Kudos to Kaepernick.

I just cannot drown all my beliefs and ideas, even if it contradicts my flesh and soul. When I heard that not standing up to the tune; that has always succeeded on sweeping all of the messes underneath the sad reality, to be deemed as subversive, I know that Rosa would definitely clench onto the seat tighter than ever.

Kneel, my friend, kneel.

To drag our body out there, all over the precious hills and fields, while acting as if the scale has always been set fairly beneath you all this time, will hurt you more than myself. How can a mere matter of things decide our future, our destiny? We shall shape our fate, you shall shape your own fate, and to be judged on the perception biasedly built in the name of order for thousands of years, is a situation that should not be endured by anyone or anything in a tiny dot within this vast universe.

Kneel, my friend, kneel.

And for that, I cannot stand proudly and profess my love to you as of now, even though I will always wear my heart on my sleeve for you to see. To be cheated, to be manipulated, to be deemed as surplus, by those at the tip of the plateau, that cunningly asked us to forget all the tangles and wrangles for the love of this sacred land, while unashamedly distribute everything off the land, off the ocean amongst them, is the last thing that we should allow to happen. I am one of those people that are not able to put on the mask on top of our meant-to-be honest faces, to say hail to the thief is worse than the eternal grief. I have never dreamed of burying the hatchet with them, not even for a second and if I ever do it, I shall be condemned and dismissed for forgetting the roots, the fons et origo of mine. To love you does not mean to stand still to the soulless melodies, to love you does not mean to bow down to the meaningless piece of cloth that has overseen countless infiltration and bombing over the years.

Kneel, my friend, kneel.

To love you is to fight for the rights of many, by any means, even by not standing up. When black is no longer the symbol of miserable, filth and calamity, we shall then breath with ease, stand on our feet and fully embrace the real meaning behind all those majestic words.

Kudos to Kaepernick.

She sent it to me as a text message, that is an image of a quote in situ, a piece of interpretation in a gallery. Saturday morning and I was driving home from a week in a remote cottage on a mountain. I had stopped to take one last look at the sea, where I usually take one last look, and the phone bleeped. A text message, but no text.  Just a photo of some words. It made me smile, the impossibility of it. Epic poems and tapestry weaving. Of course there are connections, in that for centuries the epic subject has so often been the stuff of the tapestry weaver’s art. I say this glibly, but cannot name a particular tapestry where this might be so. Those vast Arthurian pieces by William Morris to pictures by Burne-Jones have an epic quality both in scale and in subject, but, to my shame, I can’t put a name to one.

These days the tapestry can be epic once more - in size and intention - thanks to the successful, moneyed contemporary artist and those communities of weavers at West Dean and at Edinburgh’s Dovecot. Think of Grayson Perry’s The Walthamstowe Tapestry, a vast 3 x 15 metres executed by Ghentian weavers, a veritable apocalyptic vision where ‘Everyman, spat out at birth in a pool of blood, is doomed and predestined to spend his life navigating a chaotic yet banal landscape of brands and consumerism’.  Gosh! Doesn’t that sound epic!

I was at the Dovecot a little while ago, but the public gallery was closed. The weavers were too busy finishing Victoria Crowe’s Large Tree Group to cope with visitors. You see, I do know a little about this world even though my tapestry weaving is the sum total of three weekends tuition, even though I have a very large loom once owned by Marta Rogoyska. It languishes next door in the room that was going to be where I was to weave, where I was going to become someone other than I am. This is what I feel - just sometimes - when I’m at my floor loom, if only for those brief spells when life languishes sufficiently for me be slow and calm enough to pick up the shuttles and find the right coloured yarns. But I digress. In fact putting together tapestry and epic poetry is a digression from the intention of the quote on the image from that text - (it was from a letter to Janey written in Iceland). Her husband, William Morris, reckoned one could (indeed should) be able to compose an epic poem and weave a tapestry.  

This notion, this idea that such a thing as being actively poetic and throwing a pick or two should go hand in hand, and, in Morris’ words, be a required skill (or ‘he’d better shut up’), seemed (and still does a day later) an absurdity. Would such a man (must be a man I suppose) ‘never do any good at all’ because he can’t weave and compose epic poetry simultaneously?  Clearly so.  But then Morris wove his tapestries very early in the morning - often on a loom in his bedroom. Janey, I imagine, as with ladies of her day - she wasn’t one, being a stableman’s daughter, but she became one reading fluently in French and Italian and playing Beethoven on the piano- she had her own bedroom.

Do you know there are nights when I wish for my own room, even when sleeping with the one I love, as so often I wake in the night, and I lie there afraid (because I love her dearly and care for her precious rest) to disturb her sleep with reading or making notes, both of which I do when I’m alone.
Yet how very seductive is the idea of joining my loved one in her own space, amongst her fallen clothes, her books and treasures, her archives and precious things, those many letters folded into her bedside bookcase, and the little black books full of tender poems and attempts at sketches her admirer has bequeathed her when distant and apart. Equally seductive is the possibility of the knock on the bedroom / workroom door, and there she’ll be there like the woman in Michael Donaghy’s poem, a poem I find every time I search for it in his Collected Works one of the most arousing and ravishing pieces of verse I know: it makes me smile and imagine.  . .  Her personal vanishing point, she said, came when she leant against his study door all warm and wet and whispered 'Paolo’. Only she’ll say something in a barely audible voice like ‘Can I disturb you?’ and with her sparkling smile come in, and bring with her two cats and the hint of a naked breast nestling in the gap of the fold of her yellow Chinese gown she holds close to herself - so when she kneels on my single bed this gown opens and her beauty falls before her, and I am wholly, utterly lost that such loveliness is and can be so . . .

When I see a beautiful house, as I did last Thursday, far in the distance by an estuary-side, sheltering beneath wooded hills, and moor and rock-coloured mountains, with its long veranda, painted white, I imagine. I imagine our imaginary home where, when our many children are not staying in the summer months and work is impossible, we will live our ‘together yet apart’ lives. And there will be the joy of work. I will be like Ben Nicholson in that Italian villa his father-in-law bought, and have my workroom / bedroom facing a stark hillside with nothing but a carpenter’s table to lay out my scores. Whilst she, like Winifred, will work at a tidy table in her bedroom, a vase of spring flowers against the window with the estuary and the mountains beyond. Yes, her bedroom, not his, though their bed, their wonderful wooden 19C Swiss bed of oak, occupies this room and yes, in his room there is just a single affair, but robust, that he would sleep on when lunch had been late and friends had called, or they had been out calling and he wanted to give her the premise of having to go back to work – to be alone - when in fact he was going to sleep and dream, but she? She would work into the warm afternoons with the barest breeze tickling her bare feet, her body moving with the remembrance of his caresses as she woke him that morning from his deep, dark slumber. ‘Your brown eyes’, he would whisper, ‘your dear brown eyes the colour of an autumn leaf damp with dew’. And she would surround him with kisses and touch of her firm, long body and (before she cut her plaits) let her course long hair flow back and forward across his chest. And she did this because she knew he would later need the loneliness of his own space, need to put her aside, whereas she loved the scent of him in the room in which she worked, with his discarded clothes, the neck-tie on the door hanger he only reluctantly wore.

