Simple

I'm not for pre-fixes,
I'm for love.

Not for politics' weight,
On the wings of the dove.

When push comes to push,
And shove comes to shove,

My life is not for spectacle;
My life is for love.

For You

Pixel Poets,
The well will never go dry.
The pen will break- for sure.
But the well; we’ll never go dry.

Keep it going

This is for you.
I’m writing this for you.
For you, for you, for you,
This is all for you,
You for all, and all ways
You

Keep it going

I’m saying it cryptically
Because sometimes
That’s the best way
The only way for those

Who don’t see
Who won’t see
What we see
As we see
As we can’t
Help but see…
Well, you see.

Keep it Going

Because if this means
To you
What this means
To me
Right now
Then my right now
Is gone as far as
I can tell.
So this is for you

Keep it going

I don’t know what it is.
I know it will rule your life.
I know you will be misunderstood.
Everywhere. Except here.
I get it. I’ve got it.

Keep it going

I wonder how long has gone
Since I put this down. 2018
And almost Christmas. That
Doesn’t mean much to me
Now. It didn’t mean much
To me when then was now.
But this does.

Keep it going

Once you’ve seen
The light on things
There no longer are things
Just one thing and you’re
A part of it like everyone
Else except you see it.
I’m here seeing it,
Probably there too,
But how?

Keep it going

You’re gonna hurt hard
For this, they’ll hit
You, but that’s only
Because it’s important.
The only Important.
Too important for anyone.
But you are: Someone.

Keep it going

I wish I could sit with
You awhile and know
I’m not alone in knowing.
But I am with you now,
And you are with alone;
The alone we share alone.
Now you know alone is not 
Alone: You are not alone.
I was never told directly.

Keep it going

This best life.
This only life.
Walt wrote about it.
Emily was here, too.
Ralph Waldo and Maya.
Sylvia never quite
Made it to knowing.
But you will.

Keep it going

It gets better.
Not the part
That is horrible.
No- that
Stays horrible.
You get better.
You get stronger.

You hold more.
And more will make
The empty from others
Not burst you into
Empty rooms so much.

You will march
To one empty room.
You will leave
Shame on the couch. 
You will always be
Full like you are now
Reading this.

Keep it going

Don’t make excuses.
You are necessary.
Look at these words.
You read them.
You are here.
You are necessary.

Keep it going

If you were here, we
Would laugh and talk,
Maybe go for a walk,
But we would for sure,
Share the lonely
That comes listening
To light too long
To loud to listen
To listen to look
Not any of those…

All of them
-and-
All at once.

Keep it going

The poem, the heart, the voice
That won’t quiet long enough
For you to realize you’re in love
With love and love loves a poem
Of love and the love that comes
From a poet is Love’s love direct.

Heart of the Poet!
Sing Love’s imperative!

Keep! It! Going

I’m tired.
Love won’t let me be-long
Enough to be acceptable.
There’s no other life when
Love direct has come.
You don’t stand a chance,
Rejoice in the futility
Of being Love’s choice.

Rejoice and keep
Love’s love going

One day someone will need
To know what a poet is for,
One day someone will need
To know poetry is the sweet
Cruel song that never stops
Stomping the Dance of Love.

Keep it going

Stop the song,
You stop the dance.
Don’t stop that song,
Stomp that dance.

That’s Love.

Keep it going

Love Is
Insatiable in Your Hands.
Waiting on Your Whisper.
Feasting on Your Words.
Shouting Your Divine.

Keep it going

The 51^st State

We these people, gas-masked, can't breathe,
Faces to the curb, choked out by that other
Still on about that Mr. Monochrome Maniacal:

Other Brother.

This body. This skin, I'm in.
Heard the Science Man Say:
That's not the same one you wore just yesterday.

Snowflakes and Skins have no twins.

In so many years gone by,
So many tears gone by,

You're a whole new you.

Read it right that's true.
Which Yesterday's Particle are you?
What graft grafted your You?

What piece of You did America bring You?

Every atom of Walt's grass still belongs to Me-belongs to You.
Every shoot shot new from Gettysburg's field that's You,
That's Me, too.

The 51st State, Unstated:

The heart pumps the prism, pumps the shade.
The heart bleeds every color in America.
The grass at Gettysburg is stained with bloody rainbows.

The leaves are Black and White thirsty.
The brown earth runs raw the spectrum.
The blood battle bespangled.

The battle beats the Mississippi!
Run Blood, Corre! Colored Blood, Corre!
Run Rainbow Blood! Run American Blood!

Lap up yesterday's bleed. Take Account!
Lap up the bled bedecked Bunker -no- Breed's Hill.
Lap up the insincerity in the Courthouse in Appomattox.

Kiss your own Black ass, your own White shit.
Kiss the great every color bloodstained leaf of grass.
Kiss your bought and sold two shade-soul.

The 51st State, Poetically, Unstated:

Evil never loses but lurks.
A battle won is done undone
By silent convenience.

America still belongs to you, America.
But your way still marks in twain.

So single it out.

That:
The cause of every American Hell,
Is the cleft cut in Liberty's Bell.

The 51st State, Stated:

In America:
There is too much Black.
There is too much White.
And there is not enough Color.

You Are a Someone

When the dream of who you want to be seems too big…
And the bar stretches too high for you to see.

Remember this:
If you dream to win a gold medal,
Every gold medal is won by Someone.
You are a Someone.
Why not you?

If you dream of an All-Star jersey to play on the team,
Many different Someones play on an All-Star team.
You are a Someone.
Why not you?

