"tendering" poems
Yellow is
a high-minded mood
the extravagance of sunlight
to be touched--
before long
by colors of play
____________
It is of hair
tendering golden sun
brown pennies for lemonade
____________
Yellow is
bumping into the screaming end
of a lit
cigarette
_____________
Yellow is
dripping from the eaves
onto an empty soup can
_____________
It is
spindling sparrow song
from highest perch on roof
his pitch can aspire
_____________
Yellow is
in rattled doorknob
an infant's sweet
voice wanting – in
Reciting menu
above mattress
edges into sleep
two dark eyes
plead
for yellow
waking
Mother into morning--
“juice.... eggs”
Yellow ____
is
opening a car door
at the shore's
unmistakable!
Smells of life
warmth and breeze
touching strings
those kites
of sense
harmonics
above the tone
octaves of excitement
to see to hear to touch to taste
to know
again –
the ocean of my mother
as she calms the waves,
ignores the pouts of us
with stuff to lug out to the beach
the towels, pails and shovels
Picnic basket, cooler
lotion, comic books, her magazines
Mom looks out
She is a good swimmer
Her glasses, dark
Preside
reflecting beauty –
“Take your sister's hand.”
Yellow are the squeals
Feet thrashing sand
of cannot wait
May 22, 2018
May 22, 2018 at 10:06 PM UTC
*Your heart brought with Amnesia.
To study it ,
I slid into your heart ,
making way through your tears
it was dark.
Placing a candle at the grave of your sorrows,
I stitched up your battered ,bleeding heart.
Tendering to the grave turned gardens,
I smuggled sunlight to your dandelion soul.
Drugging you 3 times daily with comfort,
was what I prescribed.
Nothing stays forever , so didn't your illness
and you don't remember me any-longer.
Happy laughter of love echoed ,
in the skies of your fist sized heart.
Wished you a healthy heart ahead,
only with the desire to treat it again .*
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 4:29 PM UTC
Willie sat by the side of
the river in a philosophical
mood under a weeping willow.
Midway, between the two
banks, was a small island
only paddling distance away.
Debris from a previous flood
had accumulated on the low
foliage of an uprooted tree.
A funnel of cold air from the
ten arch bridge made a wind
sock of a plastic net nitrate bag.
In all his time, Willie had never
ventured on to this little islet,
even wondered if he should flag it.
Off with the shoes, rolled up the
legs of his trousers and slowly he
negotiated his way over the stones.
On exploring the land mass, which
was an isthmus of a mere ten square
meters, he decided to return to land.
Just before his disembarkation, he
noticed a large denominational euro
note caught in the gills of a dead fish.
Eureka Eureka money and food all
in the one catch (was his thought as
he made his way back).
The sodden state of the 100 euro note
was what guided ******* wise decision
to take it, as was, to the local Credit Union.
In the queue whilst waiting for a vacant
teller, everyone was admiring *******
dead fish.
Eventually, at the desk, and known to
those working therein, a 100 euro note
was not his norm and created suspicion.
After tendering the note attached to the
Trout, that had apparently been fowl
hooked up the river by Johnny Logan,
The lady behind the desk called for the
manager, who immediately held the note
up to the halogen fraud lamp.
Willie had never encountered anything like
this when he made a 5 euro deposit once a
month to his savings account.
He enquired of the manager as to why he
was holding his fish and 100 euro note up
against the bright light.
The manager responded, “ It is the policy of
all banking systems to check high denominational
notes for visible water marks “ !!
