I come from a place
you had to hustle for a date,
words were chosen not for
their rhyming
but for survival,

in this land a kid had to be a man
from ten, had to learn words to keep
him breathing,
and his family was a crackhead mom, a different
dad for all ten
of us

A diaper , you learned to steal for your
baby sister and put it on her, mom was gone dads all
wherever, hustle was taught young,
because we had to eat.

So we all ran for the man. Made a buck
and a good shiny pair of Nikes.
fed  our siblings and ran from the enemies.
Who were everywhere.

Is that America. We are Free?
Are the young condemned by
survival of the fittest?
Give me a break, politicians
corrupt as the ministers
who feel the need to get rich and feel the children up.

We learned young to cook rice and a rock.
Took what we took to get by. And were took also,
into a hopelessness, of society .

I got my first gun at thirteen. A man I thought it made of me.
Most likely , I will die before twenty.
So, who then will change the diapers?

form forms a bubble around the most profound things
tension keeps most out and that keeps the surfactant surface round
like a dogwood blooming or a twig dripping
dewdrops in the morning
or an insane writer performing acrobatic bounces
on the surface of the paper trampoline
trying to figure out
Rorscach ink blots forming images
on his memory
bouncing round in similes
metaphors trying his patience to the limits
finding balance on the paper thin
edges
the finite experiences
his imagination pushing him
to every limit

Can you tell me please,
Who the **** finds it a breeze
To scan poems in several identities
Just to minus all the
Comments?

in presence of you
in presents given me
which in modesty or not
I get on one knee
whether my religion
is non- conforming
to yours I see
all given as presents
of a spirit to me
I give thanks
to God
no matter
his religion.

I only gave it to you
    so one day
I could take it back.
    The proverbial Indian
giver, I send out smoke signals,
    I await in my teepee
poetry coming back.
    Smoke signals from you.

can I love and trust and smile and cry
all at the same time
might my limits be love trust and a smile wide as eternity
I don't like crying
I hate Forrest Gump
it makes me buy a box of Kleenex every hundred times
I've seen it.
Where crying comes in I often get all
emotional, tear in my beer sort of ****.
I like to be the one in a party watching sad movies.
TEAR CHECK!  I yell!
right after I wipe my eyes clean.
but crying is needed
I guess
and it's not reserved for sadness
lately
I've had a lot of happy tears shed
and I guess
again
tears are
needed
to  cleanse
I haven't washed  
my face for days
and tears feel kind of good
\

Appreciation amid glorious people
They sound speak resound
Fantastically
Ah and we are just as they say
In the grand sphere
Of poetic masterpieces  just
Amateurs
When if you read much
Feel
HP poets are masterpieces
Writhing psalms odes
Songs and heartfelt
Artworks daily
As poets are defined by effort
Heart and good designs
I know no place
Other where all these
Parts exist in better people.
I am often lack in
Saying or plussing or recognizing
This very fact.
HP poets are the best.

bring no sad song here or near
our haven darling
no cold winds
just the silken folds
the smile I first saw those lips
the woven truths of love's first bliss
blushing through
the first soft kiss
of lips
on mine

1   vowel
lies
no constrictions indicating syllabic peaks
like a
dot.

1  consonant
is
basically nasally flowing
pronounced at the front of the
tongue.

Both,
equally,

refer to letters of the alphabet.

correspond to sounds made ******
all along our way.

but, all vowels and consonants
without hearing their relevance.

are
deaf
and

dumb.

Let a company that according to an article on Yahoo, "reported net profit of 620.1 million through Feb. 1, 2014" paid their CEO, some poor soul named Ronald Sargent, " 10.8 million in total compensation", let's stand by when they say in response to our president's comments about how they limit their employees to 25 hrs a week, "Unfortunately, the president appears not to have all the facts".....
let all of America work no more than 25 hrs, I am ******, so companies and rich CEO's and all the rich investors can get richer while their employees suffer. American way?
The president had plenty of facts for me.