If you dream to lead a nation,
Every nation is led by Someone.
You are a Someone.
Why not you?

If you dream to soar through a Supernova and see the stars behind The Sun…
Someone made every impossible possible.
You are a Someone.
So why not you?

Love

I never met a dog I didn’t love...

There are dog scoundrels.

There are dog clowns.

There are dog queens.

There are dog drag queens.

There are dog elitists.

There are dog hippies.

But I never met a dog I didn’t love…

Right away.

It’s hard to love people,

The way it’s easy to love dogs.

Convinced

It was well before morning almost a year ago:

“You got to do something, you just do,

before you know it you wake up and you’re 40.”

An old memory back with the first Happy

Birthday to tell me it was right again.

It was a hotel outside of Concord, Massachusetts,

Closer to a shopping mall than Walden Pond.

But close enough to see, just yesterday at sunset,

Birds flying from the pond’s shore, where everyday

Tourists who live a few miles away were

Diving in headfirst in swim caps and goggles:

Like insects smacking into

Pages of a history book made

With sheets

Of flypaper.

Well before morning almost a year

Ago and not surprised to find

Friendship,

Loneliness,

Love,

And

What Home

Might mean,

Casting

Shadows

And

Shapes

On this hotel ceiling.

Above this hotel bed.

Covered by this hotel white

Puff comforter, full of more air

Than

Comfort.

Not surprised to turn on

My quiet flashlight,

At my customary time, and join

My intended laptop at the table,

To write about:

The

Juxtaposition

Of the birds of Walden Pond,

To this hotel so covered

In

Scaffolding

I couldn’t read its name from the street.

“You gotta do something, you just do,

Before you know it you wake up and you’re 40.”

Then a voice from 20 years ago:

“If you’re a poet when you’re 20, it’s because you’re 20;

If you’re a poet when you’re 40, it’s because you’re a poet.”

When you’re up before the birdsong,

Before the sunrise of your 40th birthday,

And it’s just another lifelong everyday

Morning that has you writing on

Friendship,

Loneliness,

Love

and,

What Home

Might mean,

And everyone you know is sleeping in a house with family,

Or under an empty comforter you just walked away from;

And they all think you’re awake

Because: You don’t need the sleep.

You are doing something,

And you most definitely,

Quite

Seriously,

Are

Convinced.

She Knows

She knows she’s going to die.
The way she watches her grandson,
Reads every word as joy.
She knows the numbers,
He’s learning to count backward,
Only go forward.

She’s smiling easy ruby ready,
Cheeked checking out,
The way he smiles
When he knows she’s smiling
Because she knows something
He’s just learned.

Happy Dancing

You did dizzy.
Then spun around
In mind and dream
Like you do in this chair.

Like you as a toddler
Your spin dance
In the center of the kitchen,

Head back,
Eyes on ceiling fan,
In twirls,

“I’m happy now!
I’m Dancing!
I’m Dancing, now!
I’m Happy! I’m Dancing!”

Hope he remembers
The joy of dizzy dances
Under a ceiling fan,

The whole wearied whirl
Around world watched
And wondered while you spun

Happiness was
As easy as
Happiness is
In an unwearied world.

Ugly Dogs

Ugly Dogs!
I freaking love ugly dogs!
I love them!

Bilateral symmetry
Kiss his:
Ugly-pugly-fugly-mugly.

Pinch his (How many?)
Chins. (How many?!)
Wonderful!

I freaking love:
Happy! Joyous!
Ugly-Ugly-Ugly

Dog snores from the couch.
Lazy eye lounges
Leers at the front door…

Soon the pizza will arrive.
Hope he gets some crust
With bubbles on it.

God’s Grace is an ugly dog’s face,
Crooked teeth sunk in bubbles on crust
Made just right for an ugly dog.

Dance in the Rain

I used to run outside at the first clap of summer thunder to dance in the rain.

The steps are easy: tilt your head back, stretch your eagle arms out, and spin.

It tastes like salt and showers and growing things.

Like Yes! Yes! Yes!
And Grow. Grow. Grow.

I miss my friends who would dance in the rain without a question, but with a look of recognition, we would bolt.

First one there gets one drop more.

Dancing in the rain was just the right thing to do.

It was the necessary thing.

But now, I’m without a dance partner.

Now, with the closeness of expectations supposed, of duties to show being done, I’ve lost the dance.

But somehow the song of it still wants a voice.

Somehow that thing with feathers still flies a short hop inside and stirs what’s left of what dreaming and passion and the immediacy of dancing in the rain can do.

Now there are headphones to dampen normal noises.

The happy wag of a dog comes from the sky like shrapnel in my back.

A cat on a counter meowing to signal the sun squeezes my burning shoulders with expectations of duty.

That same wagging dog paces in the swampy night air.

He repositions himself on the floor every few minutes to find a cooler spot to lay.

If there were a clap of thunder now, would he know the signal?

Would he go dancing with me in the rain?

Would he lift his head up and taste the pregnant potential of growing things and know what clouds might do?

Of what reckless compassion might do?

Of what dancing in the rain with a friend would most definitely do?

It will be 45 degrees cooler than yesterday when I wake tomorrow, when I walk to the kitchen to toast a frozen waffle, fill the electric teapot, and take the first pill of the day.

Home

What about the tree that made the Cross that Jesus bore?

What about such a light, on the field,
That was seen, that was His dream then?

