inspired  by“Blame It on Kristofferson” written by Byron Hill and John Wilken,
released 2010
(lyrics below)
<•>
A young teen listens to the
folk/rock during the Sixties,
five few years later,
now all growed up and living, crazy,
on Bleecker Street, the very same,
where these songs were being sung live,
by the artists, songwriters & friends
on the streets’s bars ‘n cafes

And Judy sings a ballad, mysterious,
‘bout a Marianne and all the tea in China,
words written like it was a poem,
and the infection was silent transferred,
still ‘fected, even now, in days sooner to
be reporting to heaven’s door, this blessed
curse will be unrelenting coming along,
we blame it on
Leonard Cohen

Knew the words, learned the secret chords,
which was easy, a-direct line between us,
knew where he got them holy tunes, and the
words he stole stealthy from our prayerbook,
went to Montreal, visited his home,
it was no accident, just the hand of god,
but don't blame the divine mystery being,
nah~nope, half~century, later, this dope
still blames it on,
yeah that’s right, on
Leonard Cohen

And here we are, the two of us, probably
smiling, gesticulating and gesturing, who
in fact is truly responsible for our crazy gene,
that pursues us, to create,
to mate words with
music of the deep soul, and here me be,
I am,
grateful grasping for each latter day to birth a new creation,
going out smiley & feeling kindly and fulfilled, now more than ever, and
zero doubts that the person at fault, fully blaming it all on my Canadian soul brother,
Leonard Cohen

some sounds and guttural expressions,
unique property of individual & groups,
no, won’t explicate this  
too much further
but…

anyhoo, in the realm of naked laughter ,
undisguised, unhooded,
a modest-ly hand-covered giggle,
primarly but not exclusively,
the propety of the feminine wile,
so much so, a ‘girlish giggle’ needs no
hyphenation, or hydration,
just  imagining grinning
eyes and lips, crinkling
and the ability to easy while
through one’s
nose breathing

well understood it is the
la feminine,
this witty twitty
in the provence, of women,
particularly the younger at heart
who titter with the glee
of reckless uninhibited unlimited
gig-gig-gigl-ling-ling
(N.B. young st heart is an ageless concept)

the Frenchies in their
Frenchified (1)
(alt.; frenchfried) ways
call a giggle, a puff of laughter, (2)
which sounds so modestly ladylike,
but in the US of A, a girl giggle,
a really good GG,
needs not be so demure,
and can possibly extend into a raucous cackling infectious,
yet discreet
uncontrollable belly slapping laugh,
given the kerrect circumstances

love me them GG’s

~for Traveler & Jo-

they who read,
he who creates,
and supplies a marvelous word fresh born,
and we celebrate a new word’s
nativity:

+agreeance+

if only I could sing
or even write
with Niagara Falls force
of appreciation
what a miraculous joy,
this original pasta and sauce
of letters
that was never/always
meant to be
conjoined

+that nuanced combo+
of
agreement + happenstance
agreeably
connects my
heart and emotions
in my early morn
period of tallying
all the little steps
morning brings
to verify that
my breathing is good
my heart is open and exposed,
for
all the tears
I’ve already wept in but
a few moments already
in but a
few minutes reading
your new
poems and message
that are so
heart rendering

and I can smile
for the world and I
are in a state of
fulsome
agreeance!

~for Marissa Fanelli<

living with a woman who loves her
some vampires,
is difficult for  endless is the sweet sorrow,
of
never having known the thrill of someone biting her neck for a transformative transfusional exchange of body fluids,
makes her sigh periodically as she applies
her makeup

Dutiful man, you do something about it!

I sweep in when damsel is vulnerably unsuspecting, sweeping her blond tress
from her neck, applying combinatory
kisses and nibbles, she shivers delightedly,
b u t
inevitably
indubitably

emits a gasping sigh of great and
delicious length,
signaling she must finish her makeup
applications lest she be forced to begin
all over again
and
her deep regret
that her-nice jewish lover is,

still no zombie




p.s. and when she makes a sign of the cross
using both pointer fingers, to shoo me away
I retort
“Boy oh boy lady, have you got the wrong zombie”

“the voice of poetry in the conversation of mankind.”

<>
            
“Even nowadays, most of us have speeches from plays and films jangling around our heads, alongside things that have actually been said. Both contribute to what Michael Oakeshott called “the voice of poetry in the conversation of mankind.” Whether in verse or prose, there are some fictional speeches that, once heard, cannot be unheard. You find that you live with them.”
~from~
Things Worth Remembering: Nothing Is Lost Forever
By Douglas Murray 9/8/24
<>

the quote grabs the throat, a two handed grip,
but gentling, to ensure it does not go forgot,
or to the bottom the pile, or just another
never truly born, or premature to die,
guised as a drafty passing breeze,
a tickle too fickle, impersistent,
to be a poem unto itself

my thots impure, for I see, I believe,
that poetry is the conversation in all
we do have,
those that lyric wax when
one of the five big guys,
jive, sensory excited, the whiff, taste,
licks the visionary
of the need to be a completed
exegesis, a work to be telling
told

but I am old, my powers weaken daily,
the resistance training recommended,
by brain muscle, fiercer resisted

so reach for the quill,
blue lined sheet,
a cute puppy looking paper,
up for the “surprise” treat
just for extending a paw,
these humans so ease pleased,
you see,
here comes a poem
bout
poetry being bout every any,
even, the great creator struggling
to put out fresh daily,
new &  improved work,
after a six day historic period,
that demanded a poem-alll-day entity,
entitled as a sabbatical day
of rest.

Here I too rest as well,
too many conversations need starting,
fires requiring verbal refueling,
and my own voice hearing a,
“get up, get out of bed,
drag a comb across your head,”
talk, and plant those newly fallen acorns,
and let the conversations produce
giant oak trees,
and
a plenitude of poems

9/9/24

”in tears, may make other organs weep”

HenryMaudsley, 19th-century English psychiatrist”
<>
make no mistake,
the essaence of
Sorrow
is everywhere:

within the blood streaming,
in each celled nucleus
it etched, microscopic,
to the tear ducts directly connected,
a microbiome insertion everything

so when love torn,
deserted,
merely mentally homeless,
no direction selected,
the weeping originates in
every limb and *****,
though no pain sensation need be present
or available to be nominated or accounted,
the tears can’t be closed off,

the torrential hurricane unceasing,
and through it comes with a wisp of a
smile attached,
for the flooding in a mirror
now gleaming reflected
and at longingly last,
a true portrait
saved,
for a sorrow vented
is a sorrow
freed
and
a profile
completed

Feb. 2015

this writ,
content so obvious,
it begs,
why even bother...

Pen Man Ship

this is who you are,
this is your scent, scripted,
the parfume that memory triggers
declarative self-examination passing grades

if pen and paper
are your skin and blood,
then you, man,
ship to shore,
skinned alive,
in poems verbose spill all

ship in ship out,
the glories and the dreads,
expel ink oceans glorious India blue,
rivulets of tributaries,
spillages of what~where,

you are pen
you are man
you are ship

where intersect these routed things,
one is voyage~bound
for parts unknown

the pen be the oar,
and the man, the ship,
and when the sails raised,
the wind never fails,
only there is no
dead reckoning -

for there are no
landmarks observable
when sit~stand
to commence sail~writing

each writ a latitude recorded,
each poem a longitude drawn,
all together, a
body of work,
all together,
your life's coursework
is the captain's log

Pen is the Man is the Ship

in everyday words
he answers
the questions life poses,
in everyday words,
he realizes
the answers he (doesn't) posses,
with each passing poem
the ship, righted,
though the heading
remans unknown