Warm & Fuzzy Inside

Here We Are
Together again!
before- Have I told you
How glad I am you came
Back again, possibly again...

I think you think (like me)
any moment in time
when we read a rhyme
that carries a certain chime
it is truly sublime...

I hope you might also see
all that matters are these moments
a piece of bliss unknown
about you, about me, about We
I think we mutually agree
on perhaps a little poetry

I am so pleased you
got away with
a stolen moment
to just look at ME, and smile
your happiness is mine
(even though it's better to share)

Your time is my treasure
Your eyes are my precious gems-
they are beautiful you know
but you've heard that before
still...you should know

I'm dancing on air
when I've seen
you There
curious
about me too
I'm right here
waiting for You

You make me feel so special
I glow inside, I'm sitting in the sun
a bird just mentioned you
just passing by
carried on the wind
echoes the sky

It reminded me
I should return
and show my gratitude
for You on this cloudless
poetic, grateful Winters day
So, thank You for You
in every wordless way.


Image By Jan Portielje, "Love Letter" (Arts & Humor de Mulher) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

After all

After doing some research

               in Philosophy and Being-

I came to conceptualize,

               thinking is pro-verbial.

After looking closer into,

                and reflecting upon what is Beauty-

I came to see,

                I bear no resemblance.

After debating what is Truth,

                the subjective and absolute,

I came to understand-

                people don't like its sound.

After feeling lost-

                from seeking and pursuing Happiness,

I came to find-

                it's a place that cannot be found.

After digging deeper into History,

                beneath the surface, between the lines-

I came to discover

                the past is exactly where it was supposed to Be.

After searching for the meaning

                of art, music, and goosebumps-

I knew,

                no definition was required.

After pondering all these

                baffling banalities and easily explained enigmas-

I realized,

                the art that is poetry is unexplainably the most beautiful music after all. 

Image by Antonio de Pereda, (c.1636) [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. "allegory of Vanity".

Stinky Drunk Skunk

Image "The Drunk Father" (c. 1923) by George Bellows (1882-1925) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

You have smelled, seen, known or are
the kind whose mind
can be enhanced by a potion
Aqua Veleno filled vials
vices of vitriolic spew
chemical concoctions
a mixologists malevolent
remedied reliance
addicted amnesiacs antidote
with spites of bitters
a splash of nasty
a sardonic sprig of superiority
chilled on thrown rocks-not nice
yet neat, to shake things up,
stirring in apathy
nefarious nincompoop
Salude!
Three Cheers!
Four for Health!
Down the hatch!
Fun's always quicker with liquor
unless you get sicker
Someone just un-corked a bottle
when they stepped in the room
Their stench phumes
see those invisible plumes
Pig-pen couldn't even contend
unless you took a swig too
or three
(with goggles it's hard to see)
That those kind that swill and fable
often act unkind, but don't mind
themselves when propped on bar shelves
Sickness, weakness or just casually blind
In your consent, treatment, or term
absent-minded of why you're there
stuck in sticky mire
bereft of any real desire
no garnish or zest
straight up
dosage of liquid courage
inebriation amalgamation
that mires the sane mind
slurs the world, skews the scale
towers built of sand
staggering and fallen stature
amplifies the tenor
increasing crescendo of blasphemy
while tone deaf
like your own ghost
who you've never seen
and claim is dead
incanted wild shiny eyes
fixedly unfocused
stained by devils blood
smitten with the sauce
hankering for the hootch
smiles and red cheeks
moonshine aglow
a vicious taunt
evil spirits foretell
a warning to be
en garde
in battle with Will
meddler and contriver of bad deeds
sower of bad seeds, spreading like weeds
laced with lascivious looks
just sad drowned trodden
sappy fears, soggy years
or claims wished never true
things you wish you didn't do
or maybe were just over due
but can never be undone,
now empty bottoms up
whistled empty wish on crystal lips
stashed, sailed in unread messages like ships
in the night
open seas surround an isle of regret
swimming on swills
repulsive, manipulating,
blind deaf and dumb
belching the way through dizzy
delusions and chortling hiccups
injecting idleness
dumbness
numbness
to turn it off
but it never comes back on
when your bottle is your only friend
until
The End.

Artemis Falls

                                                               

                                                                         Y

                                                                          o ur

                                                                          hands

                                                                          tingle my

Your arrow across the purple moon glow night  --beach haloed

streaks and sparks, metallic explosion reminds  --an omens delight

us the same flavour of blood on our tongue --bursting, waning, waxing

stain of mortalic after taste, singed with sardonic empathy --ashore releasing.