Such a light on a tree alight some yesterday,
So far away from so far away from some yesterday.

No today, know today.
Not a light, no, not at all.

What about this staircase,
About these clouds,
About this sky-break?

What about this day,
About this hour,
About this time

That tree
His tree, wept razed?

And the clock was.
-This-
And the time was.

And The Sun was.
-That-
And The Moon was.

And The Tides were.
-This-
And The Stars were.

And The Day of
-Him-
And The Month of
-His-

And The Year of Time.

And The Weather.
And This Weather.

And the pattern of clouds.

(What was that?)that light
(What was that?) that which moved
(What did not move?) that was seen,
(What was not seen?)but was announced.

There was The Wind, that was The Air
That didn’t breathe, but burst

Open a quiet sky,
The Quiet Sky gone incandescent

For a holy way,
The Holy Way,

His New Way,
His Chosen Only Way,

Home.

The Poet

Done in -Done up- In wonder.
Worn in -Worn out- In awe.

Homeless alive in so much beauty-
Fully boxed in so much comfortable awful.

The Poet is not the sky,
But The Poet told you of Heaven.

The Poet is not God,
But The Poet told you God’s name.

Maskless

Last night-
When you lifted off your mask

I remembered.

Why the hundred poems
I wrote for you
Won't finish.

Why I don't hold
Your eyes with mine
When you ask.

Every poem
Wants all of you.

Every word
Demands you

Maskless.

So much light
Kept back from

Such a dark world.
So much light

Lifted me up
All day.

Last night
When you lifted off your mask

I remembered.

But it's almost
Tomorrow night

And it's already
One Hundred and One.

The Song Between The Suns

Where is peace of mind if you can't hear
An angels song at four in the morning?
The house asleep. The dog even annoyed
You're making so much noise.

Where is the poetry of youth?

In mid-aged men. Kept quiet too long.
In fathers in uncles in men who
Remember the dawn in their bones
Know it like Keats knew it.

Know it like a poet's calloused poet hands beat a drum
Beat-pound too many days gone by spent wondering
Where the joke had a-line-punched-a-line-foot tripped-
Tipped-line-of-poetry for what a poem does.

Where are these bard's men?
These sons men?
These up before The Dawn's men?

What begs a voice has a song!
Ears go deaf. Not the song!

Poetry plays an Angel's Plea!
Commands heartstrings!

Poets to arms!
Pixels and Pens!

Not young men!
Men. Poetry demands men.

The faint. The stout.
The fair-faced. The grizzled.

Bearded!

Some bald.
Some ribald.

Some so much round-bellied.
Some too much gym-bellied.

Homely-angelic Everyman Men.
Father lover-turned loved safer sounder.

-heart-unsung-dead-sang-

World: (here) Is what you do.
Poetry: (here) Is what is.

Young poets die from
What youth now means.

A sunrise is as neglectful as a sunset.

We awkward witness apologize for watching the first.

The second only after kids-fed days-checklists (done).
Safety-safely away an accounted.

Asked what we're doing alone with a sunset,
We say: Daydreaming lost myself for a minute.

Though we know: It was remembering the song
We never sang when we were young.

Never sang the pain of our children
Who will never sing the song of sunrise

Or say what a sunset means,
Unless we -us men- shout-sing-say it.

Now! Say it plain.

Sun-up.
Sun-down.
And in between,
I love and love.

Grown, I love more!

More than what the sun means
The promise of what lies between the suns.

The only song worth singing,
The soul song between the suns.

There's more use in a sunrise than anything at all.

The Sun is setting I'm gonna -just sit-
The Sun is rising I'm gonna -just sit-

To Hell with fingers shouting lazy.
To Hell with human ways screaming:

Ambitionless! No good! Useless!

Nothing is more useful then a sunrise.

Save Love;
Love lifts The Sun.

Black Tar Gone Gray

thin blue chalk line up on black tar
gone gray called concrete curbs
set -not reset- since The Great Depression.

where old weeds
the same weeds
new weeds grow

sometimes, though sometimes
a dandelion grows, too
sometimes, though sometimes

a kid picks it up -plucks it up-
blows the parachute cotton-
picked soft seeds to the wind

sometimes- so few times
float to full wishes fulfilled
sometimes- so many sometimes

no wind on never fall flowers, but turn flat
and press down yesterday’s gray concrete
bought old sold older worthless oldest

windless without reason why pick up
pluck up a weed and dream it something
some wonderful some-any-thing new

hopes choke on dead dandelion parachute cords
tethered to hot black tar gone gray called concrete
set -not reset- since the Great Depression.

As This Poem

This fucking world; it's so beautiful,
But the stories we tell each other.

-fuck-

I wonder if the wind that pushes the oak leaves together,
Makes them feel as uncomfortable as this poem.

Fire Dancing Freedom’s Fire

For,
Maya
Angel-
Oh!

Singed, while her house
Went up in smoke.
While her neighbors,
-numbed and dutiful-
-drummed the usual-
Clutched their masks
To cough in an elbow.

In this suffocation:

Low never knew Low,
-And-
Dark never knew Dark
-And-
Hell was a thing that chilled,
While words never knew
Their names.

-So She-

Showed them- told them,
Showed them- and told them,
Showed them- and told them,
Their names.

-Now-

Good News is Good News!

Light is Light!
-And-
Joy is Joy!

-And-

Boy! Oh, Boy!

This Soul,
Is: This Soul,
That’s met,
Joy, who is

Joy!

