i want to be able to see my heart in word-form, all of its callouses and scars spelled out in strings of the alphabet
i want words to flow off of my fingertips like the drippings of water droplets into a sink from a faucet closed only half way
yet i've found that the four-letter word i've been feeling
can only be expressed as it is
numb

~ ~ ~
Adieu!
My Crew, My Crew!


this, our first trip,
our longest voyage,
nears completion

eighteenth of May,
a terminal date,
date of destination,
upon it commenced,
upon it,
our commencement

a terminus nearing,
a degree of latitude given,
a degree of longitude observed,
by you
mes méridiens,
witnesses to my zenith,
a degree of gratitude granted
and lovingly recv'd

adieu, adieu!
this sole~full rhyme
beats upon my lips
repeats and repeats,
endlessly looped,
Adieu, my crew!

sailor, voyageur,
scribe and travel guide
for four seasons,
a composition of one long
anno sabbatico,
muy simpatico

in the spring of '13
I sprung up here,
a Mayflower,,
a May flower,
a floral ship,
annual for a single year,
annual for a single circumnavigation

hearing now once again,
refreshing sounds,
hinting noises,
here comes his paul simonizing summery spring again,
rhyming timing reminding dylan style,
it's all over now, my babies blue

t'is season to move forward,
back to old acquaintances renewed,
sand, water and salty sun,
three lifelong friends who,
Auld Lang Syne,
never ever forget me

we get drunk on their eternity,
their celestial beauty,
and they,
upon my tarnished earthly being,
unreservedly and never judgingly,
give inspiration unstintingly,
we share,
never measuring a captain's humanity
by mystical formulae of reads or hearts

for
grains of sand, water wave droplets and sun rays,
all
only know one measure,
immeasurable

respect the
never-ending new combinations
of an old nature,
even the impoverished words he speaks,
words as they exit the
brain's grand birth canal,
whimsically announcing their poetic arrival with a:

"been here, done that,
but happy to do it,
one more time,
just ever so differently"

the only counting
that satisfies them and me,
the clicking sound be,
the sound of a
a pointer-finger tablet-clicking,
heartbeats a metering,
individual letters being stork-delivered,
and

yellow lightening
when it comes,
signifying family completion,
a poem,
a family,
comes
crackling real!

here comes spring again!
happily to shackle me,
shuckling me back to and fro,
to whence I came,
and from
whence I once
and always belonged

memorial weekend,
memorializing me,
orchestrating a prodigal son's
two edged tune,
a contrapuntal contrapposto,
a "fare-thee-well, man"
and a
"hello son, welcome home!"

that empty Adirondack chair,
by my name,
with your names
in tears inscribed upon it,
awaits

the breezes take note,
singing a duopoly:

this ole chair
needs refilling,
Rest & Recreation for your Rhythm & Blues,
your busted body boy
healing with our natural scents,
calming with common sense

with it,
will and refill,
the cracked breaches,
by phonetic letters frenetic,
drinking, then purge-spilling,
a speckled spackling paste of comfort food words
given of and given by,
given back to,
the bay's tide
and beaches
and

you, crew,

let this soul captain briefly lead,
spilling too oft his new seed,
he,
selected but unelected by a
raucous silent voice-vote...
of an unknown,
impressed-into-service crew

some of you
impressed upon
the skin of this captain man's sou!,
a cherishment so complete,
yet has he to fully comprehend,
its miracality,
the golden epaulettes upon his shoulder,
worn ever proudly

the nearest ending,
one of many.
a course of waterfall and rapids survived,
yet invisible shoals fast approaching,
a single bell tolling, warning,
here was, here comes,
yet another,
close calling

sirens shriek
forewarning,
can't abide a moment longer thus,
desperate longing
for a refuge of language loved,
not lost in lands and a sea of
ranted bittersweet journaled cant
and hashtags of sad despair

can't lengthen this sway,
grant a governor's stay,
cannot

heaven schedules our lives,
completed a time out
in a day,
twenty four hours of fabulous, fabled
and of late,
a shopworn, forlorn existence,
three hundred and sixty five times,
circularized on these pages

now
no forevermore, no forestalling,
only the truth,
a grizzled, unprimped,
mirror'd recognition