Back to epic poetry and its possibility. Even on its own, as a single, focused activity it seems to me, unadventurous poet that I am, an impossibility. But then, had I lived in the 1860s, it would probably not have seemed so difficult. There was no Radio 4 blathering on, no bleeb of arriving texts on the mobile. There were servants to see to supper, a nanny to keep the children at bay. At Kelmscott there was glorious Gloucestershire silence - only the roll and squeak of the wagon in the road and the rooks roosting. So, in the early mornings Morris could kneel at his vertical loom and, with a Burne-Jones cartoon to follow set behind the warp. With his yarns ready to hand, it would be like a modern child’s painting by numbers, his mind would be free to explore the fairy domain, the Icelandic sagas, the Welsh Mabinogion, the Kalevara from Finland, and write (in his head) an epic poem. These were often elaborations and retellings in his epic verse style of Norse and Icelandic sagas with titles like Sigurd the Volsung. Paul Thompson once said of Morris  ‘his method was to think out a poem in his head while he was busy at some other work.  He would sit at an easel, charcoal or brush in hand, working away at a design while he muttered to himself, 'bumble-beeing' as his family called it; then, when he thought he had got the lines, he would get up from the easel, prowl round the room still muttering, returning occasionally to add a touch to the design; then suddenly he would dash to the table and write out twenty or so lines.  As his pen slowed down, he would be looking around, and in a moment would be at work on another design.  Later, Morris would look at what he had written, and if he did not like it he would put it aside and try again.  But this way of working meant that he never submitted a draft to the painful evaluation which poetry requires’.

Let’s try a little of Sigurd

There was a dwelling of Kings ere the world was waxen old;
Dukes were the door-wards there, and the roofs were thatched with gold;
Earls were the wrights that wrought it, and silver nailed its doors;
Earls' wives were the weaving-women, queens' daughters strewed its floors,

And the masters of its song-craft were the mightiest men that cast
The sails of the storm of battle down the bickering blast.
There dwelt men merry-hearted, and in hope exceeding great
Met the good days and the evil as they went the way of fate:
There the Gods were unforgotten, yea whiles they walked with men,

Though e'en in that world's beginning rose a murmur now and again
Of the midward time and the fading and the last of the latter days,
And the entering in of the terror, and the death of the People's Praise.

Oh dear. And to think he sustained such poetry for another 340 lines, and that’s just book 1 of 4. So what dear reader, dear sender of that text image encouraging me to weave and write, just what would epic poetry be now? Where must one go for inspiration? Somewhere in the realms of sci-fi, something after Star-Wars or Ninja Warriors. It could be post-apocalyptic, a tale of mutants and a world damaged by chemicals or economic melt-down. Maybe a rich adventure of travel on a distant planet (with Sigourney Weaver of course), featuring brave deeds and the selfless heroism of saving companions from deadly encounters with amazing animals, monsters even. Or is ‘epic’ something else, something altogether beyond the Pixar Studios or James Cameron’s imagination? Is the  ‘epic’ now the province of AI boldly generating the computer game in 4D?  

And the epic poem? People once bought and read such published romances as they now buy and engage with on-line games. This is where the epic now belongs. On the tablet, PlayStation3, the X-Box. But, but . . . Poetry is so alive and well as a performance phenomenon, and with that oh so vigorous and relentless beat. Hell, look who won the T.S.Eliot prize this year! Story-telling lives and there are tales to be told, even if they are set in housing estates and not the ice caves of the frozen planet Golp. Just think of children’s literature, so rich and often so wild. This is word invention that revisits unashamedly those myths and sagas Morris loved, but in a different guise, with different names, in worlds that still bring together the incredible geographies of mountains and deserts and wilderness places, with fortresses and walled cities, and the startling, still unknown, yet to be discovered ocean depths.

                                    And so let my tale begin . . . My epic poem.

                                                 THE SEAGASP OF ENNLI.
       A TALE IN VERSE OF EARTHQUAKE, ISLAND FASTNESS, MALEVOLENT SPIRITS,
                                                AND REDEMPTIVE LOVE.

Sittin' On The Dock Of The Bay (Razor Blades, Pills, & Shotguns)

Sittin' on the dock of the bay,
Watching the sun slip, Simon-says, slide away,
Cheeks blushing flushing from orange ray-guns,
Drinking blush rosé to oil our eyes
For the subtle story the sky shortly will reveal,
For the subtle story the sky shortly will revel.

Grievous judgement to make,
Thinkin' skills possessed to praise,
When but yesterday I easy confessed,
At the Blue Canoe Bar, I did not.

(The clouds were magnificent. No, I cannot write a poem about the cloud colors. Their shape shifting inexhaustible.  Mine eyes high on their creativity.  I'm just not good enough a poet to tamper with that sky.)

If you courage enough to
Call yourself poet, then
It is audacity, not blood,
Warming your extremities,
So foolishly try, always be prepared to fail.

No impulse. We pledged that tonight, ours,
One hour of sunset over Silver Beach.
Brought the wine, forgot the pillows,
So Abraham & Sarah went prepared to sacrifice
All feelings in their butts for the greater glory
Of love and one of nature's great poetic challenges..

The conundrum~miracle of every sunset
O'er bay, lake or ocean, is its special,
Only-In-Nature unique way of customizing
Its descent just for you.

No matter where one observes,
No matter where you worship,
Wherever your temple, mosque or church situé,
Tennessee, Rhode Island, the Philippines,
Germany, Colombia, even in the ole U.K.,
(yes, you, I know it, yes, you!)
The very same setting sun we all see,
Sends a magic dazzle gold orange path invitation
To the exact spot you are voyeuring,
One sun, all destinations equal before human.

How can that be?

Trepidation and tremblingly,
The clouds.

She leans on me, a perfect fit,
My back resting against a pylon,
So we see the clouds
With common exactitude,
But it is a quiet time, silence only shared.
Images stored silently within ourselves,
For we see the formation, man, woman,
Precisely and exactly, totally differently.

The clouds.
An armada moving imperial and imperiously
At a stately speed, saying I am awesome, fear me.
The largest cloud bank is an aircraft carrier,
Miles long, painted horizon blue-grey unsurprisingly.

The small white wisps, fast destroyers, stealthy submarines,
Moving fast to protect the mother ship,
Running random to confuse enemy radar and the
Pathetic, limited, human eye.

The colors.
Here I fail willingly, unashamedly.
So many sunsets, so many hearts,
All different, all the same.
Lacking knowledge, I cannot tender,
I cannot offer you tenderness to love
Enough,
The variety of oranges, gold, varietals interspersed
By the pinks, the cornea, singed,
And mock myself for all my meager brain yields is
Good Humor creamsicle comparison...a delicious irony

You who write after midnight
Of razor blades, pills and shotguns,
And not marked two decades even, on this planet,
You want hard,
Write a poem about a sunset in ways never done before.

You, who are wracked with despair
Speak to the man with no job for months
And mouths to feed and a life insurance policy.
Speak to me.

I want to tell you to get over yourself,
But you reject that old saw. Ok.
Get onto to yourself.

I have walked the hallways of deep despair,
Heard the bells ring between periods that signal only the next
Hell,
And to this day, still do,
But still I try to write external of sunsets and greater glories.

How many lives depend on you? Are you proud of your weakness?
Do you hate me yet for acknowledging out loud,
We are both cowards?

I have five mouths to feed,
Before I parse a morsel.
Two less than two,
What do you have but to
Grow yourself?

Yeah coward.
Too yellow to write about a
Yellow sunset, cause that is hard in a way incomprehensible
Until tried.
Or the passing of your mother who could not speak clearly
But you, thru her eyes knew that she had poems to yet recite.
Run away like I did ashamed with frustrated failure.
Why should I coddle, give you easy soft?**
.
If you come here to share, well and good.
If you come here to find comfort, good.
So gaze upon these words and feel
The love that only experience has earned.

What do you know of heartbreak?
Imprisoned for decades in a loveless life,
I walked by the water nightly,
Yes, the same waters where I CinemaScoped
Yesterday's sunset, and walked away.

You can read about if you look it, look me, look here,
Look up!

So do something hard, something external.
Fail but love yourself more for just having tried.
Then try something else.