And the fire burns.
And the fire warms.
And the soul’s name,
Is spoke with Freedom.

Prescott Park

People stop to smell the flowers in gas masks.

I wonder who keeps the Mayflowers at Prescott Park,
Wonder who keeps the Marigolds on Marcy Street.

I wonder at the Mayflowers at Prescott Park,
Wonder how they stay and go year to year.

I wonder of Plymouth down the coast,
Wonder of Mayflower landings to our land.

This Land.

"A rock don't do much; don't grow."
A mouth-masked kid said.

How many Mayflowers drift into Prescott Park?
How many wind glide and set down seeds each new May?

I wonder how many minutes and myths make a Plymouth rock grow.
Wonder if the scent and sense of flowers in May can ring memories

Through blue masks, of the scented and sensible ways
Of Marigolds and Mayflowers, in May, on Marcy Street.

Todos

Todos estamos un poco locos.
Todos tenemos un poco de genio.

Lo que no está en los libros,
La vida le enseñará a tú corazón.

Tu locura viene de la melodía del alma.
Tu genio viene de tú devoción a su canción.

Baila tú corazón.
Canta tú alma.

El latido del corazón de todos es un baile.
La sonrisa de todos canta una canción.

El mundo entero habla el mismo idioma.

Si quieres la atención del mundo:

Balia con todo tú corazón;
Canta con toda tú alma.

The Sky Goes Wonderful

Once in a blue moon the sky goes wonderful.
And all I think about is the moon.
And you... marvelous you.

And chocolate...
And apple pie...

And I wonder...

Chocolate...

And apple...

And pie...

The apple pie.
The chocolate.

The Marvel Us.

Just you.
Just me.

And chocolate...
And apple...

And pie...

And
Just
Us.

The Itch

There was a dog named Abe I did see,
Who stood under a tree for a wee.
He met there a bitch
Who had quite the itch,
So they danced in the style doggie.

Convinced.

It was well before morning almost a year ago:

“You got to do something, you just do,
before you know it you wake up and you’re 40.”

An old memory back with the first Happy
Birthday to tell me it was right again.

It was a hotel outside of Concord, Massachusetts,
Closer to a shopping mall than Walden Pond.

But close enough to see, just yesterday at sunset,
Birds flying from the pond’s shore, where everyday

Tourists who live a few miles away were
Diving in headfirst in swim caps and goggles:

Like insects smacking into
Pages of a history book made

With sheets
Of flypaper.

Well before morning almost a year
Ago and not surprised to find

Friendship,
Loneliness,

Love,
And

What Home
Might mean,

Casting
Shadows

And
Shapes

On this hotel ceiling.
Above this hotel bed.

Covered by this hotel white
Puff comforter, full of more air

Than
Comfort.

Not surprised to turn on
My quiet flashlight,

At my customary time, and join
My intended laptop at the table,

To write about:

The
Juxtaposition

Of the birds of Walden Pond,
To this hotel so covered

In
Scaffolding

I couldn’t read its name from the street.

“You gotta do something, you just do,
before you know it you wake up and you’re 40.”

Then a voice from 20 years ago:

“If you’re a poet when you’re 20, it’s because you’re 20;
if you’re a poet when you’re 40, it’s because you’re a poet.”

When you’re up before the birdsong,
Before the sunrise of your 40th birthday,

And it’s just another lifelong everyday
Morning that has you writing on

Friendship,
Loneliness,

Love
and,

What Home
Might mean,

And everyone you know is sleeping in a house with family,
Or under an empty comforter you just walked away from;

And they all think you’re awake
Because: You don’t need the sleep.

You are doing something,
And you most definitely,

Quite
Seriously,

Are
Convinced.

She Knows

She knows she’s going to die.
The way she watches her grandson,
Reads every word as joy.
She knows the numbers,
He’s learning to count backward,
Only go forward.

She’s smiling easy ruby ready,
Cheeked checking out,
The way he smiles
When he knows she’s smiling
Because she knows something
He’s just learned.

Happy Dancing

You did dizzy.
Then spun around
In mind and dream
Like you do in this chair.

Like you as a toddler
Your spin dance
In the center of the kitchen,

Head back,
Eyes on ceiling fan,
In twirls,

“I’m happy now!
I’m Dancing!
I’m Dancing, now!
I’m Happy! I’m Dancing!”

Hope he remembers
The joy of dizzy dances
Under a ceiling fan,

The whole wearied whirl
Around world watched
And wondered while you spun

Happiness was
As easy as
Happiness is
In an unwearied world.

Makes Sense

The world is
(n)either right
(n)either wrong
Anymore.

There’s no more
War anymore.
Well, maybe
That one.

The world is
Not too long,
Or too short
Anymore.

Not too much of
Much too much
Anything much
Anymore.

But this one thing is true:

That when I see you,
And you’re there,

And the stars,
And all that

Romantic shit
Is in the atmosphere,

Then the world is clear.
Life means something.

When you’re there,
And there’s that

Romantic shit
in the air,

The card aisle makes sense.

You’re About

You’re as fragile as a sky, as constant as a cloud.
So willing to hold a sunrise you know has no choice-

But you let yourself fall from the setting.

Why do you hold on when you know
That’s what a sunrise does, sets?
Why do you fall down when you know
That’s what a sunrise does, returns?

It must.

Why not stay so tall you can catch a sunrise?
Why not let fall what was made to fall?

Why not know, how strong, how light
How fierce, how wild wonderful a gift,
It is to hold fire, to survive fire,
To let fire drop to drown in the horizon?

