"simpatico" poems
Stumbling into ancient scripts, authored a decades plus ago,
ago being a modifier of time quantities, minute or large, unspecific
without an objective adjective additive, that faucets a stream of an interlocutory elocution of a batter of rooted emotional histories,
but not histrionics
fanciful words for dredged up memories, acute, but tarnished,
powered yet worn by a cousin of ago, a/k/a,
age
and yet
renews as of,
at this very second, as if it were a first, a tumult of visions, swelling of remembrances, embodied scars, and I weep anew but not
for me, as much for the resonating simpatico souls with whom
they even now vibrate with resonance of the immediacy of
If not now, When?
Aside: The exterior environment is noisy wet pelting of thunderstorms and ****** sheets of bulleting rain, piercing projectiles, but I am safe in the sunroom, sadly happy my dog is no longer here to shiver and tremble, cuddle and be soothed by steady stroking
But I am here, wrestling with this dredging operation, digging up
tons of sand that require dumping, and I ask, inquire, beg:
Who will take this detritus off my hands, once more, now uncovered,
now recovered, the soil is already soaked and can absorb no more,
the soul is already soaked and can absorb no more, the weakened
heart, damaged and occluded, suffer cannot bare twice the
outrageous misfortune
of unbared recollections, twice, or thrice, and I feel myself drowning in revisiting pain, **** **** **** these old poems, not nuggets, but boulders dropping from night skies, shot from a pitching machine, without letup, piercing of agonies that once ago
freshly desecrated and decorated my basic training in humanity.
Enough whining:
*I wrote those poems to
eject out those pains,
and I write this now, once more,
to realize that so so many still face
uncertain and unrelenting similarities,
doing their own sums,
and I wish them easing,
strength to compose and
thereby dispose of
the ineloquent
and eloquent
words of staining suffering*
3:30am
Thur
July 10
2025
Jul 16, 2025
Jul 16, 2025 at 5:39 PM UTC
“A man is about as likely to ask for help for depression as to ask for directions, and for much the same reason,” said Real, who struggled with his own depression issues. “It's part of the male code, part of masculine culture.”
~~~
when they ask,
I say, parrying fast,
how you doing?
to the persisters, I mutter fine
which is 100% correct...
been fined for the accumulated
made-mistakes, wrong forks taken,
the weight invisible but the
body sags, nonetheless...
you know they know,
you know their thoughts,
why doesn't he snap out of it,
after all he is a man,
he has always been
what we needed,
why can't he
just go back to the person prior...
this code, is not law,
ten times worse,
genetic and culture passed,
double ******
code so real, like the headaches,
the nightmares, that forbid equanimity...
not true,
we don't expect that of you,
thankful for all you have done,
but eyes betray,
a simpatico misunderstanding,
the instillers, can't take back
what they celebrated previous...
the signals everywhere, few ascertain,
cause the rule is never complain,
don't go near windows,
lest the sunlight diffused, offers no cheer,
but escape temptation ever on offer...
forgive yourself, someone intones,
but what infects my bones,
is non-responsive to the forget antibiotic,
which does not come in pill format
ask me for directions,
I will talk/walk you to your destination,
but when I'm lost,
I'm just a lost man,
who needs to do better,
forgetting is not in my DNA,
but lost is...choking on expectations
of being everyone's savior,
with no one to save you from yourself...
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 6:51 AM UTC
~
my shelter,
*two arms,
a human lean-to,
a pup tent,
all with a
welcome mat,
for you,
await
with graceful patience
simpatico smiling,
always avail,
awaiting,
no life clock countdown
prematurely pushing,
come when
there is
no other place
all,
on offer,
shelter places
that become
your home,
if you so
honor them thus,
your choice,
your decision
when to come n' go
shelter you,
no questions asked,
cloak all with human warmth,
easy silences, no pressures*
for when my arms
bear your load,
now mine,
my load,
somehow
halved!