                                                                        W

                                                                        E hum

                                                                        ans EX  

Your spent time flowing soft in tame tides Femme --plorers seek

of the Forests where once witches brew, --to discover, ask for answers

rue Diana and her dryads heathen troops haunt --in corners where echoes

elfin fortresses delight, romping, tromping --recall, recant shadows of footsteps…                                                                         

                                                         S

                                                         ands

                                                         note grains

                                                         of Truth traces out

Your shadow passes casting glances --lines afraid of the dim

on sundials freeing the breeze to say---dark and unknown places

by the way You don’t belong but it was--leading to strange faces taunt

not You or I but the hunted who fear--races behind restrained by leashes-CUT

Free to fly.

Image by By (Marie-Lan Nguyen), 2007 'Artemis' Gabii Louvre [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Who Nose?

Is perhaps 'perception' a sense? Must we must be conscious of our perception in order to perceive it or because we perceive it, we are made more conscious of it? Shall we ask Aristotle...

"The problem might be raised: Can what cannot smell be said to be affected by smells or what cannot see by colours, and so on? It might be...argued that what cannot smell cannot be affected by smells and further than what can smell can be affected by it only in so far as it has in it the power to smell (similarly with the proper objects of all the other senses). Indeed that this is so is made quite evident as follows. Light or darkness, sounds and smells leave bodies quite unaffected; what does affect bodies is not these but the bodies which are their vehicles, e.g. what splits the truck of a tree is not the sound of the thunder but the air which accompanies thunder. Yes, but...is not the true account of this, that all bodies are capable of being affected by smells and sounds, but that some on being acted upon, having no boundaries of their own, disintegrate, as in the instance of air, which does become odorous, showing that some effect is produced on it by what is odorous? But smelling is more than such an affection by what is odorous-what more? Is not the answer that, while the air owing to the momentary duration of the action upon it of what is odorous does itself become perceptible to the sense of smell, smelling is an observing of the result produced."-The Classical Mind 2nd Ed. by W.T. Jones 

Perchance the Poet Nose...

Sniff! Sniff!
Smell, smell
I must tell
                     I will stick mine out here

Take a whiff
May I revel
in a poem to tell
of an organ that alerts one to fear?

Say a rat, or something much worse
it's a magnificent tool
never getting the credit its due
so if I may-

mention it's not really a curse
notched with nostrils dual
it only knows what's true
no tricks or slight of hand play

Surely some will argue
or opt for rhinoplasty
Like self-conscious old Cyrano
or Dante, DiMaggio, J.P. Morgan or Pinocchio

It's not worth all the fret
I think it fits your face
after all it's in the right place
crooked, long, slightly bent or bent just a slight

Everyone knows
of that certain human orifice
that sometimes goes
where it doesn't belong

On a liar it grows
or as a butterflies kiss
freezing snot
or burning hot

Achoo!
Something's Nasty!
Something in the fridge has to go-
Is this old fruit supposed to grow?

Elfin, stubby, button or bulbous
We're all gifted with just one
a nose after all is a knack
you wear that one the best

Wether being brown or pugnacious
stuffy or on the run
it never develops plaque
and it's not stuck on your chest

"Keep it clean", they say
and stuck to the grindstone
And it's rude to turn it up or down
or snip it just for spite

And Boy, that sonorous horn does play
a tune, while not having a bone
to pick, it's merely a noun
but can certainly wake up the night

It's your own special schnoz
sniffer, beak or snout
it just fits your bill
not to rub it in

It deserves an audible applause
Without a doubt I've figured out
It's growing even still
and with people and horses win

True, it cannot turn off
admittedly, sometimes that stinks bad
when invisible invaders incense
emanations of trash, sulfur and poop

Sure, go ahead wrinkle it up and scoff-
but for certain aromas-one must be glad
bread, books, coffee, apples and cinnamon scents
Just don't use it to snoop

Keep it to yourself
The face of your profile
You can thank genetics
for your one of a kind proboscis

Spectacles sit upon this face shelf
that's never out of style
it gets no health from athletics
(even if colossus)-Make way for ze French kiss!

Only in pictures and mirrors
do we ever see
what it really looks like
to be on you or me
with a nose
like none of those
but always grows
and always shows
which way the wind blows
or can forecast
by the shadow it can cast
behind is always the past
Cheers for the Nose
It may not be the one you would have chose
but that is not the worst of woes
to be worried about what one nose.


