deep in the solace of mind
beyond, the realm assigned
an outer reach of body,
of kind
she drew me in
to a inconsiderable space
that i didn't even know
could evolve or exist
the time was ripe
the taste pure bliss
I could smell all the fragrant flowers
held taut, together in one place
not dying nor withering away
in some discolored, discontented
hollow filled vase
it was vibrance
it was pure grace
more than grasping for a longing
or an impossible embrace
we held tight in the scars we both shared
dancing through the meadows
where ghosts once appeared
we were the sun and we kissed the dark
enriched in the touch of another
leaving our mark
your echo still rattles my bones
your presence I still call my home
Teacher:
Let’s write a poem.
Kids start to fidget, tongues stuck in cheeks,
bums wriggle on seats.
Teacher has lost interest; she doesn’t really care.
Our scribbles will distract us for a while
while she marks term-papers.
I am ten years old. All I can think of is Superman,
So I wrote:
‘I Love Superman’ three times.
Teacher with her head down, eyes gone blind to us,
ears listening to music in her head.
We kids dancing all over our bodies, seeking
this inconsiderable alien thing called a ‘poem’.
The sunlight and clouds
slapping on notebooks and pencils
creating fleeting symbols
we could not hope to name.
A wall clock punctuating words dripping
out of leaky pots. Little girls giggling,
boys sulkily kicking desk legs.
Eventually most of us kids write something.
I suspect the teacher
didn’t even look at them. She marked all, ‘good’,
even mine,
Superman left the classroom with all the other kids.
Perhaps he feared a kids poetry reading session;
pure Kryptonite for a superhero.
I listen to the Leftists
I listen to the Rightists
They are not among the brightest.
The Leftists want a $15 minimum wage, a guaranteed job
For every wage-earner in the US, be he gentleman or slob.
They want free health insurance, free college tuition
They haven't the slightest economic intuition.
With all that guaranteed government stuff
Mr. and Mrs. Taxpayer will have it exceedingly rough.
Though the federal tax form itself will be razor-thin:
How much do you make? -- Send it all in!
Of course, those on the Right are not a whit better
When it comes to the President's outrages, they're aides and abettors
His insults, his outright lies, they dismiss as 'inconsequential'--
As long as stock and bond market gains remain monumental
After much consideration and not inconsiderable thought
I've reached a conclusion, one that's dearly bought:
A Pox on the Left and a Pox on the Right --
I'll not purchase a house; I'll not be a renter
I'll just pitch my tent smack dab in the Center
May 03 2018
She stood motionless in ragged habiliments,
her raven filaments were cruddy and matted,
she was charismatic, but not alluring,
she was inconsiderable ,quite scanty,
her humble abode was to us, just a hovel,
then uninfluenced she started to sing,
sounds from that little girl were magical,
her voice sent unbelievable transmissions to my brain,
illusional visions that appeared in my head,
serenity, the pleasure, so overwhelming,
Images circulating through my spiritual structure,
sounds from that child was mind bending,
I was held motionless by her vocal illusion,
no one surely could turn what we were seeing,
Devastation into the most pleasurable place on earth,
This had to be magic, but undeniably the best magic..
11/16/2016.
One looks behind him,
To a distant vanished time.
To relive what is done,
From way back in the prime.
One was happy then,
And now so miserable.
We live in the haunted past,
Wasting time, inconsiderable.
One looks for happiness,
To some glad day of joy.
But nothing from the past,
Can fill today’s voids.
One looks at old photographs,
Before wrinkles filled the brow.
Your missing today’s moments,
So come back to the now.
There I go again.... Having another thought.
Another idea that you did not give me.
I should be empty...ready for you to fill with your reflections.
I should be vacant.
My own intellections are inconsiderable...trivial.
My world is your own. I should exist only in your perspective.
My sensibilities don't count. They are only shadows
that fall behind with your permission.
I should have learned to remember my place in your world.
The place where I stay silent, while
You gain dominion over my will.
Steadily...with no remorse.
Conquering with convictions.
Growing stronger.
Your power is all that I allow you.
So fill me! Fill me!
Teach me not to think.
My thoughts only lead to your condemnation.
Tell me I am happy.
I am happy.
At night the city is full of bones
And they
Are very dry
Beneath the trample of urban feet
They are ground
But to live, these dry bones
Must drink words
Sad nervous me, I stammer
Against those arid limbs
Grinding bone-dust songs
Into scattered fragments spun from raging blades
But realizing so many so, I sputter
Thought-hacked soul-flakes, soaring
Crooked in an angry wind. . .
Though stinted, inconsiderable, I say them
Spit them down the papered street
Into a shadow where the dew will stay
And some anonymous day some
Stray seed will grow on them
And suckle upon a speck of misty bone
And though the nights will continue
To align the humps of an un-slaked dune
Something out of this sand will rise
Small, and secretly original
And I will be part of her:
my bony, blue, and sensual city
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