Boycott Staples Inc.

found she had broken in
was naked but for my dress shirt
unbuttoned but covering her shoulders
on my bed
reading  my copy of Dostoevsky

I had the NY Times in my hand
the cigarette burnt down
my finger like a
reminder to wake up
let it burn

pain had left my being
blonde and sweet , not the blonde of Marilyn
Bridgette but the sanctified
sweet of Faye Dunaway , smoke lingered

wafted tobacco and burnt flesh simmering
told her, anytime, didn't expect this,
she paid me  no attention acted
or read like she was engrossed

in the greatest thoughts of social reform
or the realisms of crime and punishments
maybe debating socialism and capitalism
there naked in my shirt

taking the novelists cue I undressed
laid down acting casual worldly when
she asked me the oddest  question
you like  Dostoevsky

we debated the rest of the day week
night dark and days bright
she left such a sweet scent
on my shirt

the window she busted has never
been fixed

What is but should not be
         passed on is
                War
so when we coil aggressively into a
       double helix bond
             covalently
If we think of Love and Peace
        while reproducing
               Would
our child be a new generation
           without the
               instinct
         inborn to ****?

tell me where you go remember
my eyes as you do
make everyday better in words
call me sometimes
we grew together
that day I liked your poem
that sounded like Whitman reincarnated
the pond like Walden might peruse
you wrote about the reeds
fishes
the eastern side of the pond
and it touched me
like fire in a kiln
I got hardened
more shiny
more aware of life
and love and sacrifices
you have brought me here
to that pond the edge
I look down and now see
all that you have described more beautifully
a thousand miles letters seem to bring us closer together
than ever
and not anything
can ever
make me stop dreaming

calm the beautiful blue mornings, green calm growing pastures
I meditate passionately viewing, white visions floating on
until some afternoons, on a horizon unexpectantly, out of the prettiest
cyan grows grey storms.
Heat builds, rises rapidly condensing moisture,  particles charge,
cyan dims to black; the world arises angrily.
Me and the sun hide hidden, the dark horizon growls. Flashes,
and thunder roils on awakening fears.
When she calms down, I meekly peek again, see a peaceful cloud and cyan
calmness.
Summer calm   blue green.
Red blonde clouds blowing free.
Again.

Bach's "little fugue"
            played while figure eights
whistled in my head,
               along with mathematics
to an un-equilibrium point
           where self-confidence
meets self-doubt.

So, in
illusions created by the exact same demons
that saw the bottom from the top
and the   pope as part of a conspiracy,
I created a theory, and ended in a padded room.

I painted spots on walls not assimilating
anyone others works,
became my own victim,
committed to rationality
while acting eccentrically.

Visions came to me, I sought refuge in them,
things I saw the real world calls bug-brained.

There I envisioned the cosmos as a limit imposed
on one's relation to self. I saw the dynamics of  human conflict
as interludes of forced sanity.

I went as quick as I came.

forced into what I don't want to do
I enjoyed the chorus arranged in my head.
Like a game between people I don't understand.

I sneak into Princeton and proved the existence of God. in red sneakers unaware my theory was economic realism.

Then I rejected voices.

And won the Nobel Prize.

It is the few that truly matter
the who whom  look at the wounds
after the woodpecker visits
or spread petals for a hummingbird
with ADHD
Ripe are mulberries
sweet are the cherries
If they pick through limbs already
raided by Mockingbirds.
Feel the tremors left
if you look into the sunset you see wavy
that is the shock waves spreading out
diffusing the flames
the heat of the day

fair the view of me . You.
Innocent,
like young squirrels,
crossing the road getting
Squashed.
Birds all from their nests,
not a lot of them fly.
Nature is pretty
brutal in her ways, but fair,
to feed the hawk or coyote
the rabbit is good nourishment.
And we think
cute
is an owl so beautiful.

from 1000 to zero
back again
I count
from zero to 1000
see
compounding integers
surround me make me numb
but
intervene into my
insanity.
Gives me a tangent a sine
to keep my mind
busy.
I seem to count
infinitely.