The saddest poem ever wrote
Was not yours, where you titillate with daring words
Razors, pills etc.,
The saddest poem ever writ
Was this one, a meager vanity to capture a
Sunset that keeps trying every day to
Surpass
Supersede
Its previous glorious failure,
Like we should too.
Keep trying

Now, I shall rest,
For I know that soon I shall see, feel, think,
Of something new that will make me eager to

Write a new poem.


August 3~5, 2013

Mashup

Part I (and there is a Part II & III)

I mashup me, myself, and perhaps thee too.


Excerpts from my poems about poets, poetry and the process of compositions. In chronological order, earliest to latest.
---------------------------------------------------------­------------------

With words we paint,
With syllables we embrace,
Tasked and ennobled,
We are forever fully employed,
Missionaries to all,
You too, are one as well,
Your fate can't be renounced,

when the rusted unborn poem notion is almost done,
but remains unpublished,
for no beginning, no title, can be found,

Then I recall the cornucopia days,
when poems spilled forth like
there would never be a when they wouldn't,

I revisit my old friends, couplets, twins and triplets,
seeded inside every tear, happy or sad,
sweetly and freely,

my old friends, reread,
words rearranged in new combinations,
old poems, plants bearing new fruits,
re-titled all of them, one name,
a collection entitled,
My Solace.

My eyes, my eyes, see only the
Totality of this moment.
When mastery of multi-tasking
Is the single best poem this man ever
Penned with his entirety,
Of which not word survived
For its unspoken silence was its glory.

My compact with you is to
remind us all, through
music, dance, words (poetry) and love,
This is the only compact
with the power of human law.

Color me flesh ****,
Color me blue bottled,
Red ripped asunder,
The sweetness ascribed to my love poetry,
A subtraction of the bitterness of a failed life.
Colorist of my seams, my woven words,
I am white now, my canvas completed,
Waiting for another poet to write over it,
And chaining new words to what was prior writ.

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.

You ask me how I find the time,
(To write)
But time is not the issue,
For they, are all prepared, needing only recognition,
For they, are all in readiness, needing only composition.

For who's who in poetry
is all of us!
saviors and failures,
recorders and decoders,
night writers of the oohs and aahs
of dreams and nightmares.

When this poet cannot,
no longer, anymore,
tastes his poems upon your lips,
keep your poems within his heart,
then he breathes no more,
and becomes one who was, yet is,
because of you, in poetry.

Awful poetry, some good, you will write.
But write and write till your heart be calmed,
For even ancient kings felt the anguish  of the soul,
And we profit even today by King David's psalms.

This wizened fool has his hands full,
Mouths to feed, bread to earn and bake,
As midnight is almost nigh,
He rests prone and adds a verse to this old poem
He long ago scribbled down, grimace-smiles now,
Realizing there is little difference tween him and the
Sad Eyed Teenagers of the Lowland.

For poetry salves his wounds still, even now,
Unashamedly, he thinks, hallelujah!

The poem is the afterbirth,
A conflicts resolution, an outcome,
Battlefield debris, the residue of
An exacting vision, a sentiment surging,
And your army of words, inadequate to the task,
Fighting to capture that insight flashed,
Each word a soldier, disheveled,
Crying, let me live, let me be saved,
Let me make a poem,
Let it be inscribed upon my victorious flag.

The poem is the sweat left upon the brow,
Having exercised the five senses,
The salt of struggle and debate,
It's completion, each word,
Both a victory and a defeat.

To write but a single line,
That uplifts the heart,
Eases pain, gives delight to strangers,
And makes you laugh out loud
With shivery pleasure,
That usurps a whole day and night,
That is a poet's true measure.

Mastery of the poetic,
Measured not in quantity,
But in tears of satisfaction
When others love the taste
Of newly born stanzas
Upon their lips,
couplets born and transcribed
In the wee hours of the morn.

You can have my love, my soul,
But leave to me the labor of poetry.
Loving you with words is my domain,
The speciality of my terrain,
So no more hasta la pasta if you please,
And by the bye, I would love some
Tonight, say around eight,
At a restaurant where the moon is
The only light illuminating our faces.

Until you have bent your ear to Shakespeare's sonnets,
Till you have laughed with Ogden Nash,
Wept with Frost, visited Byron's ghost,
Read the songs of King Solomon,
And once you
Despair of being their equal,
Shed your winter coat of worry,
***** your courage to the sticking point,
Begin to write then with reckless courage,
Unfettered abandon, make a fool of yourself!

Scout the competition.
Weep, for you and I will never surpass
The giants who preceeded us, and yet,
Laugh, cause they thought the same thing as well...

All I can say is
En Garde!
I will be coming back soon enough.
because you are my best poem,
and the there will always be another stanza needed...

I am no Houdini, it's quite simple,
After 5 years, I read her like a book,
A book of my poems that she has inspired,
Entitled the Mysteries of True Love.

Each letter, a morsel in your mouth,
Each phrase, a fork full of pleasure,
Each stanza, a full fledged member in a tasting menu,
Perfect only in conjunction with the preceding flavor,
and the one that follows,  and the one that follows.

Taste each poem upon thy tongue and then pass it on,
you know how....

Each word, whether chewed thoroughly,
or lightly placed upon a bud for flavor,
needs the careful consideration of your mouth.

When I hear Shakespeare
My own voice is stilled, it's poverty exposed,
I am ashamed of every word I ever wrote.
Hush me not, for t'is true,
Yet I write on for an audience of one, on but one subject,
A subject, a life, mine,
yet, still unmastered, even after decades of trying.

My poverty exposed, unmasked
for what it is worth, or not.

Lest you think this is paean to men
Another grand male boast,
Be advised this ditty be writty
By a man who, while no longer gritty,
Just put jelly on his scrambled eggs
And ketchup on his toast!

Mmmmmmm there might be a poem
Lurking in that too...

So baby,
shut it down,
turn me on,
make me warm for real,
glide your now practiced fingertips on my grizzled cheek,
whisper a phony "ugh,"
cause I know, you will read
this iPad love poem
and cherish us for evermore.

Soul of brevity, poetically,
I'll never be, this insightful critique,
("Your poems are too long")
I've received in multiplicity, from sources internationally,
perhaps, lucky me, you've read this far?

Surely still a chance that an angel will touch my lips,
my internal parts sign a final treaty, inside an armistice,
night sweats sighs a thing fully forgot,
poetry writing can now be dispatched,
maybe that will be my Act III,
if I can stay awake for it.

Walk a Single Word.
To write a poem, a single word select,
embrace it with a fullness that lovers, family and friends
and the *** who cut you off in the middle lane
do daily provide

Grasp said word, walk it onto a yellow, blue lined, legal pad,
touch said word with the whisper of a single tear, a single curse,
like a pebble in a pond,
said word will miracle expand
hugging you with concentric circles of lines of poetry,
visionary words and stanzas that almost complete themselves
and you

The rhymes you will require, the meter you will select,
no need to struggle, hug your child and as Abraham told Isaac,
God and Google will provide

The simple trickster, a wordsmiths, even your average poet laureate,
got nothing on you that you don't already possess, to offer them
Plenty stiff competition.

Therefore,
My life is mine to take,
Should I wish to choose the
Place, date, the time
To let the poetry cease,
I will announce it mostly gladly
with a blessing of
Shehecheyanu* and a
Smiling "by your leave."

Sometimes the pen, unnecessary.
The poem, fully formed, in his mouth, born.

Silent back labor, unbeknownst the existence
Of such a thing, yet knowing now
His contractions, coming fast and furious,
Eyes many centimeters dilated,
The sac's fluid breaks upon the poet's tongue,
He pronounces in a single breath his
Immaculate Completion

When his hand to mouth, goes,
Like Moses, when he touched the burning coals,
The words are signaled, freedom!
The words announce:
We are now created, conceived and
This new oxgenated atmosphere is now our
final resting place.

