Nanu, I had a dream last night that you came back

From being gone almost 3 years

We embraced and I told you I missed you so much

It was bittersweet, really.

I had seen you, and then you disappeared.

Like a shadow, when the sun decides to sleep.

I could've slept eternally knowing I would've been with you; forever

I remember when you were first diagnosed with lung cancer.

You held a smooth stone and told me, "Emily this stone is going to heal me one day."

You told me how it would make you better.

I remember one thanksgiving you gave me a glass of your wine

It was, bittersweet.

Vinegary as it ate away my tastebuds
Sweet like strawberries marinading in sugar, only.. Wine is made out of grapes... You taught me that.

Its funny, you used to let me sit upon your lap when you mowed the lawn, it was my own mistake for crashing it into the fence.

It was, bittersweet.

I got to drive a lawn mower and you had to fix the fence.

I look back to how happy you were on the sun porch in the summer heat, especially when lightening would strike the area around us,

I'd hide my face in your tarnished sweater

It was, bittersweet.

This morning I stood in the snow

Inhaling the heavy smoke of my marlboro cigarette

Weeping as I stared at the sky,

Then I remembered, you didn't disappear, you just went on vacation for awhile.

It's bittersweet, really.

I am often asked this question in comments, private notes and emails.

The short answer is: I don’t know.

I don’t know if there is an answer or if I’m the man to even try.

First, there are probably as many ways to write poetry as there are poets. I can’t imagine any one size fits all template. That is too horrible to contemplate.

Second, my method is actually a non-method. I will describe it, but I doubt it will be useful or transferable.

I have been a fanatical reader all my life. I still am. I probably read an average of three books per week. This has been going on for decades.

I have been reading poetry seriously for perhaps 43 years, including being taught how to read closely by some brilliant professors as an undergraduate and graduate student.

This has deposited an enormous mishmash of poems, sentences, images, phrases and fragments in my brain. Add to that mishmash decades of reading across disciplines, especially history, philosophy, religion and novels. Imagine that mishmash slowly marinading and fermenting.

From that random accumulation, without provocation on my part, poems emerge. There is no order to this and not much effort. I just channel what shows up. I do some retouching, but little serious rewriting.

And there you have it: my non-method. It should be obvious why I doubt it will be of much help to anyone else.

I can give a bit of advice, but only based on my experience.

Love words. Love to learn them. Love to play with them. Delight in them.

Read as much poetry as you possibly can. I doubt anyone can become a poet without doing this.

Be patient. It takes a while for the marinade to work. I’m 65 and I only began writing seriously eight years ago.

Find your own method and your own voice. You’ll know when that voice is authentic.

And then, sing out.

The strangest dream
I've ever had,
Is when I dined
With the dead.

My skinless, boneless
Friends and foes,
Enjoyed the spread
Of Deviled Toes,
Deviled Ham,
Grapes of wrath,
Deviled eggs
And sin-namon bread.
The deviled tongue
Sang no siren's song
Marinading in
Devil's Dung.

Devils On Horseback
Washed down
Our gullets,
And ****** Mary's
Flooded the banquet
Capping the feast.
I opened eyes
To end REM sleep.

Since then
My morning meal
Has altered.
Encouraged by
The risen sun,
I butter myself
A Hot Cross Bun.

A tale of a lady in waiting.....
Emily did speed dating,
For her swain she is waiting,
Emily, anticipating,
Hopes fantasising,
Are her nuptials nearing?
Is today that diamond appearing?
Shall she have a solitaire ring?
Preceding her white wedding?
Now her swain is appearing,
He has a burning question,
She waits for his suggestion,
She's the lady in waiting,
Is her swain proposing?
"Emily, Emily, Emily,"
He sighs, heavily,
"Here is my question burning,
I ask my soul's deep yearning,"
Emily waits for a diamond ring,
"Emily, Emily, Emily,"
Swain whispers breathily,
The lady is waiting....
"Can you marinate chicken wings?"
"Emily, Emily, Emily,"
He yells angrily,
"That's rude, how crude!
That's the last time I see you!"
Now her own wings she is marinading,
Does she resume speed dating?
Does Emily ever stop dreaming?
Solitaire ring anticipating,
The lady is waiting,
The lady is waiting,
And waiting, and waiting, and waiting............

I'm so happy you invited me,
I've been basking in netflix
and swimming in coffee
marinading in the bathwater
I was using to drown something
close and special to me.

Gave me a reason to open the drain,
take a shower and take off to the city.
I can gawk at your underage drinking
buddies and eat whats on the table.

They'll pass out on the balcony
or whilst ******* in the bathroom,
while I take the next train to
see a professional nothing
to fix my dreams
and the ones I have
while I'm awake

will be lost, but loved while they're alive.

I'm so glad I could catch the last
bus out of this train wreck,
and sleep sober under youtube's
angry celestial glow.
Listen to coconuts buzz acid low tones
and low-fi digital screams till I can't feel
a low tone or remember
a real scream.

dem streets ain’t know yo name
just be out there like hunger on parade
all Mardi coup de grace, with spiked tea-
and neon giblets… all draped over hot coals
and incandescent funk. with meter maids
and pidgeons-
sweeping thunder under rugs
everybody know
ain’t your real
Hair.

dem streets be like consequences
marching with a band of thieves. tuba prodigies adagio
with oily smoke and cauliflowers marinading
in umami and soiled alters.
switchblades are like optional candy.
sharkfins in buttermilk
more like an actual
Wednesday.

dem streets be soaking bullets in Kopi Luwak
chuffing pearl dust off a subway chit
while staggering home from a dust-up
at Berkley.
we keep telling ourselves
to tell ourselves something
but forget to remember
how to forget
about it

out loud.

heavy
i'm a hollow shell
empty
i knew i wasnt doing well

but i didnt really think
it would get this bad
not my first time seeing a shrink
but not like this, never this sad

there's some ******* a stretcher
her eyes look empty too
maybe its the weather
but you know its you

grey walls and tile floor
my heart quivers
there's gotta be more
it can't be the fear the darkness the shivers

some guy in a groufit cracks a joke
his arm's in a cast
shut up! i need a smoke
happiness feels like distant past

my appointment is late
but i must stay polite
though i wait and wait
marinading in fluorescent light