burst of rain
fragments of sky perceived
in small spaces given by the leaves overhead
the dusty lens of my mind
churns over the unfolded event
like the lost man peering with confusion's
at the undecipherable map of clouds
shifting by the butterfly light wind
i sneak my way into a shaft of
the suns warm light
and await the birdsong to renew its
speech and thought
they look down on my reclining form
in grass below
ready to take wing should i leap to devour
but i will not rise
i am trapped by the changing mosaic of the sky
its simple tones belie the beauty it contains
grey over blue and white edges
such simple ever changing permanence in the sky
the cloud moves swiftly away from my minds grasp
and the birds remark to one another the
lateness of the day
i open heart and eyes
stand and walk away from open sky
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 7:28 PM UTC
I'm scared of the silence
Lately I distrust my thoughts
I don't like the voices in my head
That finds the confidence to speak up during the lateness of nights
I think the only reason I keep listening to John Mayer
Is because when he sings about the troubles I am facing
He sings in a melody that makes me confuse the ugliness of myself
For ocean waves and spring birds
His soft tenor creates an illusion of a truthful beauty
When in reality no truths are beautiful
All those who are honest are usually lonely
No one wants to be told the truth because
They can't handle it
No one wants to acknowledge something they can't handle
And no one
Should be forced to listen to their thoughts when it speaks of truths
That have yet been masked by the
Soft strings of the fender stratocaster Mayer cradles as he
Pours out ballads of lonely nights and broken loves
The biggest flaw about being human
Is the ability to feel for everything
It weakens the soul
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 5:28 AM UTC
waiting weightless
waitless
1/18/15
8:43am
' hand rest chest
thumpthump
thump ''
' that heartbeat is a
metronome of waxing and waning
rhythmic tides and it's an '
everchanging time signature
to my overture overture and '
hand off and unsettle and '
thrown into uncontrolled rubato~ ''
' fizzy brain
spinnin dizzy
spinnin circles
spiral spiral ''
' life over my shoulder
strapped to my back and
I'm flowing like a river
down the elevator ''
' opening down
the seam and out ''
I step and roll heel toe
heel toe '
eyes flick side and side
glass door push open and
box and glass door push open and
push open push open and
open... ''
' cold streets are
the downbeat to sleet '' — '
it's frozen roads going backwards
and I'm going backwards with all my lackwords ''
...slushroadslick. '
I'm returning and leaving
like a medicine wheel spinning
and there's a dead grackle soaking
next to the curb slippery
with toxic runoff... '
...crystal water
melting '
my shoes slide from left
to left and I've up and left and
I'm climbing down the
right side of a staircase
and it's a case and it's a way
that stairway
and that last step
is 9:13am last step flat
and platform dead and
sleepy benches waiting for
the listless waiting
for the waitless ''
' waiting , waiting ''
I hop on and hide... '
the silence is sacred ''
the eyes are averted
and it's one of the
thousand different silences '
it's one of the rumbling ones
but then it's broken and
it's broken by an angry one '
and we're all alone in a railcar
with seven others, we're all alone
and she breaks it, ' she breaks it by
spilling angry nothings into the phone
that she pushes tightly to her skull '
and she grips it and she breaks it and '
and she breaks it and '
I hop off and run...
and once again I'm a
thousand different faces waiting '
but right now we're two
watching watching the
hopping sparrow ' and
it is so alive with it's
warm fluffy feathers
soaked with life ''
'
and everyone is shuffle shuffle pacing ''
' but every body stands still with eyes saccading...
sweep sweep, '
stay where you are,
in your lateness ''
and your action
is in your inaction
weightless... '
waiting to
hop on
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 4:41 PM UTC
The cobbled stone street unraveled like bubble wrap
waiting to protect her delicate heals as they tip-tapped
and echoed back
the lateness of the hour.
Hard shadows softened and relaxed
when her silhouette
blackened out the neon's stuttering
prolonging the blinking candy colours
into moments of borrowed night.
Her movements were that of a swallow on wing
liquid and seamless.
She was a lullaby traversing beneath centuries old granite walls
Stepping blindly, but never missing a step.
Even the gutter rats wondered who she was as they scurried to avoid startling her.
She disappeared with the diminishing tip-tap. The sound tapered to a fine point then......................no more.
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 7:36 PM UTC
I ********* random throated titles,
how do they taste aloud,
in the early bedroom air,
where poems complete,
must at day's end return,
to go to breathe,
*(to be reread and merit evaluated in the honesty of the
ColorlessNight)*
to meet a state of completion,
worth writing, this new conception,
for the team's tryouts, a new notion?
she
hears my desalinated rumbling mumbles,
"say what you said again,"
demurring t'was nothing,
but she won't be deferred not,
she knows better the
my~ways
than me,
half or mostly asleep,
she insistent tough,
even though she won't recall,
seconds later,
nonetheless,
"tell me what you said!"
easier to confess
the title of a poem next
trying, tasting than defer,
soon thereafter Easy Button hit,
it,
writes itself:
To Be With You
*to be with you,
mon raison d'être,
the one, the only,
the never lonely season
my valid lateness excuse, teach!
my validity, my reasoning,
my incensed senses present proof,
my existence passport stamped,
boy, you are poem purposed,
to be with her!*
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 8:42 AM UTC
Old wine, sometimes, has been
vinegar, a while.
On opening, one learns, they say.
It's good
for cleaning windows, and lenses.
- but we'd better let the next
- jug of that vintage go to auction
New wine. Make glad the heart,
workers in the vineyard, laughing tired,
sugar high burned out, say hey, boss,
why don't you hire more hands,
eleventh hour hordes appear, as they
by right of the lateness, are payed
a whole day's wage.
And that's alright now, momma,
nobody cheated me, I worked all day,
took my pay.
And it is,
very good, if I may say
so now,
Life is short, but filled
with instances, infinite instants
in some state
of methodic mental ascent.
And that's alright now, momma,
nobody cheated me, I worked all day,
took my pay.
We got plenty,
we have confirmed,
as is, to up and hit the road,
go boldly old into this cold night.
Mar 18, 2023
Mar 18, 2023 at 12:30 AM UTC