did not know her when she was miniskirts and high heels,
before she converted to the one true religion of
poetry & yoga

some stray dog thots raveling in a pack
cross the not-even-6am brain that alternates tween
new day Adam apple crumb crisp and
distracting lascivious Eve ones

I,
would have loved you same back then,
no different than now

I,
write in different styles
under so many pseudonyms,
but it is the same man

I,
who crawls into bed nightly with
great expectations and a list of salutations
to wake you up and commence writing how

I,
love your poetic yoga-toned long legs
snaking between mine
while I imagine them in miniskirts and high heels
which is a long way round of saying

You,
alone, my darling forever young one,
are my
one true religion...

Some of us here, write about hope while others write about pain.
Some of us here, write about love and that which keeps us sane.

Others write about Death and the souls she just adored.
Penning out their sorrow, the mournful cries strike a chord.

Then are those who write about things and faces that they know.
Describing perfect places, landscapes wrought with snow.

Me? I'm just here venting, it's a need. This urge to write.
Cut off my hands, if you please. I'll bleed a novel out of spite.

one would think these old owls might have learned
a hoot of wisdom, and shut off the bright lights,
concisely concession con-seceded to the simple *******
of the union of the night and moon, its sleep crowning ownership
of these particular hours

let me not false claim that I speak for all the grandfathers,
nor raise myself as a caesar among them,
for there are too many shrieking claimants of all knowing,
know-nothings these troubling days

no longer do we revere or agree upon
the certainty of any incontrovertible self-evident,
truths and beauty we from early ancestors inherited,
fore-seeing the risky possibilities of a freedom-less future,
a melting planet without enough air or water to be shared
for our fast contentedly, asleep babies

no, no, I speak only for myself, and those few million of grandfathers who message each other in the wee hours about silly trivial concerns that keep them awake and writing foolish poems

Where are you now, deceitful mighty lion?
Laying over your bed of thorny lies,
Letting the barbs poke and pierce you;
Deep inside your illusioned mind.

You roar as the day grows bigger in size,
I zigzag through swaying blades, freshly dewed.
Picking pointed thorns from the flesh on your side;
Just a weak, skittering mouse to your rescue.

Run and hide, before you eat me alive.
Run and hide, before you eat me alive.
I hope I die, so you can't eat me alive.

-SLuR