~~~

someday soon gonna reread
the four figures of my
poems over lifetime inked,
divvy  them up by what each is about,
assemblage of
the themes of me

review the who what when and weird
of this guy through his own eyes
multiplying confessions
of graces and disgraces

particular to recover,
desirous of collecting those poems that:

valorize society’s strugglers
and stragglers...humans doing the work of living^

don't know how many will be uncovered,
but here's hoping there are plenty,
needy of recovery and uncovering the poet
and worthy of pointing too,
valuation markers of a
decent human

strugglers, stragglers,
those from all over this world
and lives that can only visualize
no-horizon-in-sight oceans
sailors, from ports unvisited,
some even, still undiscovered,

working ****** and women,
not those,
don't owners
of fancy dress whites,
topped of by jaunty angelic-angled caps

the ones I sought and seek,
grime and coal dust etched into
every ****** crevice, ink under fingernails,
in obscurity, toil in windowless engine rooms,
in the nooks in libraries hiding,
satisfied with
a moment of glory,
and a lasting
hand upon
their wracked minds

these are my mates,
sharing fates
of woeful countenances
of bruised bodies,
recipients of hardest blows repetitious,
comrades in open arms

the unflavored, unfavored of
sons and daughters,
unblessed with sobs and smacks,
who rare lift the head in hope

the sufferers of ignominy
of the
prison of their existence,
for those I write,
have, will, and willing

to do it till I see a
chin rising, white of eyes gleaming,
a hand delisted,
arms defused of black weights

come to me,
words, encouragement, perspective,
that this too shall pass

believing ain't easy,
take it from one who couldn't see
happy endings, but had no choice but
to choose to,
now prepped, ready
for my arms to do some serious uplifting,
shoulders heavy-loaded and wide of loads,
eager for honest work,
aiding and abetting
the stragglers and and stragglers...
humans doing the work of living,
deserving for valuation,
awaiting their salutation,
and relief, even if,
tiny and small,
a slim volume of poems,
that but one
poet
provided

Your grace is your illusion
that occupies a pride of place
in your tiniest cocoon
where the light of logic
is conspicuous by its very absence.


Distinctive scars in my mind
are the veiled references to your
true intention,
you wiggle your emotion to the limited tunes of your obtrusive charade without a smidgen of shame.


Your idiosyncrasies don't yet
reach farther, but well-known to me,
no prophylactic for your
inveterate narcissism
as the pesky bugs in your callous heart can't digest compunction.


You can preen your
deceptive feathers to hold sway
on the docile mind,
you can gloss your silver plated words to hide your rusty conscience,
you can cry wolf to valorize
your stale heart.


Yet, the conceivable future
is not far when the pressure of your pompous pride will whiff
the smell of truth
exploding your cocoon throwing you into the reality to groan with repentance,
then only my each scar
will find a reason to be forgiven.