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 4:01 AM UTC
~~~
*"and ev'ry stop is neatly planned
for a poet and a one-man band"
Simon & Garfunkel "Homeward Bound"*
~~~
***just one more,
for Sally B.,
who loves their music,
and all the poets here***
~~~
when best messing with perfection,
hope for a close enough
second place finish,
at best
when tendering a gift,
gotta give only your
best,
for this is how,
you will be
best
remembered
yet all our stops here,
were and we're
never neatly planned,
indeed,
as you
sail on silver girl,
through to all
of our
unscheduled ports o' call,
and though our fingers may never intersect,
they have touched,
more than once,
on this poetry river
of electrons,
this bridge
over troubled waters
no need to make a plan,
to get yourself free,
even tho' I am no more
than a poor boy from New York City,
I make no jest,
always laying low,
but not here, not now
for this job I took upon mine own,
so after changes upon changes,
mount the stage, spotlighted,
one more song,
one more poem from a one man band,
this poet~fighter composes alone,
ill prepared,
carrying a reminder of every poem that laid him down,
but
tasked and
accepting nonetheless,
this challenge bout
old friends,
he sings,
i've come to talk to you again,
for this revelation still remains,
well planted in the brain
this song, this poem
will be shared,
let us all read it aloud
to break
the sounds of silence,
in a chorus of a cappella voices,
this simple verse upon which
I cannot improve
this poem, this stop,
this hello
to an endless poetry voyage
that transports human finery,
was indeed
never planned neatly,
but here was born
a sole sufficient refrain,
contenting the writer and the reader,
all of us poets,
all of us one man bands,
all of us in one voice singing
*you are simply the
best here,
you are home,
and to you,
we are bound*
~~~
August 9, 2015
Shelter Island
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 2:12 PM UTC
(from "To: Mimi Romanelli"
~indebted to suggestion of
https://hellopoetry.com/MacGM/
for filling me up one of the trillions of missing datapoints
in my slowly diminishing insights & missing knowledges
<>
"I am happy, Dear, to have walked with steady faith on the waters of our uncertainty all the way to that island which is your heart and where pain blossoms. Finally: happy."
from the poem by Rilke
"To: Mimi Romanelli"
see notes
'~~~'
so worthy of my/our attentions,
his reflections on loss, grief and mortality,
for in the natural course of this poet's story,
the interplay of this shopping list of preoccupations,
foremost on this temporal frontal lobe in these waning days
of my perhaps, last summery summary,
that falls upon your eyes with
my guilt that you have clicked upon
this e~pistle, in and un~
tentionally & tensionally
thus demanding & tendering post-haste
my apology
so be advised, be learned, and query why
an essay on ending mortality should be
be finished with a concluding a
"Finally: happy."
by breaching this poet Rilke essay,
one discovers
this poet sees through the storms of his preoccupations,
"the red of his blood,"
because he loves
another human, being,
so many would agree,
yet so few are so certain,
as Rilke,
and yet,
"*It is still always that death which continues inside of me, which works in me, which transforms my heart, which deepens the red of my blood, which weighs down the life that had been ours so that it may become a bittersweet drop coursing through my veins and penetrating everything, and which ought to be mine forever.
And while I am completely engulfed in my sadness, I am happy to sense that you exist,
Beautiful. I am happy to have flung myself
without fear into your beauty just as a bird flings itself into space. I am happy, Dear, to have walked with steady faith on the waters of our uncertainty all the way to that island which is your heart and where pain blossoms.*
Finally: happy."
<>
Writ the last week of August,
and the first of September
2025
Sep 2, 2025
Sep 2, 2025 at 12:49 PM UTC
Factoring in and tendering out..
What the hell are those things about?
I'm afraid I am lost in the costing and routeing
and..what is the price from Balham to Tooting?
But when time's out of sync
As it usually is when I've had me a drink
Or I'm pie eyed on the dope.
What's left is no hope
There is no way I can work..I might as well sleep..
..and hope time will keep its hands to itself.
But all joking aside with this modernisation there is nowhere to hide
From the tide
Or from time.
Jun 19, 2012
Jun 19, 2012 at 2:04 PM UTC
Those guys--the intellectuals-
are bashers----they are bashing
words, ideas and philosophy to death
with their endless quibbling and quarrelling
but for me an uneducated peasant
all that I know and need to know is farming--
planting, sowing, tendering, nurturing and harvesting
the sun rising and setting--for a good season is all I'm hoping.
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 7:02 PM UTC
I am hereby officially tendering my resignation as an adult, in order to accept the responsibilities of a 6-year-old.
The tax base is lower.
I want to be six again.
I want to go to McDonald's and think it's
the best place in the world to eat.
I want to sail sticks across a fresh mud puddle
and make waves with rocks.
I want to think M&Ms; are better than money,
because you can eat them.
I want to play kickball during recess and stay up on Christmas Eve waiting to hear Santa and Rudolph on the roof.
I long for the days when life was simple.
When all you knew were your colors, the addition tables and simple nursery rhymes, but it didn't bother you, because you didn't know what you didn't know, and you didn't care.
I want to go to school and have snack time, recess, gym and field trips.
I want to be happy, because I don't know what should make me upset.
I want to think the world is fair and everyone in it is honest and good.
I want to believe that anything is possible.
Sometime, while I was maturing, I learned too much.
