Over the years, looking across the tables at you
ambiance may change
meals range from simple
to aromas meandering tropical islands
roaming ports of call in far-off lands
the little Diner of long ago
caught in a torrential downpour
afterwards the petrichor aura
riding home with you
there remains that infrangible moment
when your tableware searches for another morsel
caught up in a moment intent
looking up, your eyes meet mine
a Duchenne smile adorned by doves perching
upon the Cupid's bow you wear
the moment i am reminded
reaching across the table
the oxytocin in touching your hand
rainbows are forever
Eugene 8/25/26
Without the lighthouse,
How would they see ahead?
How would they navigate?
Cargo ships from the far east,
Bound for the west coast ports
Of America, require lighthouses.
I heard the fog horns as the ships
Slowly made there way through the
Gate under the Golden Gate Bridge.
For me, it was soothing for sleeping.
For the ship's crew, it was Sight and
Sound making music on ocean waves.
For the ship's crew, it was sweet port.
I can't imagine sailing and ttugging
Without the assist of the lighthouses.
I can imagine a very gratifying relief
when in sight of the lighthouse after
so long a journey.
Did the Yankees win?
Without sin
Challenging monarchy rule
Characterizing King as a fool
Escaping angry courts
Exploring adventurous ports
They came to a new world
Searching for patriotic pearls
Combatting rag tag war
Against red coated boars
Who thought they knew best
Putting rebellious subjects under arrest
Charging them for throwing tea
Into the Boston Harbor Sea
Defined as freedom of speech
Protest reached
Many others
American brothers
Wanting representation when taxed
Stating facts
Until the royals surrendered
Historians remember
A writer must write on the sea,
as the catalyst sails.
Each stranger and a day
makes a difference.
The salt at its peak, speaks
to me, not exactly divulging
what it had to say; the cold spray
for days and days, in darkness too.
All aboard; only at ports disembarking,
but not until your up to your knees
in entertainment and steak, lobster,
fruit and fries.
Luggage still on the deck, why bother,
closeting your wardrobe -
so much to do; look under the curtain;
find your inkwell and get at it,
but not until it’s time to go to bed
after the chocolate fountain.
I am grateful for being the captain of my friend ship
which as it sails across life’s ocean
has welcomed friends aboard along the way
has seen some go ashore at different ports
while others, I know, will be sailing with me
until my dying day
Safe place for the meaning — in couplets of rhyme
the words taking shelter in moments sublime
Their message unfurling — new harbor in sight
the tempest becalming in lines of delight
(Dreamsleep: April, 2025)
Angels are almost silent
Subtle
treadbare steppers
subliminal stalkers
determinedly quiet
except at choir
a pair of cherubic hums
can equivalate
to the drones
of a billion bees.
Can you separate
the noises
of bouncing sparrows
on wet sands,
from belly-down
thin-skinned slitherers
roaming in beds of grass -
obscenely dense,
from burglarizing ants at a picnic party?
Angels are seen
since they come to visit.
Unannounced,
but friendly faces
beaconing
like lighthouses.
Their halogen coronets
fulgurate and exorcise
diabolical agency.
Other angels may be noticed.
An invasive host
shod in threatening boots
dangling peace and safety
but entangling angles
strangle.
Hopes
course
in descension:
brambles
boulders
ports of fire.
I miss you now, miss the scent of your perfume smeared all over my body, just after hugging you tight, feeling our heart signals jamming frequencies around us, miss the melting moisture your hands catches whenever I caress you fingers, I miss the slowly dying feeling of my spine when you sooths your silky soft fingers on my back, miss you now,
I miss the raging flames running in my body streams, whenever you lay your seductive libs on my neck, I mean, the drying marros in my bones, the flashing blank spots in my brain, miss the velocity of my pulse, racing so fast, distributing shivers all over my body, miss you now,
I miss the sound of your voice, as you whisper indistinct words of love in my left ear, I mean, the vibrations in your tone, as they forge their ways into my eardrums, I could sense my body ports, shutting one after the other, miss the pure reflection of me whenever you open your eyes, trapped inside those beautiful eyes, miss the warmth in your laughter, whenever I crack jokes with you, MISS YOU
The ocean is a brimming bountiful beauty,
of whales, porpoises, dolphins, seahorses,
fish, seabirds, plankton, algae,
sparkling brine of emerald and blue.