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 7:51 AM UTC
*Cure me within the seize
of artistic rapture
capturing human spirit in
boundless creativity,
lay 'pon my ******* a sonata
written of affection's simpatico,
whisper me a sonnet
scripted 'neath my skin,
soar me to limitless grandeur
elevated beyond cloud vapors,
beckoning rhythmical renditions of
abstract layers in love, splendor & art,
amidst the harmony and lavish
poetry of a soulful heart*
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 7:54 AM UTC
Siddhartha sat steady on a the hearth of an apartment, eyes closed
mouth closed, mind open and enchanted
Zen-man lingers in a dark park starting,
to realise indiscretions of his past lives avatar
(but don't for a second believe the lies you've been fed by the brother of your brother and the father's of the jingoist mafia because eyes blink often and the accumulative effect is a life of temporary blindness and in that blindness it's not possible to be enlightened)
Your mantras are a lie but the belief remains still
and so rolling over wild green hills in some Welsh country village it dawns on the spirits of the ether that humanity is struggling
to find absolution of even the most relative peace
- but so, and Siddhartha still sits, cross-legged and barely breathing
Emaciated; fast, faster
Losing her nerve
Zen-man died a few months back but you always live again and so a beetle on a hot car hood scampers in some intrinsic folly, semi-aware of being something or being at all
Towards the walls of weather-beaten towns the levee finally bursts and all life ends -
until a gathering mist pulls absurd faces in the simpatico rays of a third-eye sun over the bayou of some forgotten rock in the cosmos
and the ethereal temptress of existence rolls the next dice on a green matted board
and our unified oneness speaks a solitudinal greeting to the sky.
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 12:29 PM UTC
Pond lilies basking,
Misty buds of sleepy rain,
. . . Water envelopes.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 9:50 PM UTC
I want fireworks
Not the "yeah, I like her I guess"
I want explosions in the sky
That thunderous boom
that reverberates for blocks
the array of spark and color
Illumination that captivates the eyes.
Is fireworks too much to ask
In this, "You're an adult now?" world
Is there no more magic left
To dazzle when we first meet
To consume the surrounding energy
In a explosive fusion of simpatico
Other needs ignored as we fuse
I want to be her fireworks
I want to be the blinding shock of light
That wows and captivates her eyes
I want to walk and talk and laugh and cry
I want to hurt when we have to go apart
I want longing to measure the moments away
I am bored if not for fireworks
Why bother with a boring rock
Just because it is already laying nearby.
I want a comet
A conflagration hurling toward the earth.
If she is not a shooting star
Then what is there to chase?
Or I want nothing at all
Life is awash already
with love, passion, and light
every time I open my eyes and look
So if a me and a her is going to become a we
I'm gazing out searching for colored washed skies
I want fireworks.
Sep 27, 2017
Sep 27, 2017 at 6:28 PM UTC
Sunflowers rising—
Piercing eyes of earth and sky,
. . . Sun flies with eagle.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 11:50 PM UTC
I love you honey bunny
he says as if Jules is a seat ahead of us
with a gun pointed straight at his nuts.
Then you have Dylan making your throat red raw
before the words have even slipped off your tongue.
The jump from teenage delinquency to normal relations
was harder than I thought after all.
Olivia's paranoia ensues on to the next golden boy
and Jill's left ****** is the only joy I feel I bring to the table.
Every tacky horoscope site tells me you and I are simpatico
my head on the other hand is knee deep in delusions
of fates paths ruined and fates paths missed on both ends.
I've foolishly given you my all
and I foolishly anticipate the fall.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 7:18 PM UTC
my questioning,
directed at myself
and the answer simp,
not necessarily simpatico,
cause the answer is either
today, or never,
could be
both or n-either
yeah,
of that age,
when I awake
first two words are
******* again?
and
if I hurry,
one piecework,
one mo’ poem,
hurried,
may yet be
vented,
scurried,
aired out
or for
quick disposal
sad dispatch
one mo’
disgorged poem
within and withouted,
either side
of midnight
been gorging
on letters ever since
They fed me
sugared letters
& lemons
for breakfast
and the last twenty
sending them you
in a disembodied
softly softly
voice
no matter how
far your imaginary
ears are from me
Sunday AM 9:52 2/19/25
🥲
Jan 19, 2025
Jan 19, 2025 at 9:51 AM UTC
The day was long and greedily waited,
in near unspoken secret - like a thing
delightfully and enchantingly wicked.