flutes,
sad low whistle,
trumpets,
wild maimed moan,
violins,
jenny jilted wailing tears, groan,
and harps and guitars,
each pluck single notes plaintive,
long and slow their disappearing reverberation,
but end it must

none can deny or fail to ascertain,
port of our joint destination,
pinpointed on maps as
"the last curtain call,"
just over the nearby horizon line,
demarcating the finality
of the days of glorious,
and the quietude of
a storied ending

my crew, my crew,
forever besided,
forever insided,
bussed, bedded, and bathed,
with me,

wherever I write most,
wherever I write eyes moist,
my crew
of all captains,
whose fealty I adore
and to whom,
my loyalty unquestioned sworn,
upon righteous English oak
an oath unstained,
an American bible, an American chest,
blood sworn here forever to
my
brothers, sisters and children
many who by title me addressed
this man as,
grandfather,
yet friends
from foreign-no-more-lands

this is only a poem,
this is only the best I have

This to me given,
and now to you returned,
encrusted with trust

for
we together,
were
a new combination
all our own

my crew, my crew,
for you:
my seasonal Yule log-life burns
every day,
all years of my life shiny shiny
copper-burnished teapot whistling
you, your names
a tune of the past,
and the yet to come

I care,
burdened more
than than you ere known,
dare I bear
to bare-confess

for and by you was I,
my restlessness lessened
my unrest less,
so comforted by an out-louded,
deep-welcome-throated reception
let it end thus,
no whimpers or cries,
no misunderstanding

in a Wilderness of Words,
sought you out,
your name and lands,
yours, purposely hidden,
disguised and unknown,

while I placed before you,
my name
my birthplace,
the poetry of my truths,
the jagged laughing,
the cryptic crying,
at myself,
foibles, pimples and the
the insights inside,
mine own book of revelations
all clear in the
drippings of my clarifying
cloudy tears

stranger to friends to chance,
all by chance,
sharing nodules, capsules,
even tumors and ill humors

your affection and simple heroism,
left me both gasping,
and leaves me now,
grasping

your hearts sustain
and are sustainable,
in ways the word,
organic,
not even remotely
adequate, sufficient

in ways
that can be secreted here,
in sharing,
private messages,
snippet exchanges,
that are valored above the rubies of
public hearts that
claim attention
but are gold bonded hand cuffs,
nonetheless!

my left, what is left,
to your strong right,
by rings married we are,
you and I,
a secretion on our kissing lips,
a perfumed essence called
No.365
"secrets of us..."

Wit I were a man
who could advance
his essay further,
but this voyage,
closed and done,
but a steamer approaches
where they need a third mate,
no questions asked,
no names exchanged,
no counting the change in his heart and the,
holes in his heart pocket

asking not,
are you friend long term true,
or just a fly by night,
short-winded trend

so onto
ports that are nameless,
needy for discovery,
perhaps,
they will have a fruitfulness
unripened,
awaiting verbal germination
so yet again,
when he wipes away
with back of a hand,
his fresh fears,
moistening those dried,
those crack'd lips

underneath will be yet found
a perhaps,
a
fully formed, yet to be shared,
new poem,
that gives value
standing on its own,
and perhaps, rewarming, reawakening,
his gone cold and pale,
yet quivering moving,
his almost stilled silenced spring,
but not quite,
lips...


--------------------------------

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
                         Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
                            But I with mournful tread,
                               Walk the deck my Captain lies,
                                  Fallen cold and dead.

                     Walt Whitman
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And the words that are used
For to get the ship confused
Will not be understood as they’re spoken
For the chains of the sea
Will have busted in the night
And will be buried at the bottom of the ocean

A song will lift
As the mainsail shifts
And the boat drifts on to the shoreline
And the sun will respect
Every face on the deck
The hour that the ship comes in

Then the sands will roll
Out a carpet of gold
For your weary toes to be a-touchin’
And the ship’s wise men
Will remind you once again
That the whole wide world is watchin’

bob dylan

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We'll meet beyond the shore
We'll kiss just as before
Happy we'll be beyond the sea
And never again I'll go sailing

I know beyond a doubt
My heart will lead me there soon
We'll meet (I know we'll meet) beyond the shore
We'll kiss just as before
Happy we'll be beyond the sea
And never again I'll go sailing

No more sailing
So long sailing
Bye, bye sailing...