This child, the poem, this exhalation,
Once freed, is lost to him,
It's been renamed, retitled,
by hundreds of newly adopted parents as
Ours.

Words needed to create another love poem for my beloved,
Nose and toes, ******* and eyes all regularly poetically,
Cherished,
Now I have knuckled under
And competed a full poetic body scan
And have paid tribute to each n'every part of you,
Even your knuckles...which I am busy kissing
While writing this poem in my distracted mind.

The next time it be for the morning meal,
I will eat it in bed,
far from their kitchen hiding places,
And celebrate my heroics with original
Frosted Flakes and milk,
And extra sugar just for spite!
The bedroom fairies, living under the pillow,
Emerge to beg in iambic pentameter,
Won't get nary a bite,
Until they they return the poems they stole
From my midnight dreams.

I am exhausted. So many gems to decorate
My body, my soul. I must stop here,
So many of you have reached out, none of you overlooked.

Overwhelmed, let us sit together now
And celebrate the silence that comes after the
Gasp, the sigh, that the words have taken from
Our selves, from within.


On and on thru the night,
Riffing, rapping, rambling, and spitting,
Ditties and darts, couplets and barbs,
Single words and elegies,
Free verse and a lot of fking curse words,
It was a moment, a time
that deserved
to be preserved,
and so this poem got writ

You may think this story apocryphal
Which is another way of saying untrue,
But I got his boarding pass and it is signed,
To this crazy poetry dude, long may you rasp,
And it is signed by Mr. P. Simon, a big fan,
And it has never since that day,
Left my grasp

Some poems never end,
Nor meant too.
Alliterative phrases, invitations,
Add a verse, a word, even a sound,
An exclamation of delight,
A stanza in its own right.

Unfinished work, forever additive, collaborative.
Modify mine, pass it on.

Read somewhere some poems never end,
Now I understand that better,
Cause there are no bandages, stitches that can close,
Cause there are no pills, switches that can shut off,
The ripping sound, the cutting noise, the raging inside
Heard blocks away, almost reaching a house where you live,
And dying in the same **** place that
Poems come from after midnight.

And even if I am stranger now,
I'll prove useful to have around,
Giving you poetry precisely couture designed by command,
So I fully expect to be hugging you happy
Soon enough.
You'll see.

No matter combo or organized, a good nights sleep
Elusive
So poetry is my default rest position,
My screen savior.

**So when I warn,
All my poems are copywrighted,
My meaning simple, words crystal,
They belong to us, but mostly to you
Who are reading these words

First things first
I'd like to apologise

I'm sorry I'm not the good Indian girl I was bred to be
I'm sorry I don't make round rotis
I'm sorry that the tongue I use to speak punjabi is broken and hides in my mouth unused until desperately needed
I'm sorry that I don't cook and clean efficiently enough to be wifey material
Sorry that I love who I love and don't hate who I was told to
Sorry that I can't follow gods blindly and not try to sneak back stage to see their shining gold adornments and blue body paints and multiple arms in full and bare glory and scandal

I'm sorry that I'm actually not sorry for any of this
I'm sorry that these are false and empty apologies

I am unapologetically whole
A human not just a race
A female not a trust fund or business transaction

I filter out the good parts of the culture I'm from and the ones I identify with
I'll wear docs under my saari no apologies
I'll grind on dancefloors and do the best Bhangra dance you'll ever see unashamedly

Hareems and hoodies
Bindies and pin up eyeliner
Hedonism and head in the clouds

My ambition is Ambedkar untouchable
My drive is a salt march surging silently non violently through cities
My hometown pride is built in concrete and rickshaw dust,
Prejudice and Bollywood lust

Gauguin or Michener
horizon lust inspired,
The South Pacific desired.
From early childhood on.
Fiji in the 70’s all alone in
A Personal journey of self
and world discovery.

From the big island of
Viti Levu, embarked
on native small boat, fifty
miles out to the Yasawa group.
Reaching tiny Yaqeta with
300 souls living close to the bone,
No Running water, or electric spark
glowing. Remarkably bright stars
shine at night, no city lights showing
to hide their heavenly glow.

Unspoiled Melanesian Island people
Meagerly surviving only on the sea
and a thousand plus years of tradition.

I welcomed like a friend of long
standing, with smiling faces and
open sprits. Once eaters of other
humans beings, converted now to
Methodist believers.

Their Island beautiful beyond belief,
Azure pristine seas in every direction,
Coral reefs abounding with aquatic life.
Paradise found and deeply appreciated.
I swam and fished, played with the kids
and laid about in my hammock, enjoying
weeks of splendor alongside people
I came to revere, generous and loving
at peace with themselves and nature,
Embracing a stranger like a family member.

My small transistor radio warned big
Cyclone brewing, of Hurricane proportions.
My thoughts turned to Tidal Waves.
The village and all those people
living a few feet above sea level.
Tried to express my concerns to
my host family and others, getting
but smiles and shrugs in return.
Spoken communication almost
nonexistent, me no Fijian spoken,
Them, little English understood.

It started with rain, strong winds,
Worsening building by the minute.
The villagers’ merely tightening down
the hatches of their stick, thatch houses.
Content it seemed to ride out the storm,
As I assumed they always did.

Shouldering heavy backpack
I hugged my friends and headed
for high ground, the ridgebacks
of low mountains, the backbones
of the Island. Feeling guilty leaving
them to their fate from high water.
Perplexed, they ignored my warnings.

In half an hour winds strong enough
to take me off my feet, blowing even
from the other side of the Island.
On a ridge flank I hunkered down,
pulled rubber poncho over my body,
Laying in watershed running inches deep
cascading down slopes to the sea below.

The wind grew to astounding ferocity,
Later gusts reported approaching 160
miles per hour. Pushing me along
the ground closer to the cliff edge
and a 80 foot plunge to the sea below,
Clinging to cliff with fingers and toes.

For three hours it raged, trees blowing
off the summit above, disappearing into
the clouds and stormy wet mist beyond.

A false calm came calling, the eye of the
Cyclone hovered over the Island, as I
picked my drenched self up and made my
way over blown down trees and scattered
storm debris to the Village of my hosts.

Most wooden, tin roofed structures gone
or caved in, the few Island boats broken
and thrown up onto the land. Remarkably
many of the small one room “Bure” thatched
huts still stood. Designed by people that knew
the ways if big winds.

The high waves had not come as I feared.
Badly damaged, yet the village endured,
As did most of the people, some broken
bones, but, mercifully, no worse.

Back with my host family, in their Bure,
new preparations ensued, the big winds I
was informed would now return from the
opposite direction, and would be even worse.

For another four hours the little grass and
stick House shook, nearly rising from the
ground, held together only by woven vine
ropes, and hope, additional ropes looped
over roof beams held down by our bare
hands. Faith and old world knowledge
is a wonderful thing.

Two days past and no one came to check on
the Island, alone the people worked to save
their planted gardens from the salt water
contaminated ground, cleaned up debris and
set to mending their grass homes. The only fresh
Water well still unpolluted was busily used.

With a stoic resolve, from these self-reliant people,
life seemed to go on, this not the first wind blown
disaster they had endured, Cyclones I learned
came every year, though this one, named “Bebe”
worst in the memories of the old men of the island.

On the third day a boy came running,
having spotted and hailed a Motor yacht,
which dropped anchor in the lagoon on the
opposite side of the Island.

I swam out to the boat and was welcomed
aboard by the Australian skipper and crew.
Shared a cold Coke, ham sandwich and tales
of our respective adventures of surviving.
They agreed to carry me back to the Big Island.