We are reunited - simpatico - my love, lover and I.
We ravish each other and lavish each other
with flattery, endearments and entire pleasure.
We live sweet centuries in those tight hours.
Happiness changes the tenor of things.
Rains of feeling combine in torrents,
like the tinkling notes of a harp make symphony.
Our minutest nerves are instruments of joy.
Mornings start with exquisite excitement and
the dense reel and stagger of intoxication -
because we’re drunk with the fullness of life.
Leaves on trees called chestnut, linden and hazel, stir
gently in the breeze - those faint shoos and rustles, times
nature’s fractal design - blare, in effect, like terrific trumpets.
At night, as we walk together under cooling summer skies,
the stars in the far-flung firmaments, seem to huddle together
and whisper, like sisters, of life and the mysteries of earthy love.
We are the dust of those constellations - are we but spies?
.
.
Songs for this:
Thank You My Angel by Over the Rhine
Perfect Day by Povo
Goodbye Sunday by Everything But the Girl
Aug 31, 2025
Aug 31, 2025 at 12:52 PM UTC
tho summertime,
he lets his hair grow long
when he wakes,
mirror just laughs,
a volcanic holy hell headed revealed,
forehead flopping, ear covering,
an unruly mess,
as a secondary metaphor,
holy insufficient
and a man does what a man can do
turns both old fashioned porcelains,
medium luke gusher eruptor is cupped,
with a two handed utensil,
a couple of scoopings
he turn faded blonde grey,
wet jet black for awhile enough
and a man does what a man can do
with less than a handful of brush strokes,
straight back they lie,
and suppressed for awhile,
but he doesn't think
"boy it's good to be a man"
no,
he study's the mirror's new reaction,
when his Cain forehead mark,
is now readily seen,
most gasp or look away,
poor mirror is fixed
and thus,
transfixed, frozen
what he thinks is this:
"good,
let the world see,
know, who I am,
and how I am marked
my holy hell is continuous,
unforgivable, deserved"
(he made her abort their baby)
but the mirror,
a simpatico old friend,
thinks the splashes will hide
his fresh tears,
but the man knows better,
yet, loves his mirror friend,
truthful image reflected,
even more for it
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 10:45 AM UTC
*Wouldn't it be lovely to write
the way Monet
painted masterpieces,
or Beethoven composed
simpatico symphonies,
graciously scripting sentiments as
utterly stunning as Neruda's
elixirs of profound poetry ~
I'd sell my soul for an eternity of
infinite breaths midst
such indubitable creations*
Jul 22, 2015
Jul 22, 2015 at 7:09 AM UTC
I've dropped this Cubica today,
as often as I've dropped my heart
when I pick up the two pieces of
a broken pen, ***** them back together,
it still works
filling my lungs with vaporous poison
knowing it will eventually **** me,
I pit it against my lips and **** on it
like a straw till it blows sunshine
out of my *ss,
just what he would call a magnifying glass,
of perspective poetry,
inhalant on course
defying destiny.
Hopefully,
seventy playgirl virgins
will soothe
that remorse,
at the very least a sepharad
of simpatico
with silly smoking mortals
still whispering of genius.