An embrace is not an embrace if it lasts forever.
It’s standing still, squeezing the Sun,
Falling, flaying, shouting saying: “Not this time.”
Ears too full of fire to hear, you said,

“Not this time.” Again.

Let a day burnt be ash; yesterday’s Sun is gone.
Fire burns the world turns, each star finds
Its sky again, by making a new star, each sky is relit.
Brighter, hotter, truer, every Sun returns home.

He must.

Why not stay so tall you can catch the sunrise?

There is a Peace

There is
A peace

That doesn’t
Need you.

That’s
Me.

Not certain why,
After all this time,

I still want so bad
To give the world

So
Much.

Not certain if any thought,
Anytime, at any place,

Has ever been worth more than the air
On a Wednesday morning,

Windows down, listening
To the radio off,

Wind through
Every way it can,

Washing what
Was before,

Wishing what
Lies ahead,

Leaving it all to be one thought,
One single thought throb,

Persistent,
Persistent,

Persistent, throb
Of a single thought
colored over

Persistently persistent
Present Moment

A thought and not
A moment too soon,

Come
Again

Come
Again.

Hasta

Un dia,
Un dia mas

no sera,
no sera

necessario

ser un dia
ser un dia mas

necessario
a solas.

The Reason

Why do you look
Like everything I ever wanted?

Why do you look at me
Like the only thing I ever asked for?

The only reason
For the fight back was to see the way

You
Look at me.

WYSIWYG

The world
Is nothing
Like you
Think it is,
And so much more
Like you hope it might be.

The world
Is nothing
Like you
Think it is,
And so much more
Like you hope it might be.

These are steps worth repeating.

Ooh-la! Moo-la! Hooray!

Drugs
!
Money
!
Women
!

Hip-Hop
,
Ooh la
!

Hip-Hop
,
Mool-la
!

Hip-Hop
,
Hip-Hop
,

Hooray
!

Is there any better way
,
To spend each day with
,
To spend and play with
,

Drugs
,
And Money
,
And Women
?

The Ooh-La
.
The Moo-la
.

The Hip-Hop
,
Hip-Hop
,

Hooray
!

What a day
!
What’s that you say
?

Drugs
!
Money
!
Women
!

Hip
,
Hop
,

Ooh-la
,
Moo-la
,

Hip-Hop
,
Hip-Hop
,

Hooray
.

Cada Vez

Letras que necesitan un cantante;
Palabras que quieren una canción.

Porque me preguntaste si podía;
Porque pensé que deberías saberlo.

Cada vez,
Cada vez,
Te veo.

¡Hay baile otra vez
En mi corazón!

Cada vez,
Cada vez,
Te veo.

¡Hay fuego otra vez
En mi corazón!

Cada vez,
Te veo,
Te deseo
más que
el ultima vez.

Cada vez,
Cada vez,
Te veo.

The Downloaded Dream Deferred

But I can’t America;
I can’t make you Great again,
Because you never were.

Great is finished good;
Greatest is finished great.
You are not finished, America.

You are a living document.
Therefore you breathe;
Therefore you grow.

Make America Greater Again!
Forward, everyday. Greater Everyday.
The Never-done, The Greater-Again.

But the Dream Langston!
The dream deferred conferred
With the downloaded dream deferred.

The Dream Deferred (1)
The Dream Deferred (2)
The Dream Deferred (3)

Downloading…
Still…More…Of…
The Dream Deferred.

Copies… The Great gone dead.
Make America Great Again,
Makes America Dead.

Dead does not make Dead Again.

Langston,
The Dream does not explode:
She starts with a panic attack.
She ends masked in a whimper.

The Firs

I’m not ready for everything to die this year.
The wind is consistently strong the past few days.
The people who come from all parts of the world
To see our leaves change color are leaving.

The ground is a sheet of wax paper
Under a blood-let easel.

The firs will hold on.

The dust on the radiator floor vent
Burns from the steamed air forced,
From the hidden hot water
Onto the dead fly that won’t rot.

The firs will hold on.
Through the season of dying,

They don’t.

The refrigerator drones over the fly’s last
Protest as it falls to the faded floor.

The fan above the microwave still hums,
A little more dust, a little more hum,

But it still hums.

The firs weep weary,
Waist deep in wasting.

If you sit still, close
Your eyes and listen,

You can hear electricity
Go into the lights.

If you lie back, close
Your eyes and surrender,

You can feel
The Earth spin.

Winter's freeze freezes.
Spring's flower flowers.
Summer's swelter swelters.
Fall,
Leaves
Fanfare.

Leaves
Fall,
Fanfare.

Fanfare,
Leaves
Fall.

The Season's end
Ends The Season's
Season's end.

Words fail
Watching
Words fail.

Words

Freeze,
Flower,
Swelter,

Fall.

Melancholy mothers nature.
New England fathers poets.

Days you shut the door
And the hard frost won’t leave,

Days you open the door
And the fever lingers,

That dead fly that won’t rot.

There’s only:

Wasting time.
Watching time.
Watching
Firs.

Wait out the:
Inconsiderate
Sun.

Who won’t confess his light,
No matter what I say.

Frost's Shooting Range

Rode around Frost's farm.
Windows are boarded white.
Closed sign. Historic landmark.

The grass out back is mowed to look like a shooting range.
Hard to see the birch trees through all the saplings,
Shot up young since Route 28 was paved over.