A crewman returned me ashore in a dingy.
I crossed the island and retrieved my things,
Bidding and hugging my friends in farewell.
I asked permission to write a story about the
storm and the village, the elders' smiles agreed,
they had nothing to loose, seemed pleased.

One last time I traversed the island and stepped
Into the yachts small rowboat, my back to
the island. Hearing a commotions I turned
seeing many people gathering along the
shores beach. I climbed out and went among
them, hugging most in farewell, some and
me too with tears in our eyes, fondness, respect
reflected, shared, received.

As the skiff rowed away  halfway to the ship,
the Aussie mate made a motion with his eyes
and chin, back towards the beach.

Turning around in my seat I saw there
most of the island population, gathered,
many held aloft small pieces of colored cloth,
tiny flags of farewell waving in the breeze,
they were singing, chanting a island song,
slow, like a lament of sorts.

Overwhelmed, I stood and faced the shore,
opened wide my arms, as to embrace them all,
tears of emotions unashamedly ran down my face.
Seeing the people on the beach, the Aussie crewman
intoned, “****** marvelous that. Good on 'ya mate.”

Yes, I remember Fiji and Cyclone Bebe, most of all
I fondly remember my Island brothers and sisters.

                                    End

i was wrenched from a bed
that was not my own to begin with.
into the sunlight, they dragged me,
hands yanking at my long hair.
i clutched my body.
jaw set, i silently vowed not to cry, to take it
like a woman should – to look them in the eye,
to stand unashamedly in front of my neighbors,
my mother, and my sisters. to stand in front of the town,
and face the inevitable.

the Pharisees threw me to the ground, gave a swift kick
to my side – gentle, compared with what would come.
the women, eyes glossed with icy detest, spat in my face.
so the ***** has been caught, they hissed.
But i refused to give them the satisfaction.
i wouldn’t close my eyes during it.
couldn’t.
Jesus, they barked, we caught her sleeping
with a man she doesn’t belong to.
you know what to do.
the little children and the rabbi and the mothers
and the sons, they felt the ground
for smooth, heavy rocks.

i bowed my head slightly, as fingers trembled over
new, prune-colored bruises
on my ribs, my stomach.
i unlocked my knees and lifted my chin,
met his eyes.
he paused for a moment, nodded his head slowly.
If you are without sin, please, cast the first stone.
i bit my lip, waited and watched,
squinting in the sunrise.
the Pharisees grumbled, the townspeople eyed me, but said
nothing, until they left, one
by one.

that Jesus, they mumbled,
He’s always finding loopholes.

Your words bounce around the Earth
set free from your tongue
your heart exposed
unashamedly naked.

The ivy climbs high,
It reaches out-
Limitless.

Unashamedly,
Thriving off the life of its host,
Who is just as blind.

Lovers compare its growth,
To their emotions-
Limitless.

Irony.
What thrives so well,
Eventually kills its host,
Who is just as blind.

we are always
aspired to
be god,

look at how
we systematically
programmed the school,
the difference with a factory?

we are always
aspired to
be god,

check on how
we systematically
organized the prison,
harmless for the society?

we are always
aspired to
be god,

look at how
we unashamedly
arranged the tv and radio
pursuing the utopian future?

we are always
aspired to
be god,

check on how
we unashamedly
clear the forest and rebuild,
as if we care for the community?

we have never stop at
avoiding the eventual fate
trying to take everything
under control
and forgetting our actual role.

the luckless ones
gaze into the empty sky.

Preface:
Even old poets can forget new tricks,
So when toe stubbed and ah ha benedicted,
Causes you to remember what you once knew,
It feels even better, like being crazy
Once in awhile,
Or wearing an untrimmed chest Jason smile.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



Eons ago converted to a new religion,
The Church of Free Verse.

If life be variable,
Usually unrhymed
A pencil sketch of crisscrossed lines,
No fixed metrical pattern assigned,
Than even more so, my poetry.

Once I regretted that the children,
Crack addicted to rhyming,^
Used nickel bags and ******* lines
At the starting gate where all
Our associative poetry journey begins.

Perhaps, a tad arrogant, that diktat,
Nonetheless, unashamedly, nothing to recant.
Words have utility creative, souls innovative,
Free them guised as global explorers,
Make them up, then unleash them
Upon us, yourself, as detectives investigative.

Unchained myself like Houdini,
From water chambers and locks constraini.
What care I for poetic rules and regulations,^^
Got so many points, they tried to suspend
My government-issued poetic license.

Had myself forgot,
That a poem needs a
Frame of jungle gym sounds,
An aural aura resonance unbound.
Purposed to make the heart lift
Your ears say:

Say what!

It needs a tune,
An internal music,
It needs a lilt!
A cadence, that both
Marches and swings,
Even when'd urgent dirge
grief pours forth.

Yes my darling young ones,
Your writ of screams, like Bob Dylan's occasional schemes,
Celebrations of agonized lives of the criminally-pained,
Songs and cants of victims, love-cancer stained,
Require a whining, singsong beat.

{Poems so rad-sad that it makes this Jew
Genuflect and crisscross himself,
That he was blessed with a few good happy years,
In his reincarnated life of
A few centuries long.}

Learn 'em to sing their cries,
Harmonize the internality of love,
Or, even the infernal loss and lack thereof,
For it is the lilt
That makes, transforms a cry into a
Poem.

Even I on death's last stairway step,
When was called by the name of
Nate Hale,
My dying poem lilted, lifted and metered
"I only regret,
that I have
but one life,
to lose,
for my country."

Now you're thinking he is lost it all,
But you would be incorrect for sure.

He found it.

The lilt of life that makes him rise
And greet each morn,
Even some sorry starless nights
With a First Poem of the Day.

I lilt you, one and all.
If you think this mis-wrote,
My auto correct mentally broke,
Meant to type I love you,
You'd be
Right but wrong,
I just lilt you.

The world belongs to the nocturnal, the ever present reflexive vanguard whose presence elicits attention,

be it negative or positive.

The crawl to a standstill, the distractions, the regrets:

These are as naught to those whose focus supplants physical duress.

Success is the only road, the path to failure can only be trod by idle feet, hot coals to the promised kingdom of recognition and praise, this must be traversed at all lengths, at all levels, by all means:

Take it.

Hatred or envy does not compare to the rush of achievement, real effort brought to fruition.

Be not afraid to raise your expectations, be afraid that they never rise.

Most of all, love unashamedly and furiously as if no one could weigh in,

the universe bends to the warrior's perspective

perhaps if you have time,
take a moment to read the
predecessor poem in the notes below first,
in order to better understand this one


<>

the love poetry curfew so lately announced
misshapen, growing without respite, by hate extensions distended,
poet's sanity uncomprehending, for yet another! sabbath desecration,
debating internally, how long should this cessation be extended,
for the pockmarking of earth's face with fresh bloodshed,
continues unashamedly, swiftly apace, these unholy days of dread,
all haggard his mind, hazard his eyes, harden his heart
no muse could sway

but shocking himself,
poet's mirror image stares and dares
with a finger-pointing,
his own specter's absurd challenge of

"and yet, now more than ever "

when children are killed like bowling pins,
there can be no satisfaction in revenge
cannot expiate evil deeds with avenge
measure for measure add-on sins,

and yet,

poet thinks quietly, repeatedly, self-surprisingly,

and yet,
love poetry, now more than ever

asking confusedly, almost ashamedly, out loudly, yet secretly,
how can this be, for there will be again, more painful awakenings,
is it the end of days, of greeting sunrise, with a love for love poetry?
with madness come and confusion everywhere rampant,
'tis a doubtful thought, the carnage having wrought
an insoluble dissolution and can love poetry be any solution?