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 10:26 PM UTC
Late night at the Bar,
The neon sign said time to go,
Funny, when I got there it was all
Welcoming and overenthusiastic,
Garish, like a parade of clowns
With balloons that just got lost
Loosed, to the winds. I had a few—
Too many and wrote a broke poem,
All alone surrounded by the clank
Of wood from a pole and clicks of levers
As the glistening 'patrons' shimmied their
Tithes to the used machines of *****
Pinned and the green tables pooled
And the women, who desperately looked
At only you, after you looked at them
And the indifferent, tallish Barman,
Who kept pouring smallish dreams
In a shot glass. I stumbled, swirled out
And kissed the tar as was my want,
Every newcomer slogging in
Simply ran with not even noticing,
As I laid on the ground, they knew
That their time was soon coming.
That's called simpatico, or is it
Solidarity, maybe, whatever?
Anywho, I dusted my self off
And hightailed it back home
Before the broad, my old lady,
Jezebel, caught me on the sly.
The 'Queen of Sheba' was already
There— prostrated on our bed
Waiting to nail me. My only excuse,
The muses— she wasn't buying,
I said baby, 'I ain't tryin' to sell
You no lie. The words, they come
And they go, like a train that never stops
But you bestbe going, you best be jump in'
On that steel Goliath and ride that son to the gates
Of pearl and peace, them goldilock rays and then I said,
Hush, my little 'rock-a-bye' lady, you shush now,
My fresh night moon of lilly flower, we's gonna
Make like nubile creatures, all naked and free,
There ain't no clocks little darling, there's
Just you an' me and all the rest of herstory,'
She bought that line!
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 11:30 PM UTC
Late night at the Bar,
The neon sign said time to go,
Funny, when I got there it was all
Welcoming and overenthusiastic,
Garish, like a parade of clowns
With balloons that just got lost
Loosed, to the winds. I had a few—
Too many and wrote a broke poem,
All alone surrounded by the clank
Of wood from a pole and clicks of levers
As the glistening 'patrons' shimmied their
Tithes to the used machines of *****
Pinned and the green tables pooled
And the women, who desperately looked
At only you, after you looked at them
And the indifferent, tallish Barman,
Who kept pouring smallish dreams
In a shot glass. I stumbled, swirled out
And kissed the tar as was my want,
Every newcomer slogging in
Simply ran with not even noticing,
As I laid on the ground, they knew
That their time was soon coming.
That's called simpatico, or is it
Solidarity, maybe, whatever?
Anywho, I dusted my self off
And hightailed it back home
Before the broad, my old lady,
Jezebel, caught me on the sly.
The 'Queen of Sheba' was already
There— prostrated on our bed
Waiting to nail me. My only excuse,
The muses— she wasn't buying,
I said baby, 'I ain't tryin' to sell
You no lie. The words, they come
And they go, like a train that never stops
But you best be going, you best be jump in'
On that steel Goliath and ride that son to the gates
Of pearl and peace, them goldilock rays and then I said,
Hush, my little 'rock-a-bye' lady, you shush now,
My fresh night moon of Lilly flower, we's gonna
Make like nubile creatures, all naked and free,
There ain't no clocks little darling, there's
Just you an' me and all the rest of herstory,'
She bought that line!
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 5:26 PM UTC
Pond lilies basking,
Misty buds of sleepy rain,
. . . Water envelopes.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 7:43 PM UTC
Pond lilies basking,
Misty buds of sleepy rain,
. . . Water envelopes.
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 9:20 PM UTC
Since those long ago days in Latin class,
I have endeavored to speak your echo, Crystal.
How I longed to be amongst your trusted inner circle!
Alas, I had no voice then to speak these things to you.
Mrs. Tinkler must have sensed my blocked emotions;
always coupled we two to do textual translations.
I deferred and let you be the intellectual leader
feeling wholly given over to being your infatuated scribe.
It was always your property to be simpatico;
you were the giver of kindness and smiles,
your latent brilliance subsumed by outward caring.
What forlorn chance did my jejune heart have?
And now, at length, I can finally speak these things,
trusting in the smiles that touching substance brings.
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 1:40 PM UTC
Teachers are great people
they dedicate their lives to helping others
and they don't get paid alot of money.
My favorite teacher is Miss Possick.
She teaches english, and writes poetry,
and she is a very special person that
my granpa would say is one in a million.