none of the editors reside in my head
nor does a matrician's need to coddle
sidestep
be nice
when I see ****** I say that is
******
have no points in the bank for guile
for correctness
for matters are fact
attitudes solid concrete I can see
like windows    on the Trump tower
just hiding ****
brevity usually my habit
and preference
but at times I get windy
flatulent
****** me off when, shew!!               it happens alone
I love to share

green boughs yellow leaves glistening sun glancing from streams
leading to  red roses yes thorns prickling wild berries
generously feed us fields flowing yellow goldenrod
crimson sunsets glowing silver moons
trembling we lie under holding dreams in hands the temples
promised by me to you our earth under us, I give,
A new sun a horizon of scented freedom
with me and you
and nothing else meaning a thing.
A dawn on this horizon,
dew drops a visage,
a nature never
visited
by any romance
before.

any word
she sent her roots into my spring
it took sweat and days of work
to cut her down

for me to ***** out
of her limbs
take her naked winter
around

to the side of the river
overlooking the valley below
many days of toiling sweat
to work and tame her

split her hew and splice her
into my roof my walls my shelter
place her pieces as rafters to hold the
cold out the rain at bay

she never cried, nor protested
I felt like I was ****** nature.
She made me home.

oh, with witty words
you tell the tales of
trees and birds,
comparing them with human beings

And, how so blithe
one may be, charmed
or harmed,
speak the inspirations of heaven's grace

with obvious skill, among
the wisest to ever wield
a word,
can I ask of you, one question?

If you have all the answers,
Sir, poet of noble appeal,
why do you cloak
all the answers in riddles?

Biologically
a composition of
cytoplasmic fragments of melanophores
self-centering
their microtubule polarity
  reverses
when severed
  outward
from that center
located arm central
implicating
their pigment containing
cells
  red white yellow
black
  are so much like us.
We are not chameleons,
  though,
we need luminescent bacteria
  to breed
under our skins,
  then-we will all
glow together.

just wait one minute
the theory of art
can it be like VanGogh's
stars be monumental
for the sake of drama ,
is the winsome guitar in my favorite song
just  a prop in this play
of a rock opera?
Can it be art is just a
short way of saying artificial?
Does my heart sing her song
play a song of ethereal  longing just for a
effect?
And does art
in her theory stand for artificial , is my sight
so shortsighted?

to the honey-
  (buzz)
here to there
   rose!
dandelion
   humming-
                       swaying
    relaying
pollen.

The Daisy
                 stands
awaiting her visit.
    All
her petals unfolded,
worlds
          sweetest scents,
   the bee
visits.

Ever wonder where  a cowboy's stares  
lead him looking off into all those sunsets,
those puffy clouds on the range
arranged in crimson glory,
he feels , but,
puts on his cowboy hat,
and hides his eyes and dreams

He looks off, a song humming,
recalling a girl so long gone,
expresses his toughness, by that tear you never see.
Rides alone the prairies, him and his steed.

His dusk is all life long. He is tough, granted.
He has a poem inside, tearing him apart.

And, keeps on riding.

that pain ****** me
  off strikes me right in my face
I so want your ellipsis
  all around my tangents
the fighting gets
   into my veins
makes me
       brave drunk want
to approach the touching
   manifold in a vector
you may not realize
infinitely close to
   crossing the line of the
curve becoming a secant
  chord ripping through geometry.

Remember Pops?
I mentioned him in #1.
He is black, 82 going on 29.
A heart of gold and hide thicker than an old oak.

Well, the old ****, just left me here in his rental trailer
installing a new floor in a bathroom. He had to go get a quickie,
I aspire to be so spry when I am 29.

Anyhow, when we were riding to Lowe's in Enterprise, to get the vinyl,
for his *******, Sirius(tm? trademark whatevr) was playing
Muddy Waters, and Pops
drove past all the way to Opp cause we were engrossed in his story about a black cat bone. Geechee people and Tennessee lore.

We turned around in Opp and headed back to Enterprise, thinking about that black cat being boiled alive and one bone floating upstream.

My best friend shares all her toys.
She doesn't play with the older boys.
On rainy days,
we play inside.
hide and seek-
(I'm smiling now,)
and I- spy,
are our two most favorites.