I learned of nuclear weapons, prejudice, starving and
abused kids, lies, unhappy marriages, illness, pain and mortality.
I want to be six again.
I want to think that everyone, including myself,
will live forever, because I don't know the concept of death.
I want to be oblivious to the complexity of life and
be overly excited by the little things again.
I want television to be something I watch for fun,
not something used for escape from the things I should be doing.
I want to live knowing the little things that I find exciting
will always make me as happy as when I first learned them.
I want to be six again.
I remember not seeing the world as a whole, but rather
being aware of only the things that directly concerned me.
I want to be naive enough to think that if I'm happy, so is everyone else.
I want to walk down the beach and think only of the sand beneath my feet
and the possibility of finding that blue piece of sea glass I'm looking for.
I want to spend my afternoons climbing trees and riding my bike, letting
the grownups worry about time, the dentist and how to find the money to fix the car.
I want to wonder what I'll do when I grow up and what I'll be,
who I'll be and not worry about what I'll do if this doesn't work out.
I want that time back.
I want to use it now as an escape, so that when my computer crashes,
or I have a mountain of paperwork, or two depressed friends, or a fight
with my spouse, or bittersweet memories of times gone by, or second thoughts about so many things, I can travel back and build a snowman, without thinking about anything except whether the snow sticks together
and what I can possibly use for the snowman's mouth.
I want to be six again.
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 3:47 AM UTC
.
Your face,
Louder than the moon,
Drowning me
Out into the long night,
Is so warm,
Like sun tendering heather.
Your voice,
Lifting me like a feather,
Into great sky
Weightless as I fall high,
Downy and rich,
As babe is swaddled nigh.
Your touch,
Sets my weary soul aflame
And I call out
Into the night carving names,
Writ in comets,
Yet to crash, that I am starlight.
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 3:27 AM UTC
babe. you're a ******* animal.
a warm and laughing mammal when you watch me breathe.
when we're playing out on a field of sheets,
and the window lighting hugs the edges of your face
you look like the leader of your pack.
and when you pin me down,
like a lion to it's prey,
i feel myself begin to pray.
for you to ruin me,
for me to claw and roar,
for us to become animals.
every time your lips drag across my skin
i feel i've entered the animal kingdom
and you've sat me on a throne
and you whisper sweet nothings,
tendering my assignment to position: queen.
when i feel the stars build up in my brain
and my breathing devoid of proper pace
i remember how much of an animal you are
and how badly i need you to take me down.
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 2:35 AM UTC
we are all roadside flowers
blooming and changing in seasons
we are all together
all in these together
all growing together
all nurturing together
We are all soft touchy flowers
feeling for one another
loving and tendering
with the same thoughts
and common soil
we came from the same ground
let's be together
in the light of our sunshine
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 7:12 PM UTC
A perfection of state
A diagram of fate
All claiming she’s addicted to her own virtues
And craving her own foolishness
She’s dwelling on the past
Clinging to stuff she knows will never be
Moving in a circular motion, a clear cut she created
Where she has been deceived by her own emotions
Only circumstances have bewitched her
Tendering to her the hopeless
But her innocence
Consoled her purity
Sep 8, 2012
Sep 8, 2012 at 7:31 PM UTC
Birds fly to the neck chilly heights,
see upon with a tendering sigh
Afraid to land upon a lousy soil;
glooming in disguise
Morally corrupt are the horrifying souls,
and captivated to the sweetest rose
Rose looses its shine;
appeasing hunger which knows no bound
I know no sweetness,just a fact-
I'm a girl need life; just in case I strive..
Jul 28, 2012
Jul 28, 2012 at 2:20 AM UTC
We are the pit men,the pony men,the downtrodden,unshod men,and it's us against them,
and them men are the fat men,the fast gabbers,the land grabbers,the takers,the fakers, the usurers and money lenders,
**** them men,
I'm tendering my resignation and going off to look for something more,
a new celebration of a life within this whirlwind of a railway station.
Platform four,
train leaves at five
if I'm still alive
I'll be on it.
