"pointer" poems - Hello Poetry

For Al, who left us With each passing poem, The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher, Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised, Domain, the association of words, ever lesser, Repetition verboten, crime against pride. Al, You ask me when the words come: With each passing year, In the wee hours of Ever diminishing time snatches, The hours between midnight and rising, Shrinkage, once six, now four hours, Meant for body restoration, Transpositional for poetic creation, Only one body notes the new mark, The digital, numerical clock of Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing. Al, you ask me from where do the words come: Each of the five senses compete, Pick me, Pick me, they shout, The eyes see the tall grasses Framing the ferry's to and fro life. Waving bye bye to the End of day harbor activities, Putting your babies to sleep. The ears hear the boat horns Deep voiced, demanding pay attention, I am now docking, I am important, The sound lingers, long after They are no longer important. The tongue tastes the cooling Italian prosecco merging victoriously With its ally, the modestly warming rays Of a September setting sun, finally declaring, without stuttering, Peace on Earth. The odoriferous bay breezes, A new for that second only smell, But yet, very old bartender's recipe, Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted, Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings. These four senses all recombinant, On the cheek, on the tongue, Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning Merging into a single touch That my pointer finger, by force majeure, Declares, here, poem aborning! Contract with this moment, now satisfied! Al, what you did not ask was this: With each passing poem, I am lessened within, expurgated, In a sense part of me, expunged, Part of me, passing too, Every poems birth diminishes me. _________________________________ (this poem more than most, for its birth celebrates my loss, your loss, which cannot be exonerated 8/7/18) _________________________________ written at 4:38 AM September 8th, 2012 Greenport Harbor, Long Island

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May 21, 2013

May 21, 2013 at 7:07 AM UTC

nat-lipstadt

2013: With Each Passing Poem

For Al, who left us With each passing poem, The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher, Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised, Domain, the association of words, ever lesser, Repetition verboten, crime against pride. Al, You ask me when the words come: With each passing year, In the wee hours of Ever diminishing time snatches, The hours between midnight and rising, Shrinkage, once six, now four hours, Meant for body restoration, Transpositional for poetic creation, Only one body notes the new mark, The digital, numerical clock of Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing. Al, you ask me from where do the words come: Each of the five senses compete, Pick me, Pick me, they shout, The eyes see the tall grasses Framing the ferry's to and fro life. Waving bye bye to the End of day harbor activities, Putting your babies to sleep. The ears hear the boat horns Deep voiced, demanding pay attention, I am now docking, I am important, The sound lingers, long after They are no longer important. The tongue tastes the cooling Italian prosecco merging victoriously With its ally, the modestly warming rays Of a September setting sun, finally declaring, without stuttering, Peace on Earth. The odoriferous bay breezes, A new for that second only smell, But yet, very old bartender's recipe, Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted, Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings. These four senses all recombinant, On the cheek, on the tongue, Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning Merging into a single touch That my pointer finger, by force majeure, Declares, here, poem aborning! Contract with this moment, now satisfied! Al, what you did not ask was this: With each passing poem, I am lessened within, expurgated, In a sense part of me, expunged, Part of me, passing too, Every poems birth diminishes me. _________________________________ (this poem more than most, for its birth celebrates my loss, your loss, which cannot be exonerated 8/7/18) _________________________________ written at 4:38 AM September 8th, 2012 Greenport Harbor, Long Island