poet and daughter a decade ago |
sweetly intoxicating
yes buy the sleeve
this is but I flying high
sly skimming danger am attracted
to a you I have in mind
and a you above ground
in syndicate indications...
yes, the blessed weapons needed
for the front door entrance exams
are my vulnerable intelligence
and every mis-propriety...
my ear is pressed into your belly
soft peach-y fuzzy hair
your navel has intentions too
do you teach ticklish by tiny measure(s)
I wonder by humming this poem
as if it were a flag
on the Moon caught
by celluloid in
just the right lighting...
there is a place where I go
and have this pine tree
and heather
by the sea memory
of a fog cast day
getting there
permits me
one act
of impunity
for that given moment
of imagination's inherent
pleasure and pain...
who but you
knew I'd go there too
when given choice, chance
and the chicanery
of my wanton articulation
between spell and seasoning...
after discovering you are alive
and on one of this life's many paths
it might be best for you to relieve
any undue pressurizations that feed calamity...
for example: from side bubbling
or ballooning to blow out
found eventually, a roadside attractive
rubber-necking broken down
please keep a keen eye
on tread wear and mileage
those two are bent with time
and wish to help you
weave your story, can you
pretend glory is gory
and remind yourself
factuality only holds
pieces of you
real bleeding
is an artful empty anyways...
and from pulpit to puppetry, love me
is always going to be a weapon too
it begins to sin when we pull demons
from barrels of oily fish just to have
them speak their names while wishing
we could be nourishing the multitudes
is it crude to think we can save everyone
from themselves, delusional maybe, poem says, not c rude...
the angels are mostly right
day say humans are wet clay(s)...
would have been happier
if left in the reeds
though maternal needs
are very often misdiagnosed
with caring principles
instead of knives that lead
replete with sounds, sights
and the other delights
spirit invents, in
and out of bones...
EJR ©
I love her.
ReplyDeleteLOVE HER.
Is that your daughter? Those lips, my goodness.
And you're working on my very favorite boy haircut --- when it's short enough to just reach its arms straight forward for whatever's right in front of it.
I feel the same about the poem. Easily one of my favorites.
Did you ever build her a treehouse?
ReplyDeletetents in the living room...
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ReplyDeletewell that certainly piques one's interest...at least in rowing a scull til dawn or finding out how they put a whole of cheese in that can of whiz...
ReplyDeletewhole wheel spoke took the rook often too but only to castle a dream or two
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Deletesew your brain doesn't have an off switch either...i use bread ties as rapunzel hair sometimes and pretend to rappel down inside the poem...seems it is best for you to speak here, on the wet sands of anonymity, i get it but it does make one ever curious...
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Deletehttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U7MVBl7MIBQ
Deletehttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aB-FLxglSOA
both sirens to me...
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ReplyDeletethat was a good poem, very good...
Deleteso i see you are a reaction-arian, a quick lift, duck and cover verbiage artist...you work off of others, their good and bad, in order to wield the power of the throttle of your own brain/heart/consciousness magma chamber...perhaps you are innately balancing your inner transistor versus capacitor
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ReplyDeleteI was speaking of your writing style...
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ReplyDeletethere's talisman talent there...regardless...no need for raw nerves...Popsicles are nice treats...
ReplyDeleteBuona notte, miss frenzy of talons and pillows...
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