I cry on the days
she tells me she can't
come out to play.

perhaps,
a secret Soviet
double latte
ordered
on what was supposed to be the
"secret" channel?

Promoting desire
   lascivious ***** lewd
hot lubricious

would I be any happier
safe to say maybe, yet my babay
tapped my window unexpectedly
so through my blinds there arose an expectation.

There in between slats i saw her smiling,
better than a straight flush, or Aces full,
I bet my luck had changed.
I called her bluff, my luck ain't the best you know,
and she said open  your ******* door!

I said, trying to act cool , hell!   hold on! I was asleep.
Give me a minute. She replied " that's all you got".
I walked to the door her remark echoing, might she mean,
what I fear.

When I opened it, she had someone else with her.
She had in her hand, a small being. The prettiest kitten I have ever seen.
All snowy white pristine innocence
my thoughts turned to tears
and that's why I love my babay so!

along the well travelled road by the side of hwy 92
in Alabama , I took the long way getting here,
most mysterious days I spent on hallucinogenics
back in Michigan a long ways from here
many years ago spent liquor fueled nights
with all the Tourist girls in Ft. Walton Beach,
Andalusia is where I thought I had
settled down, with wife and kids.
gave Denver a whirl back in the
Disco days,
Then I found Clayhatchee, sort of a resting place,
for my Endorphin lacking mind to rest. Found there,
I did, a sort of calm, no shortages of drama.
Everyone knowing you, talking , I heard so much
of every other person living here, all their ***** laundry,
how could I not fit in?
As soon as I unpacked I was involved with everyone's ex,
at least in the rumors, had all the old hardlegs jealous.
Hell, I may move again, to New Mexico. Or just stay here,
and call them all loco as I dial my phone, for some
more endorphins.

My little English unstable friend,
Wobbling out of sidewalks onto streets, that lead to nevers
Alleyways and deadends
Along the wharf the parkway bends
The sailor has been thus way forever,
But you are but a drunken carpenter,
Your legs are accustomed to roofs and hallways, the legs get all wobbly on
This stream and even some astute drunken sailors have drowned, but keep up stumble on ways into the blackness become a floating warning
Come tomorrow morn, lad.
You know.
The faults of all are envy lust and too much broth at the bar,
The bar, the bar  down on
Wharf avenue.

I am ink faces and paper traces
vowels and consonants arranged
in molecules and red splotches
vascular and musculature
an anthem to all of us.
Homonym hymn religious
syllables silliness
nouns non- meaning
me
I am composed and disarrayed
like an alphabet scattered into a wind .
A Bic pen running out , skipping,
writing, for a lack of paper on the back of
poems written before,
I need a Quill and inkwell,
one thousand trees
to reach my destiny.

after six weeks of ***** laundry piling up
after six pack after
six pack, a hit or two along the way, I smell like ****....
like a homeless man left on the park bench's seat.
have no more direction than to get another
six pack, hit,  ******* under the overpass.
The bad taste left in my mouth
tasting like camel ****,
asphalt chewing on walls of cement-
Lucky I have anything, am not in the big city,
the sun not blocked by tall sky scraping businesses,
no taxis nor big crowd of loneliness rushing,
I am the only homeless man here.

marjorie farmer originally shared to poets of g exlib (Discussion):

I would like to share the most memorable poem I ever heard with all here at poets of g exlib:

Trees       by:  Joyce Kilmer

I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the sweet earth’s flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose ***** snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

the ultimate masterpiece
   of soft flesh perfection
an ideal of creation

where life meets
   conception
form fits function

life breathes anew
    softly
then rages in cries

heard loudly
    of deities
of Goddesses

of galaxies brightness
    dimming
in awe

marrow and bone
     clothed
in eternal gloriousness

standing as
     God  
made her

for the flowers
     moons
man to absorb

for life to have
     hope and
eternal glow

Breathing down my neck
are the judgements of other people.
Many are kind, some flattering,
but they paint a picture
not necessarily true.