She is the first person to read my poem
and tell me she liked it, and she always
tells me encorogging things, and she is always kind
to me and everyone else, even the bad kids.
She knows almost everything about me, and we like all the same things,
she tells really funny jokes, and she makes me smile all the time.
And she laughs at my jokes, and she has a beautiful laugh and a happy smile.
My dad says that me and Miss Possick are simpatico
which is spanish for we are very similar,
because we both love animals, and nature, and laughing
and reading poetry and stories, and we both think that
people should be kind, and help others, and teach what they know.
Miss Possick knows all sorts of stuff, and If she doesn't know something
she can tell you the next day, because she is real good at looking stuff up.
Besides my family Miss Possick is my favorite person in the whole world.
And I love her very much.
Jul 6, 2012
Jul 6, 2012 at 7:25 AM UTC
feldspar conglomerate
pyrite flakes sparkle
basalt backdrop
…granted, the granite
is liken to a gneiss
but placed near the soap or sand
it stands alone without chip-ability
raw uncut opal sending prisms dancing
against the distorted garnet plug –
her ruby lips shown bright
against the chert and ashen
speckles of flint
diamond twinkles
fall from topaz tear ducts
land softly on an emerald blazer
adorned with ruby buttons –
****** at the rock show
I marvel and the marble
and experience simpatico with a sapphire
while the tourmaline tantalizes my taste buds
sending me reeling into a radical thunder egg
as the agates flew willy-nilly
I groped blindly for a brick to steady myself
but instead fell hard onto the concrete
or was it asphalt….
either way, I may as have well been tarred and feathered
dipped in oil
and sent to the borax plant –
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 2:38 PM UTC
*Pond lilies basking
Misty buds of sleepy rain
Water envelopes*
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 3:49 PM UTC
I need a cat, a shape shifter
Sleek in the night, stalking my toes
I need to feel in danger of the pounce
Anticipate the fluffy acupuncture assault
Then the soft recompense, the rhythmic purr
Sound of engine running in a furry chassis
Curl of warm belly around my hand,
Snugly trusting.
I want a cat, a ballet dancer
Graceful gymnast, lissome acrobat
How the hell did she get way up there?
And she’s so pleased with herself.
Twinkling cabochon peridot eyes
Ancestral spirit homes, divining the future
Seeing worlds to which my dull human sight
Remains insensible.
I long for the feline trip-me-up
The periscope tail strutting around
The up yours attitude, possessive head ****
Tail in my face, weaving round ankles
**** plonked on the page I’m reading
Voice of a cranky, unmelodic angel
The regal pride at the table trespass
Gifted bug at my feet.
I need a cat with a jealous streak
Wise to my other feline indiscretions
The accusatory looks, and petulant shunning
I need to plead for mercy, to reassure
To bestow the favourite treat as consolation
I want the day long cuddle that follows
Punctuated by tiny acts of punishment
Put in my place.
I miss the chaos and the havoc
The ritual corruption of the Christmas tree
Random bursts of ecstatic craziness
Thunderous houseruns in the wee hours
I need the smooching when I’m melancholy
The comfort of determined, kneading paws
The little upturned face searching mine, in
Uncanny empathy.
I need the kitty litter, and the up chuck
The inelegant realities, however gross
Little things that bond two simpatico souls
Aren’t always so glamourous
I need the mythic vision and the everyday plain
Extraordinary archetype and simply dear kitty
Faerytale heroics, **** In Boots, “Memory”,
Alleycat blues.
I’m a cat lady in the making
A cat lady-in-waiting
I need a cat
I need a cat
I need a cat.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 9:04 PM UTC
Allow me to put my head on your chest... then BREATHE.
Recite to me your poetry so I can hear it reverberate against my ear...
I can already tell it will be in perfect rhythm with your
HEART.
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 10:47 AM UTC
Pond lilies basking,
Misty buds of sleepy rain,
. . . Water envelopes.
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 4:41 PM UTC