in poet's Adirondack safe place where life tributes were
birthed, bred and trials borne, a right writ place for unmasking,
a private soul in equal parts of joy and shame,
love and pain, loss and gain,
here the weighing scales bore equal measures
of old bereft, and life uplifting visions of,
what will come, what will be, the unforeseen,
the hopeful yet of

"and yet"

a dotted line of whitecaps  beckons the poet to tread upon,
the glassine bay's waters that lay before him, go, walk on water,
a path to point where and whence the quaking waves
have gathered, calmly begging, Oh poet!
provide  assurance, explanation, comprehension,
querying him as if all sanity, has flightly, unsightly, fled
from the home shores of human sailors, gently asking poet,

"your fellow walking earth-beasts have all sensibility killed,
these times so human terrible, we waters, cannot understand"

poet's rebellious soul all so confused, asking and answering the
waters in his head, the waters that address his eyes,
seeking wisdom words from a place where logic
has been whittled and willed away,

and yet,

love poetry, now more than ever

now is the time when a love poem beyond merely necessary,
poet's eyes cast downward in shame, his thinking, hesitant and wary,
time for prayer, not madness distraction of a love poetry commentary

the waters dissatisfied at his confusion,
part as if by Moses's staff, majesticly powerful rise up,
confronting poet with the sweetest tasking
as if they were the downtrodden and the hurting, asking...

"we storm, drown and take, for such is nature's angry periodic way,
something beyond our control no matter what we say,
to another's dictate and momentum, we must bow and obey,
but you human, have choice, and we have none -
choose love poetry and let it comfort like no other"

and the poet sighed and wrote

this poem

this poem of love,
realized and conjectured,
with inserted verses of

"and yet,"

for though the poet possessed no well of well words
more than these few saddened and impoverished,
wearied, hard scrabbled ones

and yet,

gasping and grasping a potent notion, a portent of what if,
of a world with no love poetry,
a planet that could not ever-overcome hate, dooming itself,
for love poetry and all its cousins and associates,
the only method to confiscate
these grill blackened marking silent barbell weights
so let this be ,
this is a love poem,
and now,
this is the time,
to let

"and yet"

vindicate...


<>
6:20am
Saturday July 16, 2016
and yet

As long as there are teenagers extant,
Anomie and alienation of
an unripened generation
Shall spill upon this site in cliched cries,
Dabbling with threats of pills and lies,
The endless pain felt gives one fright.
To this old soul who wonders silently,
Will these thousands of pained children
Make it through to their next incarnation

So much angst, so much anger,
I wonder if God created poetry
To salve their wounds

Their unknown futures loom,
But all I read is  hurt and doom.
You shall survive, children.
Awful poetry, some good,
you will write.
But write and write
till your heart be calmed

For even ancient kings felt the anguish  of the soul,
And we profit even today by King David's psalms.

This wizened fool has his hands full,
Mouths to feed, bread to earn and bake,
As midnight is almost nigh,
He rests prone and adds a verse to this old poem
He long ago scribbled down, grimace-smiles now,
Realizing there is little difference tween him and the
Sad Eyed Teenagers of the Lowland.

For poetry salves his wounds still, even now,
Unashamedly, he thinks, quiet like, praying,
Hallelujah, spoken in the original,
The tongue of his ancestors

Inadequate to the task
Humbled by the enormity of our love,
The perfection of our joining,
Where are the words kept that sufficient
Honor and portray what we have achieved?

You seated, beside me by the bay, finally,
Two old adirondack trees side by side,
By the sheltered place you bequeathed me,
Where poems are raindrops, so numerous,
And you, if not the subject, the source.

The waves rolling in, mirror the
Fluidity of thy dancing,
Fluidity of the adaptation,
Two lives, now one bay blue colored,
The merging, the unification,
Many waves, but one bay,
The Bay of Us.

Yet so different.
We are cloud worshippers,
Does not the Skye's Tableau inconstancy,
Mirror our ever changing form, individuality,
Yet, one sky,
The Sky of Us.

So many times have I lain be-sided
Even as we this afternoon sit now a-sided,
Tears welling up, above and beyond control,
This man's steady nerves, constant on patrol,
Our secret open, visible, un-hided,
Your are my Magi
My Yogi,
i.am, your, obedient devotee, shaped to you please.

This is the birthday present my words present.

Words, unremarkable,
Except for the contentment
That lies within them.

Let me love you more,
Recklessly abandon norms,
Kiss you at the supermarket, at the opera,
Unashamedly, take you in my arms
Wherever wonderment and wandering lead us.

T'is so very hard to compose
When tears flow upon my writing tablet,
To wipe, blot them away, I refuse,
For tears are joyous emblems,
Salty badges of love,
All compliments of our complementary beings,
The Tears of Us.

The soaring music we gather in.
The shimmering sparkles upon the bay,
My gift of natural diamonds better, this day,
Than jeweled glitterati I hide in the refrigerator.
All this treasure, part and sparkle of
The Treasure of Us.

T'is truth,
I know not, forgot, your age nor care,
The day the time the year,
What matter they to me these artifice markers,
I weep carelessly, undone, overcome,
Every day, but this day, most, united joy.

Need-No reminder,
I am a survivor,
From a concentration camp
That slow programmed to destroy,
Perhaps the kindness you claim
As the hallmark of my fame,
An inadvertent gift, from the devil?

You shook my hand on our first meet,
Don't think, have I ever let go?
Let me be your driver, entertainer, your only poet,
Let me be whatever you need,
Even as now, I laugh-cry, your tissue carrier.

For t'is I who weeps and keeps
These tissues as part of our history.
You are the first,
Who has ever read
The Words of Us.

An online Poetry Site is like taking a Lover.
At first everything is new and exciting,
Our juices are flowing.
Our heart beats a little faster,
Endorphins abounding.
We romance and court her,
Our best foot forward,
Play to our strengths,
Beat on our chests,
Try to avoid foolish mistakes.

We get drawn in,
Dazzled by the allure of her attention.
We become intimate,
Embrace her charms,
Confide our inner most Secrets,
Whisper unashamedly our Fears.
But she can be fickle, change her mind,
Love us one minute, ignore us the next.
We invite her to judge us,
Then we resent the results.
We fight and withdraw, vowing to quite,
Then find that we are caught in the web,
And can’t follow through.

She commands far too much of our time,
We can even become obsessed, knowing
That we should back off, if only we could.
We begin to resent the time we spend with her,
And yet cannot get through a day without checking in.
In spite of our protests, when gone, we miss her.

So we nearly abandon old friends and family,
Preferring her company instead.
Lose needed sleep to stay up past three,
Just to hold her hand.
Hanging as we do,
On her every word.
Forget to mow the lawn,
Or wash the dishes.
Enthralled and distracted.
Neglect to shower,
Remain all day in Pajamas.

It’s a romance of words on a screen,
Not a living, breathing thing,
But even with this knowledge,
We can’t let her go.
Can’t leave it alone.
I know, because I have tried and failed.
And here I still remain,
Caught like an animal in a trap.
Or is it, a fat happy bird in a gilded cage?
Who would not know where else to go,
Even if the door were left open.

I am conflicted to say the least.
No doubt my need for self-expression,
Is stronger than my need for cessation.

We love what we do,
And do what we love
And **** the consequences.
The good part is, as far as I know,
No one ever got a social disease,
From Words on a computer screen.

Sittin' on the dock of the bay,
Watching the sun slip, Simon-says, slide away,
Cheeks blushing flushing from orange ray-guns,
Drinking blush rosé to oil our eyes
For the subtle story the sky shortly will reveal,
For the subtle story the sky shortly will revel.

Grievous judgement to make,
Thinkin' skills possessed to praise,
When but yesterday I easy confessed,
When at the Blue Canoe (another poem),
I did not.

(The clouds were magnificent. No, I cannot write a poem about the cloud colors. Their shape shifting inexhaustible.  Mine eyes high on their creativity.  I'm just not good enough a poet to tamper with that sky.)