But, I still feel
their victorious panting-
hotly on my neck.

They label and file me away,
as I label and file you.

let's cry together shy
for all the souls who are
gonna die
not knowing
the beauty of the forest glen
the fair shine of an evening sun
the smoke of fire
the mountains shoulder
the sea's vapor or
a young deer wild
loose upon the prairie
a goat baying
a horse gallop between their thighs
a river cold wash
their cares
away
the lover's paradise
that joy of a child that comes
when they look at you like god hisself
a new day unfolding
where dread or misdeed
gets put away in bright yellow
praise for
this is just another day
dead have seen as much
poets have felt
stroked
the felt of that fur
called forth to the God's the Earth's majesty
so much better
yet
it is until
I die when
I will shut up
and quit trying
to capture
this life
as well
as enjoy
it
in the meantime
let us
cry together

I ate a gnat
then spat
sat
down
digesting that
what
had happened
when
a fly flew
up
my
***

and tickled
so
I farted
blew him
to
three
or four parts.

Then,
thinking
all was
done,
a Beagle
came and bit my
ankle.

I snatched him
earless.

Then to my dismay an
Eagle came and said,
"god ******, we are just hungry"

He snatched my thumb and flew away
into the frigid night
with my digit.
I now sit here,
twaddlin'

what was  in the longest sleep I have ever had?
dreams of mistletoe or camels
the brunch with the Dalai Lama
or George Harrison's hair
in my hands,
and had I any dream?
I don't know....
just rest
for me,
a quiet peace.
a piece of God.

Threw a stone
watched the ripples
heard the splash
the echo endless
i touched the stone
made water blissful
watched alone
felt
the rage sinful
saw wave after
wave after
wave
wash me down

crochet me a doily
I can wear as a hat-

intricate dainty and soft,

knit me a pair of spats-
pink-
I can wear on my mocassins,


sew me some cute *******
crotchless are best.

For I am getting tired of
acting tough.

Spare me the ***** hose, so
restricting, and until I take hormones,
the uplifting bra from Frederick's,
is useless.

teach me , though, how to apply mascara,
I  just painted my ear hair black.

to tree limbs
to mountains
to forefathers
from your gloom

reach for the heavens
grateful
for nature shows you

look up in the darkest sky
and stars sparkle

wishing I had just gone fishing
instead of drinking
sank a worm in the pond
I didn't so I am thinking
of you

finishing another round
now getting logical again
a song comes into my head
I can't find the name of it
you drown

me on the end of a hook
in the pond and mesquite
swirling river of Tequila
like a cricket
in a bream's mouth

hungry on the bottom
of the creek

it is a wonderful world
out there somewhere
where brethren plead
for love and peace again
and woodstock rises it's head above
Manson
where corporate greed
individualism
can be not replaced
but added to by societal caring
where the
farmers have enough to share
the workers are well rewarded
the banks feel empathy
and government is us
where the times have changed Bob
to where no one among us not the poorest
goes without
where the wealthy
keep their
mansions
porches and yachts
their mar-a-lagos
but have hearts , too.
In any swing a long way one way
comes the other way around eventually
and I see
from this hard right way up narcissismic and me
pendulum
a hard swing back to peace signs
a rebound in flower covered
VW buses and
sit-ins
and flowers
in guns.

when I close my eyes
   feel right through my toes
is the best
               that song that claims my heart
makes the tear run from my eye
                I feel inside
whether I understand or not
      just plays
again again listening
   after all the echoes
are my feet,
                tapping

seemed like a live concert in my trailer park
"Hey Jude" rattled every thin window here.

Blue lights flickered, as all my neighbors called 911,
I was overpowered with emotion,

No one could hide as I next played, on my Christmas present
( 10000 watt amplifier made by JVC)

"Let it Be" and heard na na na and sacred chords loud
through Bose's best.

I almost heard the cop when he yelled, but did not hear any thing, after he tasered  me, except for all my neighbors cheering keeping time with sirens and Na na na.

I heard in handcuffs and spasms, "My Guitar gently weeping"