Something about honor and profession and the poet Frost,
And his swinging trees colored over with brittle pines
To keep the scenic route of a poet looking scenic.

A skyscraper touched a sequoia
With a certain kind of light
In a certain kind of eye.

Diode Hung

Blues don’t fill shoes because
Blues ain't got nowhere
Shoes

Should you choose to choose to choose
This blues man, run as fast as he can
Man.

Should you be with me in that tree
When the lights go down on
Town,

And we see what things are under
Every star in new shoes under
Moonlight.

Right wherever you are tonight
This mind's on fire for your
Desire.

I’d run twice around the world,
But here you are in
Pixels.

And though I can’t kiss you, I can
Keep you in these comfortable
soles.

Each sole of these
Shoeless paid
My dues-yes-
Soles.

Sweet entreat you,
And me complete should meet
By pixel light binary delight the one to the zero,
I’m your hero, you’re my zero making my one sprung.

This Diode hung
hanging I
s
full
o
f wonder
full hung diode

spring
sprung
this one
and I’m
hung like
a diode
with this
ode to
you. Are
you twice
across the
world or
here binary
beautiful
love at first
byte you
here or twice
way half round
the whole world.
One plus Zero never
equaled two me and you
and the light too, are one.

Beats, Slams, and Yes, I Am(s)

We call it poetry for the ear,
But that’s not where we hear it.

We call it poetry out loud,
But it’s an inside job.

We call the meter measured.
We call the measure divine.

I call the words: All Words!

Sweet- Sweet -Tweet-Tweet
Twitter-Tatter- Beat-Complete.

A feat- of the feet- of the stomp,
Of the never pomp- of the heart.

We call it poetry for the ear,
But that’s not where we hear it.

Good Neighbor, Frost

If the sky and the horizon bent properly,
I could see those paper barked birches.

Autumn -swung and knocked- swung and knocked
Oak and ash and spruce and pine and even

Evergreens
Grumbled.

Fat chirping squirrels bent trunks down.
Elasticity whip snapped shot them back up.

I crooked my neck waiting for the dome of Heaven to burst.
Home ten miles south of mine watching for Frost on the birch branches,

To shatter coke bottle pieces on the bracken of autumn wet.
My whole young life long waiting for you to crash back down,

Back home;
You never did.

You must have found a better place for love.
You must have found a better place for love.

Giant

There’s a peacock sounding race relations.
There’s a fox snarling this and that amendment issues.

There’s an angry man, not really angry, playing angry
For your angry pleasure, on the AM dial,
All not-really-riled up-riled, rolling in his not-at-all-angry dough.

There’s a housing shortage in the neighborhood of the last school shooting.
There’s good people in blue and good people in red blood on the streets.
There’s medicine and there’s insurance.

And there’s the bank. The Bank.
And there’s a loan where the front door used to go.
And there’s a rainbow and there’s the way over it.

Now, we’re talking.
And now, I’m talking about living in and out of a white cardboard box.
So now he’s talking about a white-cardboard-Banker’s-Box-box.

The man wants metaphors.
But I don’t want a metaphor,
I want out of this cardboard box.

“That’s quite a cardboard box you’ve got there,”
He says to me from his perfectly good not cardboard,
White-cardboard-Banker’s-Box-box.

So, we’re healing.
So, we’re doing what we would not do.

We’re being who we were afraid to be.
Finally.

But we’re afraid of it.
But we ought not be.

Because we’re already what and who we need to be to do the thing.
It’s just a matter of doing it.

So, the only thing in our way is yesterday.
But that was yesterday.

So, we don’t know
What’s in our way.

But I do.

It’s today.
It’s this Right Now.

We spin against it.
We crash against it.

We wham.
We bang.
We boom.

Boom against the doom,
That’s not in the room.

But We
Must win.

So We
Do win.

One win
At a time.

So…

I am a giant and a giant killer.
I am the mountain and the moon.

I smash it down.
I raise it up.
I sculpt it

Into
Something
Beautiful.

Too Many Old Glory & NRA Bumper Stickers

He has:
Too many NRA bumper stickers-
Too many Old Glory bumper stickers-

In a quilted firearm and flag frame
Pressed without wrinkle around
The rusted rear Chassis of his
20-year-old Chevy 2500

He has:
Too many separate-
Too many pieced-

In a quilted firearm
And flag frame around
His new tailgate with
stenciled perfect letters:

STOP Bullying.

Then below that-
Spelled with stickers-
Used on front doors-
And mailboxes-

Capital letters
Executed as
Expected:

The Birth-day.
The Death-day.

The First-name.
The Last-name.

Even-

The Middle of his
12-year-old son.

Your Metaphorical Heart

This one is brilliant.
Dancing genuine dances.
Eyes blush, roll beautiful.
Nervous with her wonderful.

Strong how she survives a solar storm of too little,
Too many bits of light, the normal world calls magnificent.

The world has never been enough for you in being too much.
Too much what others do looks nothing
Like you in quiet moments; that you
You call genuine You.

But how to say it through wanting words
So an empty magnificent world would ever understand?

If only you had someone to tell you what causes
You so much loneliness is so much connection to so much else.

The so much else so many won’t ever see a connection to.

How can you be content in a world unable to recognize
How much love you hold in your metaphorical heart?

You remake The World.

Forever Moon Skies

I'd stare at the moon
All day.
All night.

Once with Love
Once with the memory
Of Love.

Without thought I'd feast
On moonlight and the memory
Of moonlight.

The Spirit
Of the Moon
And I

On the hillside in neglect
Of what others want
Of me.