Jack Lawerence

Old fellow old fellow
where for art thou old fellow

I'm in t'shed wi whippet and tin bath
his filthy from his walk on t'crags
you should ha seen him what a laugh
chasing through t'mud a plastic bag


Oh Fred you said it were too wet
to go a walking on t' pit top
your boots are caked in mud I'll bet
oh I bet thy breath sticks high of pop


Quiet woman can you not see
I'm as sober as a judge
so get yer back to makin t'tea
as I wash off me boots of sludge


She is the moan this northern lass
that makes me old heart flutter
but just one more word of disrespect
and I'll head in there and nut her


He is the pain makes me old heart ache
and the one that brings me t'laughter
but I'll **** him soon as look at him
if he don't respect that I'm a grafter


Teas on t'table drippings hot
there's fresh bread in the oven
by heck lass that there's real class
I love yer, yers a good un


So no Romeo nor Juliet
just honest homely folk
whom now the worth of mother earth
and the value of a joke

Let's leave em be in kitchen warm
wi the humblest of fayre
for Yorkshire folk are t'salt of earth
and I know coz I live there.

The Deepest Twist

<>
for my friends who know that when HP says this my 1300th
poem, it’s off the mark by hundreds; nonetheless
1300 is worthy number to celebrate your affections
nat
<>

you return back my older children, fully grown,
my eldest word babies who never ever visit,
blessing them anew, lavishly, with special wishes

I,
take them,
with both hands, a reacquainting occurs,
the old words, deep twist, now hurtful hurt because
reimagining when and how easy they came to be birthed and
how the replication of that process is now a
practiced impossibility

how they burst forth, in purple majesty, wheat waving,
wholly formed, bathed in holy water, leaving no stretch marks,
only just an empty sac inside instantly needing,
needling me into auto-refilling right away

even the twenty four hour, hard deliveries,
long and arduous, were so easy created faust-fast,
that the errors of typography contained,
became lasting hall marks, iconic nomenclatures of
passionate loving-nonpareil

now, well past point of urgent addiction,
unlike then every glance, each sidewalk cracking,
lamppost shadow casting was
a sea story for a deep dive delving asap

I,
supplied answers for the internal badgering incessant
happy ****** need, mine, to go, spill the words,
cab or bus motion nursing them,
now they come slowly strolling,
semi-formed, needy, inconclusive, reused,
and feeling as trite as a cloth coat from an old thrift shop,
so wanting for tender loving care,
which is to provide when you are
four score

wondering how easy it was in prior times when inspiration
fell like a deciduous tree’s fall colorings gifts or
as little children’s nightly multitude variety of dream tales,
when whole worlds uncovered, nay, universes,
hidden between summers green grass blades,
or in unique snowflakes

the semi-forgot love affairs that parented poems
by the score of scarred orchestral scores,
now love circle-turn in holding patters in the
crowded skies above nyc,
awaiting for a trafficked man to give permissions
to “run-away”land that rarely is granted

once, poems in turbulent fluid born, noisy ripping of skin,
****** by the emitting of  constant calming tenderous words,
wonderful drippings, so many multiple births in a moment,
even the OBGYN is complaining,

give other poets a chance at parenthood!

the awesome anger of human tragedy is now so shopworn
from over experience,
even god visits less and less, for it is written,
nothing new under the sun*

though soon his annual visitors day approaches (Day of Atonement) and god will require new
words of human comforting,
a new poem acknowledging that being godlike
is ******* hard work,
for humans are annoyingly capable of incredulous kindness

how can one justify allowing unlacing acts of insane violence to tear
the hand stitched lacing fabric that’s ever ready
to bring us together in an instant elegiac joining

the truth is every one of todays poem are clawed,
shovel dug out from cavities and crevasses,
your new words of recognition of the oldies but goodies,
iron of irony, make it hard, hard, painful to write
without an epidural to numb the painful
dumbing down

when I am breaching my waters, I am hard to spot,
we ancient humpbacks live beneath the deep distanced,
cold waters for many more minutes
than we need surface for breathing,
the show-off fluking, less and less,
and when we birth,
every two years,
must bring the calf-poem to the surface instantly,
to breath, lest it die,
all the while repeating to ourselves:

what was miraculous writing is now nearly invisible,
to blinded fingers that arrhythmically cane tap,
words difficult to recall, recalculate, recalibrate
into a wholly poem

only the **** tears,
that same shameful violin permanent-accompaniment,
they laugh at me when now, they alone
come first quickest, all too easy,

appearing nataurally,

without a formal
written
invitation

It was a flavorful month.
First with a delightful treat of Black Walnut,
followed by a week of chestnut.