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 8:46 AM UTC
sons,
you don't particularly like me
no, don't run, it's ok,
no blame tendering,
my weaknesses well exposed,
can visible well
historical multi-reasons why
I don't lament,
don't let it better dismember me,
for always I love you,
a platform beneath,
unasked, sacrifice, so much messed up,
being a parent don't come with
training wheels
so blame the old guy
understandable,
grade him D ad
forget eyes whys
don't lament,
being a parent,
sworn to be
a platform underneath
in perpetuity
and so be it,
be it,
I will
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 10:12 AM UTC
Savasana is a calm state
in the midst of quietness
all passes away always
like a forever in reverse
Its a state of a corpse
where body meets earth
shoulder kiss the ground
and breath rises above all
Its a reward to the motor
tendering and weeding
giving growth an embrace
It's a handshake I long for
after the crafting and trying
the twisted boats, aeroplanes
lizards, cobras and sphinx
a remedy from warrior stances
and the table tops and doggies
to the wonderful cats and cows
It's a gateway to Pratyahara
the very bridge that connects
the fibres of inside and outside
Feb 1, 2018
Feb 1, 2018 at 11:29 AM UTC
The melting *** and rolled up snot,
gathered,
underneath the tables.
That old high stool,
that graced this fool,
was winning,
willing,
always able!
A tender ear,
tendering!
with his shillings for a smile.
That tenderness, he always sought,
but was never! gonna find.
The dreams that seemed so reachable,
always after one more glass.
The moments that he longed for,
moments that had long since passed.
Every man must faulter.
Live in the shadows,
shadows cast.
Those moments that he longed for,
hidden,
lost upon his path.
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 9:33 PM UTC
Twenty two years ago
December twenty second,
two thousand eighteen
"star student" born
this papa (and most
likely thee birth mother)
initially felt ecstatic,
dramatic (yes frenetic),
and careworn
as freshly minted parents,
but gifted with a daughter,
whose existence far
more precious
than any Earthborn
rare widgets, gewgaws,
gems, et cetera, despite
evoking unsolicited,
unpleasant, and
unmanageable forlorn
communication "dirt poor"
living (at least ten years
of wretchedness at 1148
Greentree Lane) unable
to toot our horn,
cuz unbearable, undesirable,
unforgettable, et cetera,
and manifold challenged,
when beloved Shana
Punim evinced inborn
developmental delay,
(which severe electric
cool aid acid test
patience of this father),
much more difficult
than playing krummhorn,
now after tendering the trials
and tribulations, an
amalgamation of
poignant affects,
whereat your
permanent presence...
(must never NOT precede mine),
cuz..., I would definitely mourn,
your absence, thus felt the timely
opportunity to dash off
a birthday poem to you
in tandem with sharing,
(while comfortably numb
and figuratively licking war
torn psychological wombs) - torn
and ripped, queued,
peppered natty psyche
pockmarked with scorn
from self, (and those lives,
this dada immediately
impacted) particularly
your person roar'n
with cumulative anger toward
this insightful fellow,
(who claims to know
what thee feel toward me),
especially when ****
hours of valuable
time, now caught
(say, eh...approximately, fraught
upon the half life of rare Earth
element Eden), not
just strictly naught
heard thru the grapevine,
but forcing Math (hew)
analysis, via meditation, poetry
writing therapy, et cetera.
- - - - - - - - -
Hence...I apologize,
asper unasked for pain wrought
thee, sans being unemployed,
demeaning "mother Abby,"
bumbling, horrid house
keeper (Hagrid himself,
would turn down invitation),
plus Facebook fiasco,
imbroglio, and loco
motive - complicit in behavior
- - - - - - - - -
comparable to *********
yet please let me conclude
by admitting total lack
of wherewithal.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAR DAUGHTER!
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 8:21 PM UTC
shades beautifully linger at the end of the line
a grey strand of fate twirls in the vast blue sky sea, bereft of clouds plainly for all to see
an earthly flower comes forth from humble roots, blooming in late winter against common sense
slowly welcoming the thread, entwined by both gloom and faith, incredible feelings bursting forth
a silent dream wakes, unable to communicate the magic experienced by a heart's crumbling side
snowy figures gather to witness, trembling in both cold and fear.
the portal is about to open wide, as wide as the possibility every one of us has to bare
and in time, life slows down, minute by minute, second by second until the moment is frozen.
all to gaze into the cataract of precious images seen by he who dreams, the lord of the one word, the stigma of existence.
from the bloom, a distorted angel is born, a fueled descending, a fall never ending, a being made of prayers never answered
in closer ending, a breaking tendering, a death drum ends a static dream as sorrowful nails are driven into all men's hearts.
Feb 12, 2019
Feb 12, 2019 at 3:37 AM UTC