The young poetess^ writes:

Sitting on the edge of brilliance,
that cuts my youthful pride to shreds,
are the verbal shards of bards,
poets, beyond my experience.

Expelling their lifeblood,
I can, but only,
place my hands upon
their open wounds
murmuring hopeful platitudes,
praying that their blood spilled,
is not their excellence drained,
their wisdom wasted and stained!

The old hoary replies:

Wishful thirsty drinkers
from the cups of youth are we.

We 'presumed' ancient bards
have lived to regret the
burden of our accumulations,
the weightiness of our pages,
owning insights, steeped,
fermented, wine-to-vinegar,
spoiled by age, time-wasted.

Our words, product of visions
grown dim and simp,
under no duress,
we-eager confess!

Better poets were we,
when possessed of
blood hotter, skin smoother,
brow clearer, innocent of fear!

Your eager cuts run
zesty red and freely,
Ours, clotted ones,
anemic, yellowed from
the curse of the boundaries
of too much experience,
purchased pricey rules,
murderers of our uninhibited courage.

You cogitate with
passions unlined, unruled.
We shuffle, bemoan
our drizzling days,
waiting for relief,
and yet, rue
our inevitable conclusion.

We curse our fate, our slow dissolution.

You bless the opportunistic rising sun,
enervated by energies unbounded,
You animate for answers, solutions!

We sit caned and quiet, acidic,
damning Solomon and his caustic words -
There is nothing new under the sun.

Perhaps we know a word or two more than you.
Gladly we'd trade that for youthful hands
that pray, point and scribe, with the eagerness
that sets words upon paper of spirits enflamed!

Time, our master, has shred our writs to pieces,
yet, you young poetess, greet the morn, confident, saying
**today I will give birth to the first of many, masterpieces.

I want you
like I long
for a return
to myself
as if
to enter
my own
psyche in a
a single lit-up
journey, its
incandescence
led only by
pure breath alone
thoughts out of
bounds as
they fly off
unknown
into the night,
fulfilling
thick waves of desire
dreams in vibrations
love in realms
      higher
the cells weaving skin
go so much deeper
a craving for
a force
uncontrollably sweeter
and I know
that I am intense
with it, like that
but I would not
want it
any other way
for in this
weightiness of emotion
it's the weightlessness
       that stays
a breaking down
of barriers
that ultimately leads
to letting ourselves
open like blossoms,
to see and to be seen
for what is
heaven
but a soul recognition
revealing innermost depths
by our own volition
It is a return
to the lull
of the subaqueous rhythms
to the instincts of pre-birth
          of subconscious decisions
blood knots twisted
                     into the cord
                               of the heart
                       linking its beats
                     to a light-infused
                  spark
sealing the deal
without drowning,
your heart beats into mine
soul within soul
in connection, divine
For the inner eyes
              see in colors
beyond usual hues
and from my
innermost womb
shines a most
beautiful
                  view

My Heart is Drenched in Why’s

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

climb to my listening post,
poet-on-the-roof, willing every step,
climb way up to the top of the stairs,
entrance marked POETRY, courtesy
of the bldg. super, an olden friend,
a concerned citizen, humorist, human,
somedays nurse to his corona haloed tenants.

the view of the ******, not laudatory, visible in a 360  degree perspective is of city grunched, scrunched,  covered in
in silent spoke poems, overused views, words that don’t change
a thing, for my heart sees only dimly, being that my disheartened
vision is drenched, diminished, disabled by and in why’s.

ask seer~super what rhymes with why, smiling, an instantaneous poetry helper, having created, an officiel expert, as in everything, reply’s  “why, why most famously rhymes with, why, everyone knows is try!”

so I try, three times, try, try, try again to puzzle
why, my heart is drenched in magenta,
who has willed this, not I, my distilled voice,
wants, does roof shout, but try as I might,
the reverb of unanswered is the slap of more
drenching, quiet silencing, and the weightiness
of too many weightless words returned stamped
“no forwarding address, and we know not why.”

I suppose that contemplation of things is the true prerequisite of Art
Then
Let feathers of winged creatures hold my gaze in their layered order
Let the vegetation’s whispers creep into my ears and plant gardens in my mind:
Let willows whisk my weightiness away
Soft, dangling leaves brushing kisses across my shoulders
Let the tips of my fingers grasp pieces of the sky and
pull them closer to my eyes
Let me examine them like shards of glass
Let rain feel like thunder
and lightning look like cloudbursts
The personality of a storm
inherited in its natural phenomena: elemental manipulations
My eyes upturned,
My lips soaked in sky water
I taste the cyclone
Let me breathe in the mist hovering amidst canopic leaves
Let negative space become positive:
purple shadows ascending from the bleakness of their Definition
Objects themselves bowing, and stepping backstage:
Let the Shadows Shine for a moment
And let me see it
Let the mysteries of nature hold my mind’s gaze
and
Let me paint them

These grim moments,
reoccurring  untowardly.
Thoughts take turns in my head.
Like a whirlwind,
entrapping every atom of joy'
in its enclave.

Void depression,
Steal these priceless gems away.
I scoff at my foolishness,
and sometimes at my existence.
Longing,
reaching out to a raging storm,
to wipe out every thought.
To set my captivated soul
free.


All,
yes,
all must depart.
For their roots scream evil.
Some sinister,
others negative,
dark.
None shall I retain,
no one.
For like a riptide,
they reach out to swallow me,
into non-existence.
For their sakes,
I dwell in  this world, entrapped.
As though my sorrows may never dry.
As one with whom troubles, have been assigned to reside.
Like my sun might never rise.
Like the moon,
stealing over the sun's shine,
has left my hands, paralyzed with depression.

A void nothingness.
Enthusiasm, has been  pointed out,
a culprit,
to the dwellers of my heart.
Nothingness,
empty nothingness.
Sadness,
free of weightiness.