The splendorous aroma
of cooking meat on a rotating spit
the sizzle as the juices dripped running down,
covering his fingers and wrists with grease and fat
to drip into the burning flame
of the fire he had sheltered near.

The night was cold
but the fire would warm him.
(I'm done. Spoke the meat to the bone. I can no longer stay here with you and listen to your ramblings and lost dreams. I'm leaving you, she whispered. The old bone gasped, stricken. Please, do not go.
He reached for her and grasped tendrils, holding on to nay release.
And so the bone held the meat, but just barely.

The spit was held still, a sliver of flesh carved off
nearly pulling it all.
A smile at his face, as he replaced his knife to a home of supple, tan leather
stained black with charcoal.
Still broad-faced, he shut his eyes and gorged.

After
hist beard stubble provided a maze for the drippings to puzzle,
tracing towards his chin to run and leap,
and splatter and soak into the hard packed dirt below.
It had not yet rained, for many span.
So the fire would burn.
And crackle,
and sear substance that was brought too near its boundaries.

How it liked to char.
Its scorching embrace,
meant to suffocate with smoking laughter
curling upwards toward the trees
spreading all throughout the land.
Imagining creatures hundreds of miles,
breathing in and knowing vulnerability when coughing tumbled topside
and shook their entire being until,
until they understood her power
and how she came to be.

As stated, it had not rained for quite some time,
seven years and thirteen days to be exact.
And so, seven years ago,
(for the rain that came held saturation up to the thirteenth day)
she sparked into existence.
Quite literally, remarking on the above statement,
a passing knight atop a stumbling steed was fumbling around,
unwittingly, he had taken a trip down river which his horse had not been thrilled about.
While being chased by a horde of grey goblin trolls,
after he had blundered into their hunting party
he decided to escape through a stream
he had heard they were afraid of running water.
But his information was wrong,
and the throng
chased him down,
till the stream turned to river which turned to faster until
waterfall.
And so they went and now were sodden and miserable.
He rode along until Cudge, his haughty horse, refused to budge.
So, he built a fire and the following morn he rode away without putting it out.
Along his route,
his flint stone happened to drop,
out of a saddle bag and onto a rock,
causing a spark to light upon a bed of dry leaves,
which led to the creation of our dear fiery friend.

She spent years collecting herself
after the Tinder War.
Briefly explained:
Another fire that was left to burn
did not want to share
any of the forest around where the road did turn
all should be his no other fire would dare
challenge him.
This was her first test
as she felt meek and small
her flames could not jest
against his that were tall
but she prevailed and tricked him.
Fueled with victory,
she became an inferno,
and raged with widespread havoc,
till one day she murdered a magpie,
perched on the forest floor her heat overwhelming,
till his soul escaped to forever fly the skies never landing upon the earth again.
Lusting with virtuous eyes
she eradicated and slaughtered
till she killed a village.
A lone survivor,
a child who could not see.
She cried tears of lost.
And brought flooding to the land that washed away the fire
till nothing,
but a spark was left.

The fire never forgot,
the pain,
the life she had snuffed out,
for what?
She changed her ways,
and lived out her days,
remembering her suffering faze as a young blaze.
But happy now
to provide company to this occasional traveler
and his trusty steed.

And so, encircling back (or forward we should considerately say),
to a month known as February which was particularly tasteful.
She, the fire, was enjoying her recent companions,
known as a knight and a horse called Cudge,
who had fed her planking from foreign floors
that tasted salty
from shipwrecks that had sailed to shore and he had carried for firewood.
Although she did not need wood to continue her life,
she relished the savory timber,
and in return provided a spirited heat to perfectly roast a pheasant.
Her name was Yori and she was fire.