If you courage enough to
Call yourself poet, then
It is audacity, not blood,
Warming your extremities,
So foolishly try, always be prepared to fail.

No impulse. We pledged that tonight, ours,
One hour of sunset over Silver Beach.
Brought the wine, forgot the pillows,
So Abraham & Isaaca went prepared to sacrifice
All feelings in their butts for the greater glory
Of love and one of nature's great poetic challenges..

The conundrum~miracle of every sunset
O'er bay, lake or ocean, is its special,
Only-In-Nature unique way of customizing
Its descent just for you.

No matter where one observes,
No matter where you worship,
Wherever your temple, mosque or church situé,
Tennessee, Rhode Island, the Philippines,
Germany, Colombia, even in the ole U.K.,
(yes, you, know it, yes you)
The very same setting sun we all see,
Sends a magic dazzle gold orange path invitation
To the exact spot you are voyeuring,
One sun, all destinations equal before human.

How can that be?

Trepidation and tremblingly,
The clouds.

She leans on me, a perfect fit,
My back resting against a pylon,
So we see the clouds
With common exactitude,
But it is a quiet time, silence only shared.
Images stored silently within ourselves,
For we see the formation, man, woman,
Precisely and exactly, totally differently.

The clouds.
An armada moving imperial and imperiously
At a stately speed, saying I am awesome, fear me.
The largest cloud bank is an aircraft carrier,
Miles long, painted horizon blue-grey unsurprisingly.

The small white wisps, fast destroyers, stealthy submarines,
Moving fast to protect the mother ship,
Running random to confuse enemy radar and the
Pathetic, limited, human eye.

The colors.
Here I fail willingly, unashamedly.
So many sunsets, so many hearts,
All different, all the same.
Lacking knowledge, I cannot tender,
I cannot offer you tenderness to love
Enough,
The variety of oranges, gold, varietals interspersed
With pinks singeing the cornea,
And mock myself for all my meager brain yields is
Good Humor creamsicle...a delicious irony

You who write after midnight
Of razor blades, pills and shotguns,
And not marked two decades even, on this planet,
You want hard,
Write a poem about a sunset in ways never done before.

You, who are wracked with despair
Speak to the man with no job for months
And mouths to feed and a life insurance policy.
Speak to me.

I want to tell you to get over yourself,
But you reject that old saw.
Ok.
Get onto to yourself.

I have walked the hallways of deep despair,
Heard the bells ring between periods that signal only the next
Hell,
And to this day, still do,
But still I try to write external of sunsets and greater glories.

How many lives depend on you? Are you proud of your weakness?
Do you hate me yet for acknowledging out loud,
We are both cowards?

I have five mouths to feed,
Before I parse a morsel.
One less than two times three,
What do you have but to
Grow yourself?

Yeah coward.
Too yellow to write about a
Yellow sunset, cause that is hard in a way incomprehensible
Until tried.
Or the passing of your mother who could not speak clearly
But you, thru her eyes knew that she had poems to yet recite.
Run away like I did ashamed with frustrated failure.
Why should I coddle, give you easy soft?
.
If you come here to share, well and good.
If you come here to find comfort, good.
So gaze upon these words and feel
The love that only experience has earned.

What do you know of heartbreak?
Imprisoned for decades in a loveless life,
I walked by the water nightly, so tempted
To stay, to not pass by but pass on,
Yes, the same waters where I CinemaScoped
Yesterday's sunset, and walked away.

You can read about it if you look,
Look me up, look here, the story is in my poems, but always,
Look up!

So do something hard, something external.
Fail but love yourself more for just having tried.
Then try something else.

The saddest poem ever wrote
Was not yours, where you titillate with daring words
Razors, pills etc.,
The saddest poem ever writ
Was this one, a meager vanity to capture a
Sunset that keeps trying every day to
Surpass
Supersede
Its previous glorious failure,
Like we should too.
Keep trying

Now, I shall rest,
For I know that soon I shall see, feel, think,
Of something new that will make me eager to
Write a new poem.


August 3~5, 2013
Written and posted here one year ago today. Strangely, it fits my mood exactly, again, today, 2014. Edited for clarity here and there...

*If you courage enough to
Call yourself poet, then
It is audacity, not blood,
Warming your extremities,
So foolishly try, always be prepared to fail.

I saw him; I saw an Israeli committing ****,
In the Gaza strip the former land of Arabs,
The eye of Palestine, a beacon usurped away,
By the sons and daughters of God, the Hebrew Yahweh,
I saw there the sons of God committing ****** horror
Of all lethal horrors, they brutally ***** Arab women,
***** Arab girls and lame women, grand mothers
And others in the brudah as their male loved ones,
In askance standing to look, their face tearfully a gape,
Sons of God from the house of Israel **** brutally,
They wound, mayhem, do every thing murderously,
Other than mass ****** in rounds, a lesser punishment
Perhaps; they mete as a show of forgiveness, show of ruth,
Sons of God have an evil nemesis; they siege humanity like a devil,
They unashamedly **** young children, sexually and homosexually
Lesbians from Israel, the house God also brutally **** and ****,
They **** forlorn Arabs and Africans, for no other reason,
But the race, faith, ethnicity and weapons of their victims
Are no match to the evil and satanic ploys of house of God; Israel,
Israel Please, stop ****, stop; ****** and civil casualties,
Against the desperate and the armless, they are forlorn,
Israel listen, your Gaza Culture is crime against humanity,
You maliciously habour weapons of mass de-creation; Nuclear,
You have fierce most segregation camps, to detain African
Refuges, o! No you call them black illegal immigrants,
And in those camps you brutalize them more than the visitors
And the   inmates of Guantanamo prison, you really torture,
And you leave them to die of hunger in the open field,
As your head boy Benjamin Netanyahu gives an OK.
Israeli you are liars; you are not the sons of God,
All humanity reflect divinity, But Israel reflect terror,
Israel you are liars, god never gave you Palestine,
Those are your fables that fuel racism and terrorism,
It the weapons you get from America that gives you
Palestine your evil acquisition, an eyesore to the just,
Israel you played a decoy and bombed the twin towers,
In New York on the 11th date of September,
To stunt the American bulls to goof in their folly
To attack Iraq of Sadam with drones and scuds and
Patriotics, as you stand aside in self-congratulation,
Israel you are bad, your heart is anti-human and satanic.
Who made other nations to be gentiles?
Other than your malicious conscience,
That breeds hatred inherent in you
For those who confess different faiths?
And subscribe to different nationalism,
O Israel! The dweller of Jerusalem
If God created you alone, then who
Created Negroes the dweller of Congo forest,
O Israel the forced dwellers of Jerusalem
Why is it difficult for you to stay, mix and intermarry?
With Asians, beggars, gravediggers, Muslims, Africans,
To intermarry with humanity, how fragile and
Self suscipicious is your testicles and vaginas,
So that you uppishly shun humanity, by denying the poor
Their natural right of ***; *** that only  prevents war.

I see you in colors no one else can see
As if the light had split and lay you down for me -
painfully so -
arrogantly pursuing a spectrum so elaborate...
golden and gleaming...
God, do i try to keep up:
I see you as the red green blue black that resides under our protective layer of peach
Crimson cheeks and crimson thoughts
Ivy trailing hair of such unexplainality
mundanity fails to carry your weight -
But green seemed so innocently subtle to contain those veins
that stick out like a spill against ivory eyelids
sheltering yet more purple, bronze, a bouquet of vessels -- -
oh, god-ridden terracotta of your tips
red just doesn't cut it for me and blue leaves a sticky trail in the tongue when you're just so
unashamedly golden, apricotted, sparks of whatever next that i find in your eyes
colours i couldn't mix
no matter how hard i tried.