What each night sky knows
Each sunrise lacks.

That Star.

That bully star!
Always

On the way,
(in the way)
Of
A perfect night sky.

Is there a galaxy anywhere
Untouched by starlight

Where poets sit on hillsides
In communion with forever moon skies

Unencumbered by the gravity
Of a ravenous star?

The Moon, Indecisive

The shadow shined sunset on the city.
The wind slow-whipped and rippled.

Can light be a light bed sheet that cools
Like a night lit summer night?

Can the moon, indecisive,
Make the whole world?

Yes! Yes! Yes!
And yes.

Tonight, and sunset held the city
Skyscrapers in each hand
Like linen in the arms of
A languid launderer
Lap-thwap-snap
Snapping each
Thrice

Before clothes-pinning them
To the horizon-line.

Saudade

Being too empty, being too full of love, for something too far away.

Rain.
Heavy sometime during the night. The puddles are ponds.
The energy is low and warm like snow is pregnant.
Snow is bound waiting for tomorrow. Rain is right now.
Pay attention: The rain demands attention right now.

I would like to have a day of sun be treated like a day of rain.
Landscapers and Laborers will see a day of rain and take the day off.
Dreamers and Lovers should see a day of sun and take the day off.
Not much dreaming or right kind of loving can be done on a sun-filled day.

We forget the beach on a rainy day;
But the beach loves a rainy day.

Someone to share a day of rain with.
Someone who is not: ‘not going out today.’
Someone regarding the rain shush the shock
And shake swagger of the sunshine days.

Someday a man has to face the prayer in his heart.

(Sao-
-Dhaj
-Eh’)

Thunder
Never a sunny day
Always never sunshine,
Even on a sunny day

A Sunshine- My dream.

(Sao-dhaj-eh’)

My sunshine.
Even on a sunshine day.

Where is my rain
My sunshine
Rain rainy
day

Today when the world is at bay

I can say what I say in a way

In this

way

I can
play

all day

and say

what                         I say

               in this way

in the

                     rain,   in the 

rain,                    in this rain

all day

    we can

play we

   can say

Nothing.

My Sunshine,
My Saudade, (Sao-dhaj-eh’)
My Rain

We would do
Do nothing at all

We would do
Do alone together

We would do
Do Sunshine.

Do Rain.

If ever I do find you,

My Sunshine
My Saudade
My Rain.

A Certain Sad

Sad today.
That welcomed warm sad.
The sad you want to stay.

That certain sad missing piece.
You’ll never know peace,
Without this missing piece.

Sad day right day to be with
That thing. That: -thing-thing-.
The only beautiful: -thing-thing-.

Rain day, sane day, window-pane day.
I’ve been casting not casting -Love.
Love Itself: That: -Thing-Thing

This welcomed sweet May rain.
This wonderful day to share with
-no one- or -only one-

So much grief in Beauty
That lost quiet sweet
-sad- sweet quiet loss.

Hope we meet for Ancient
Love before we die.
Long sad old soul Love.

Perhaps later, plan our days.
Talk of past dreams, today dreams,
Future dreams: Even that dream.

Sad today.
That welcomed warm sad.
The sad you want to stay.

Binary Poetic

One

Pen-Brushed-Bristled-Bulldozers
She’s got this.

Poetry of Power.
Power Poetry.

The Poetry of Women in the new millennium.

Mighty metaphor.
Super simile.

Subject what
Subject you will:

Dog. Apple.
Cat. Zucchini.

Race. Hate. Crime.
Birth. Motherhood.

Poetry of Power.
Power Poetry.

The Poetry of Women in the new millennium.

Push down the canvas.
Eat expression- Poetry.

Take it!

Punch down the poem.
Signify this- Poetry.

Like it!

What’s Poetry gonna do about it?
What’s Poetry gonna say about it?

Whatever she tells it to.

Power Poetry of Women in the new millennium.
Even zucchinis are up for grabs.

Bulldoze-Brushed-Beatific to the floor.

Kick its ass- then step on it.
Make the metaphors go soprano.

Zero

The good men today are all shamed, ashamed
Of yesterday, when they weren’t here to do anything shameful.

The good men today are all missed, remiss
About yesterday, when they weren’t here to be missed for.

The good men today, mourn for this day, when they were here today
Missed, but remiss, because they were filled with shame.

The good men today have nothing
But everything to say and can’t say it.

Great-Great-Grandpa left good men with impotent ink.

This Bay Window

It is definite just before death, I will rest my hand,
On this necessary neglected bay window.

But will I be absolved to keep the memories of:

When I held your soft creased palms, honest and adored in mine,
When your so close fingers, soft swept open my hard sullen knuckles,
When our acquitted embrace meant I made it, meant you made it,

Meant we made it?

Will I release reassured the persistent insistent long call of your touch,
Knew everything about this -right now- kind of unkind living,

And all the sins a soul will save to save itself?

Country Eyes

The first Saturday morning in October at Massabesic Lake.
The world is in masks. The trees are in technicolor.

Autumn in New England, when Mother Nature
Reminds the Country what color really is.

Autumn foliage season begins in New Hampshire.
The eyes only see 4k desktop wallpapers.

Professional photographers.
Japanese family vacation photographers.
Lesbian couple on park bench for breakfast photographers.

It Is What It Is

We feel so uncomfortable
Saying the word soul.

In the morning:

We dress
Our children for school.

Then march
Them off to war.