The next night it rained.

Fade to blue

Fade to blue
In starlight drippings
The full moon sings
Hypnotic song
When turquoise tints
Horizon dreaming
Can sunrise wait
For very long
~
In lines of gold
And amber teasings
Of Jasmine breeze
Your scent does find
My heartbeat swirl
At last believing
I breathe a sigh
That you are mine

CAN YOU HEAR ME

CAN YOU SEE IT ?
THE RISE IN THE DARK.

CAN YOU HEAR IT ?
THE SOUND SO DESIRABLE THAT CREATES A SPARK.

CAN YOU TASTE IT?
THE DRIPPINGS SO SLICK.

CAN YOU FEEL IT ?
THE RIPPING SO THICK.

SO YOU WANT ME ?
SO RED AND SO TENDER.

DO YOU NEED ME ?
THE FEEL OF MY GENDER.

DO YOU FEEL ME ?
THE SQUIRM OF MY FLEX.

DO YOU SEE ME ?
THE DESIRE FROM YOUR ***.

DO YOU HEAR ME ?
SO WET AND COMPLETE.

WILL YOU FEEL ME ?
SO READY AND SO DEEP.

WILL YOU HEAR ME ?
SAY I NEED YOU TO WRAP INTO ME.

WILL YOU TASTE ME ?
SO DESIRED AND SO FREE.

WILL YOU WANT ME ?
WHEN I NEED YOU TO BE.

SO CAN YOU HEAR ME ?
WHEN YOUR INSIDE OF ME.

All of our memories now wasted away
Page break
My mother's voice downstairs
Stretched dawn
Tonight's drippings
Dreams of your torn mouth
Visions again of a failed birth
Glass and it's promised demise
Cancerous resonance
(slit)Flushed(slit)
(exit)Naked(exit)
(fail)This how I feel(fail)
Being driven away
White coats and tourniquets

~

“Snowflakes gather in crystalline drfitings”

Lifting your hair, kissing the nape of your neck
Warm flesh waits on tippy toe desires
Lips brush skin, lower beyond silver chain clasp
Sighs slip past moon shadow echoes

“Frost bitten warnings fuel whistling winds”

Candlelight flickers in illumined frenzy
Strong hands caress velvet curves, moving
Satin ******* excite at the touch, firming
Mouths meet across milky shoulders

“Chilly coatings mingle, drafty windows squeal”

Reaching behind delicate fingers guide, slowly
Passion emanates from quivered partings
Honey drippings moisten, sticky, sweet
Whispered moans tantalize, moments ignite

“Wind chimes sing frantically behind icicle curtains”

Down pillow yearnings, grasped, held
Eyes look back, smiles meet motions
Held closer, breathless exhales on dreams exposed
Deeper finds the pristine moment

“Algid gusts wail through frigid echoed alleyways”

My name, loudly called, enchanted nirvana
Faster still, bodies in charged friction
Two become one, senses explode, flooding oasis
Eruptions quake bodies in perspired heap

“Arctic blast pierces sweltering pleasures”

Ecstasy sings in midnight harmonies
Melodic as the polar pulsations beyond
Numbed in devotion’s destinations
Wondrous snowy white blankets chill the world

*“As our love provides winter’s perfect heat”

Fade to night
in starlight drippings
The full moon sings
enchanted song
When turquoise tints
horizon’s dreaming
Can sunrise wait
for very long

In hues of gold
and amber teasings
On Jasmine breeze
your fragrance flies
My heartbeat swirls
at last believing
I breathe a sigh
to morning skies

I used to think about ******* boys in open pastures
Clothes tangled on our bodies
Thin ******* down to the mid of quivering thighs and feverish hands pushing down against the yielding earth.

I used to think that maybe that was what being alive was
Intermingling *** and adventure in the sun
Watering the earth with the drippings of some wild, summer-heat driven clashing of sticky skin
I remember wondering what flowers grow from sweat and *****.

Years later, I made love to a sun kissed boy on the banks of a river
We were wild, passionate, fearless.
Never had I tasted anything so sweet as the sweat dripping onto our lips
I forgot about ******* boys in pastures
I began making love to a boy on the water
Then I realized that sweat and ***** grow passionate wildflowers.