For they are the best of me.
I am unashamedly in need of what
You cannot give me, so I ask for something simple.
Love my poems, and though your hand will never caress my pains away,
Loving words I share is sharing some of my distress and easing my difficult way ahead.
I will tell you one thing more.
I never met a poem here I did not like.
Not one.

some break the door down
others knock tentatively
others throw the door open dramatically and unashamedly
others lock the door and keep it locked
some of us had to pull ourselves out, kicking and screaming and fighting the whole way
some of us still have one foot in the door
some of us still visit it, sometimes

we all know what it's like behind the door
it's where we learn to hurt
it's where we learn to hide
it's where we learn to love
it's where we learn anger, and fire, and fight
it's home and it's not
it's scary and it's dark but it's there where we learn
to make our own light
to be our own light
that we can shine and we can glow no matter what the world beyond the door may say

"love is love is love is love is love is love is love is love, cannot be killed or swept aside"

happy national coming out day to all of us, everywhere

maybe we met and I , I forgot.

I am unashamedly Ashley. At least that's what "hellopoetry" calls me. Tumblr calls me "vesperoflove", but if you really knew me you'd drop off the glitz and just call me "Ash".

And here we are sitting on the subway and something about you makes me want to open up. Maybe it's the way you smile or the wrinkles you get when you are trying not to. But I look into your eyes and you hold my gaze, and I like that. You aren't staring at me like I am worthless piece of trash nor have you look at me like I am a piece of ***, you are just looking into my eyes. I am flattered by the attention, I might stumble over words, and your interest might even cause me to blush. You ask to sit by me and I wave you in, and that's where this new chapter begins.

"Hi." I say working up the nerve to meet your gaze,and I blush, I am the abscence of your color and I stare down at my legs and as you rearrange yours to accommodate the length of your logs extensions of your long trunk, I note the contrast in appreciation.

And I get distracted by this, but you are asking me questions about my life and I try and dredge up silver lining in monotony of years.

    What have I done exciting?
    What do I hope to accomplish?
    Where do I see myself in the next five years?
    What do I want?
And that is only the tip of the Iceberg you have thrown in my lap.

Coming off as an host of a talk radio show, I ponder these illuminating thoughts.

And your probably not the first person to ask me these things, but right now its like I have never been truly asked.

I don't know why I haven't asked these things of myself.

But cargo doesn't ask or question. And maybe that's how I have been living my life.

Merely reacting to things that have happened in the past and in the present.

I would like to blame it on my poverty mindset. On the way I grew up. But then when does my accountability start.When do I get to make choices for me, and be held responsible.

At the age 18 when I can rent ****, buy stick de cancer?

What age do we become our own person, driven by our own desires?

But you aren't worried of the questions I haven't begun to ask and I like that.
I lean in closer hoping to gauge you reaction in your eyes.
I am known and you see me not as I am but what I could be and all the things I have yet to achieve do not mar your rose color glasses.

I find joy in the kindness of strangers and reprieve.

This title, this challenge,
Has rested uncomfortably in IPad memory,
Storage unit for Poems Needing Composition,
Unwritten, unanswered, needy for resolution.

Today is a good day to answer.

You are the pause between my breaths,
A ledge to rest on, a stepping stone,
Without you, there is no next one.

You are audience faithful,
Scribbles, wordplay, jokes horrible,
Official Storer/Inspiration Sorcerer of my unending script.

You are shy critic, unwavering,
Deft, with feminine oversight,
Knowledgable proven, when silence, best.

You overfill my AM coffee cup,
The mug that advises sagely,
Be calm in you heart.

You overfill my PM  cup nightly,
Knowing that even tho, can't sing or dance,
I need to, can do, can't do w/o you.

So lest, mistaken grievous,
You think, highly erroneous,
This poem is NOT about me babe,

This poem is entitled,
You,
How Much, Owed,
You.

Lest the answer be poetically muddled,
On this day, perfect weather, perfect clarity,
Unashamedly Everything.


Sept. 15th 2012
In bed, 8:22 am
NYC

---------------
Addendum June 29th 2012
This old soul loves you more. He cannot believe his good fortune,
This June, this one more perfect afternoon, my heart importunes,
Love my poetry like I love thee, and we will have the most
Perfect Union

Unabashedly Public (return of the babies; my broken ribs, Zenith poem)


~for Sue Huff~

“unabashedly public,” the accusation,
causes me no blushing consternation
for it’s true, no secret kept worse, than this,
my sleeves, all outside-stained, heartfelt red,
the poems hide so little, with exception of my multifarious,
multivariate, semi-secret identities y’all mostly ferret out

“had no plans to look you up,”
but you kept sending selected of the eldest children,
even from 2012, I remember an afternoon well,
the odors, the food, my friend Al, now passed,
who made me think, indeed,
where do the poems come from?

a bequest to my eldest, who still never calls,
never writes, but will call me for help when
he finds himself in jail, or needs my (car) services;
its been a couple of years, but suspect time
is on my side, life makes needs, those **** happenstances,
that are never happy, but require your lawful presence

and on and on,

men & women, discovered, by their poetry reveled, revealed,
in thigh highs and backhoes, keepers of tortuous promises,
doing the quiet way, always asking, what’s the honorable thing,
all uncovered here, and secret sharers, these poets grab a holt
of my eye ducts, gifting insights that my brain tearfully inquires,
how did they know that bout me, these new kin and kindred?

my broken ribs?

the knowers know i am a summertime creature.
What they do not know, that on the last day
on where I summer shelter, a thin ring, a tree ring,
appears around my chest, marking my annualization,
some rings thick, thin, a year of seasons, all at different paces,
a year of rain & pain, thicker, slower did it pass

What they do not know, these fateful poets, all of my one faith,
these rings deep go, beyond the surface, constricting contractions,
they tighten, squeezing the lungs, slowing the breadth of my breath,
breaking ribs, reminder to write better, now that time is shortening,
labored breathing is a breathtaking experience, do, be better, chances for kindnesses lessened, why hide, time to be unashamedly public

had no plans to write today, especially this one, but circumstances
of my added-on circumferential measurement appearing, triggered by y’all sending me my poems of long ago, played mind-gotcha, this rambling emerged, to celebrate my being nearer to thee, thee, my passing, nearer than thee, this, me old-crust pieces, cutting the mouth’s soft-inside, inside softness, place where weeping & writing
leak on the poem tongue directly

to live in harmony with the
unending quests that yet, always need doing,
all in, are you, am I, awaiting your best attentions,
giving you thy own reparations, given to yourself;
if this then be my own equinox, autumnal equinox,

when the sun is at zenith, directly above,
the equator, this then my reparation, my

                                          Zenith poem**


9/24/19 12:15p

I told you that you kissed like you were in a hurry.
and that sounds bad
because everything's always in a hurry,
especially trains and people and heartbeats
especially the eventual wane of affection
and we both know that heaven forbid
our kisses should have an expiration date
when that inevitable phase chisels down
and god forbid
our kisses should be the cause

but that's not what I meant.
I meant
you kiss like you mean it
and I've never been kissed with meaning.
you kiss like the world is on your lips
you kiss like that excited feeling that you get
when one is on a train and hurtling towards a destination and the train could never go fast enough.
you kiss with your hands and your eyes and your voice like silver
you kiss like nothing could stop you,
as if your personality could kick down doors.

you know what, **** it.
I'm not going to pretend like I'm an articulate person.
all I know is that I've been floating around all day,
kissing people's cheeks
and grinning to myself
and feeling my heart flutter
because I get to see you all over again
and kiss you
and I've never been this unapologetically, unashamedly happy in my life.
and everybody can see it written all over my ******* face,
but I don't give eight cares about them.