In rooms:

Full of
Semi-automatic clouds of chalk.

Full of
The lingering smell of pencils.

And tomorrow:

Take an eraser
To a predictably bloodied world.

We feel so uncomfortable
Saying the word soul.

She's Afraid to Hope

She's afraid to hope.
The spider in my window;
She's afraid of Hope.

Black Widow Beautiful
And she (yes, she!) is
Afraid to hope.

Could it be this time,
(Yes, This Time!) the grass
(Yes, This Grass!) is actual

(In fact, actual!) green.
Actual factual Green.
Gracious grass green!

Black widow spider
(What a heart!)
(What power!)

In my Window
Eyes on green

Actual (In fact)
Factual green

Still afraid to hope,
Afraid of Hope.

All of Her Poetry, Still

I didn’t know Mary was dead.
(No one told me about Maya, either) A blank
Pause when I read about it online.

Poets don’t go out when we die.
(We live with Death while we live.)
We stay home.

Which is why when Walt said to me
(The other day)
That to die is luckier than I suppose,

I believed him.

A Prism

The secret to a good life
Is the secret to the universe.

Balance.
Balance what?

Light.
Mother Nature balances the Light.

Color is measured in frequencies,
So, color is the measure of the closeness…

Or better said…
the “nearness of the light.”

Liquid, gas, solid?
No and no and no.

Light.

Know the near-
ness of the light.

Color says so much about
The play of the ray of light.

Not a person;
A prism.

We politicize it.
We poison it.

Living color.
Life!

We go right for the history of:
The violence of intolerance and ignorance.

The fear is human categorical error.

No two snowflakes or:
Two tones of human skin

Are ever exactly the same.

Scroll Down and Forget 'em

Snow last night.

Treetops
Rooftops

Road signs
Topped

Powder sugared
Magnificent.

Why scrub away Autumn's mess?
Let it soak.

Snow like scrubbing bubbles,
When they melt the mess goes with them.

Some metaphors stink.
Some similes are like scrubbing bubbles,

To do their best work,
Let them sit a bit.

Scroll down and forget 'em.
Come back when you can see clear,

What shines under the sludge,
What Springs Eternal.

Y Nt Rn?

Where’s your ambition?
Why are the lights still out on tomorrow?
Where is the New Home?

The New Friends?
The New Love?
Where’s the Money?

Why is life OTW?
Life is rn not otw.
Why is life always otw w u?

Y nt rn?
Y otw?
Y s lf otw,

Wynn,

lf
s
rn?

“Life is not about what you’re going to do.
Life is about what you’re doing, right now.
So, what are you doing right now?"

For Pablo, Para Ti

“Soneto XVII

o te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio
o flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego:
te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras,
secretamente, entre la sombra y el alma.

Te amo como la planta que no florece y lleva
dentro de sí, escondida, la luz de aquellas flores,
y gracias a tu amor vive oscuro en mi cuerpo
el apretado aroma que ascendió de la tierra.

Te amo sin saber cómo, ni cuándo, ni de dónde,
te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo:
así te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera,

sino así de este modo en que no soy ni eres,
tan cerca que tu mano sobre mi pecho es mía,
tan cerca que se cierran tus ojos con mi sueño.”

-Pablo Neruda

For Pablo, Para Ti

I don’t love you like salt rose, topaz
Or a detonation of carnations that set fire wild-
Like assured obscured impressions love.
I love you -in secret- between shadow and soul.

I love you like a plant that does not bloom,
But carries hidden within, the light of its flowers,
And thanks to your love, the secret scent
Of the Earth’s kept-safe love, lives in me.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or where.
I love you direct- without problems or pride:
I don't know any other way to love.

Their way says I am not you, nor you me,
But your hand on my chest is my breath,
Your eyes close to be my dream.

The Secret of the Moon

Watching loons at Massabesic Lake while other people fall in love.

Pastel dusk sky.
Orange is only ever beautiful next to lavender.

Traffic. So much at once.
People and problems come in clusters.

Headlights off the water brings
The Night Sky whisper close.

He’s got a message for you:
It’s The Secret of The Moon.

He’ll tell you if you stop.

He told me, of course,
But asked me not to tell.

Next time stop,
Listen as if your life depends on it.

It does.

My Most Powerful Peace

I’m crazy for a certain Muse.

This real body corporeal.
Sacrosanct, corporeal.

My sense jumped
At the sound of fireworks.

A grand finale
Here you are again.

A gain for one spirit
Dancer heart entrancer.

So much power.
My flower.

Your skin petal soft Cotton
Covered stomach peach fuzz fire.

Under breast and nip
And neck ear lip and lip

And tongue in
Then in more.

Only word in the world:
More.

We never end.
We never leave but believe.

This body is a king's castle.
You are my queen.

My most beloved,
Most powerful peace.

For Reason, Et Al.

Enough of the words
What of those out-
Spoken or Spoke-in?

In-way words
Never in-the-way words
Always want back out words.

On outward words
On sail to the sky
Said and sailed words

When the only cry
Heard was the deep deep
Down inside cry.

How to cry!

Without wells and rainbows
To mark mistaken tears
With forsook ancient words?

The sky’s reign- hit
So hard so what
Else could be said?

Stunned-In
Such awe from
A hand so divine.

What word...
How could…
What…?

We called it God.
We call it God.
We still cry awe

For no reason at all.

We still call it.
Still say it.
Still cry out...

God.

Keep checking in.

I'll list more from time to time.

Thanks for reading.

Wynn