Her dead are entombed in her eternal body,
she rises in the merciless storms,
with waves that toss many craft.
Yet, she also lies smoothly as a
sleeping kitten,
mariner's timeless sea chanties in the
winds.
She is envious of the sailor's love
for mermaids,
as she calls them from ports with
her lure.
She's undiscovered in
some ways,
oceanographers still learning.
She must not be overharvested,
she needs to replenish her strength.
Always wondrous and courted
by the mystique of the moon,
warm and bright in the tropical sun,
colder in the North's barren heart.
The great deep-
her legend in literature, art, and song. ~
Ports and mods
programmers and developers
oldschool and would be forgotten
with their drives
and engines
the old is unearthed and regifted
like some sort of modern age
robin hood or
some guy fawkes mask wearing hood hell if I know
and this is a bad poem I know it
the focus is all too undefined.
Am I writing to fill pages? Or am I writing
cause I have to?
Neither answer would surprise me at this point
they remake
while I try to make
revamp reivent remake and recycle
and IP becomes a frail sentiment
thrown about in court rooms by lawyers
while they play in our basements
can’t seem to stop the rom on com boom
never soon to bust wave we all ride on in
our highpowered row boats
I wonder if they don’t do the same
filling file after file so it can sit on a shelf
a collection of works all remade and restored
their work. A lifetime
I get it
A black cloud circles.
Man's doom is seen in the sky.
The storms at the ports,
Where trade and commerce soon die,
Ships and flags still floating by.
For 'Guess Who' contest sponsored by Margarita Lillico
Born in the abode of the angels,
a blooming rose beautiful and coy;
Glance even from different angles,
as always you were a world of joy;
You rose to dizzy heights and stardom,
there was a time all you touched was gold;
Life of parties in glitzy filmdom,
t'was tragic to see your life unfold;
Caught in the murky web of showbiz,
you tried to be the part of it all;
Many marriages, heartbreaks, never is
easy to get over, and play ball:
Health took a turn for the worse for you,
but you neglected it to stay on top;
A magnet as controversies grew,
you were from a unique field and crop;
Hollywood is a scary place love,
should've known before diving headlong;
it has robbed your sweet innocence dove,
now, sleep ports you to where you belong.
Old joke: How do porkypines mate? Very carefully.
The porcupine's a modest
And mostly solitary beast,
Akin to capybara and to beaver,
Though in size he is the least.
He rarely gets invited
To a bar-b-que or feast,
But long as he's not on the menu,
He doesn't mind it in the least.
He'll never write his memoirs,
Although of stories there's no lack,
But penmanship's beyond him,
He just doesn't have the knack.
And though he ports around a vast array
Of sharpened quills upon his back,
There's not one that's fit for writing
In all the clicking, clacking pack.
When "she" sends forth her pheromones,
And "he" rises to the bait,
Safe sex is uppermost in mind
As he advances to the plate.
His approach must be well-timed, precise,
Lest she shish-kabob her mate.
If it's not done right the first time…
There won't be a second date.
When on the lonely midnight watch and gazing out to sea,
Thoughts of you waft through my mind gossamer-like, floating free.
And though we are oceans apart and urgent duties beckon me,
I can simply close my eyes and pleasantly dream of thee!
We've been at sea seven months visiting mysterious ports of call.
We've had our rigging rent by many a ferocious squall!
Though our Man O' War may be tossed about by billowing foam,
I am ever comforted when I close my eyes and dream of coming home!
We've borne the brutal battle midst furious shot and shell.
The terrible stench and gore of war I know all to well.
My earnest prayer is that I make it through never more to roam,
When at last you're in my arms to fulfill my dream of coming home!
The days just seem to be whizzing by
Much faster than usual of late
Seems like just a few years have passed
Since going on my very first date
Exciting days of discovering new things
The world was shiny and new
A little bit scary but an absolute blast
Disappointments I've had just a few
All in all it's been a fabulous journey
Stopping at many great ports
Wouldn't change a thing even if I could
But the journey was way too short
Maybe I'll return as a piece of sculpture
Observing your every move
Perhaps a treasured Stradivarius violin
Serenading visitors at the Louvre
Even come back as a well worn seat
In a famous Hollywood restaurant
Rubbing bums with some powerful people
What more could a simple guy want
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