Image from Wikimedia Commons, Public Domain. The Reign of the King of  Covenant London 1956

Follow the Trail

The long

   and wind-

ing road where

  a river runs

    through this Place.

      My nest-my shelter…

        A bough heavy with its

         Burden throwing weight

           under -fractured –arms-bends

          splitting branches and hairs.

         Shedding, peeling, bleeding

        New growth smooth raw

      and glowing in vibrant appearance

     of new buried in the piles, behind the

    Brook, between the pulpy sheets in the

    Pillared fortress of my dark wood. Followed

   by History, taunted under timber, mossy muffled

  movements like the pumas pads, stalking, following

 His instinct upwind of fragile deer quaking in the breeze.

Led innocently but not blind by the familial scent which

Rushes past as white noise……………

The rivers running away in daily rush,

  the commute of clear water swelling

   and surging. Overflows with dripping

    anticipation, a communion-yet lingering

      all ways, touching baptismal branches,

       alone with the alchemy

        tossed in the leafy mix, where lights

         refraction concentrates and showers,

          beaming and bemoaning,

           the straightforward path

             Toward the new season,

              rooted in reason,

               salt over the shoulder,

                tears condense.

                 No turning back!

                  Abandon All Pride!

                    Mists obscure all distinction

                     of form-that is confidence-

                      The kiss of order, standing up 

                       to reason gushing with fortitude

                         in the flow of perspiring possibility.

                          Down long halls lined in

                           mirrored repetition,  rhetorical echoes

                            only bounce; bouncing rhetoric in repetition

                              mirroring echoes  the eagle’s fading scream,

                               A crier over town, sad jays bicker greedily 

                                gathering, stealing and mocking in their way 

                                    out of the thicket of things. Wandering wearily,

                                      coming to corners where speckled rocks

                                          from brooks and granites gain

                                            cowering recluse, a charging cavalier

                                               out of the mist. The berth anew, bewildered

                                                  by this liquid leariness.

                                                     Not a place to sea the source etched

                                                      in deep groves. Matters not of maps;

                                                        forecasted, charted,  re-routing, and

                                                          never doubting.

                                                            Blind faith, la selva obscura,

                                                             branches of beliefs stretching,

                                                               growing isms opening buds,

                                                                revealing tips of truth.

                                                                  From: The Past

                                                                    To: The Present

                                                                     A sacrificial lamb

                                                                      sheared of

                                                                        symbolic strength

                                                                          covering paths of tortuous trails         

                                                                           dead ends trap and pray

                                                                            begging of another way

                                                                              boughs for none bending astray

                                                                               beckoning behind knotty burl

                                                                                snarled in growing, tread softly on shed

                                                                                  skin exposing the elements

                                                                                   Aware of wind, heightened

                                                                                    yet heedless of escape, leave in fear

                                                                                     bursting bold and brazen

                                                                                       The eternal flame

                                                                                         Embers, never forgetting

                                                                                          pulsing vein, rhythmic, infinite

                                                                                            bleeding, gushing forth,

                                                                                              in the current forward motion

                                                                                                breathing the days away

                                                                                                  In the middle of the grove

                                                                                                    downstream and deeper

                                                                                                     drowning in the thick
                                                                                                        Redwood Forest

"There is pleasure in the pathless woods, there is rapture in the lonely shore, there is society where none intrudes, by the deep sea, and music in its roar; I love not Man the less, but Nature more." -Lord Byron

Feature image (1st) by Ilya Repin (1844-1930) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Second image, Redwood Forest "Fall Creek"

The Confession of an Obsession

Since a poem is a perfect place

             in which to hide a secret

it just so happens to be the case

             that nobody's found it yet

A place in which to utter

             a covert illicit little truth

as discreet as melted butter

             not to be uncouth

but it's later than due time

              to admit to one and all

I am guilty of a crime

              I will confess without stall

I'm enrapt in a torrid love affair

some juicy details I will share

The smell I cannot resist

which may have led to this tryst

I constantly search and obsess

it is a purely pathetic weakness

that saps me dry

but I will always try

Amassing more and more

until I find what I'm looking for

This infatuated relationship

                is a one way street

while there is companionship

                we will never actually meet

I dream of cuddling in bed

                under covers where a little light

is pointing to where I just read

                 and could go on all night

Igniting my mind

                 into a frenzied passion

an addiction of this kind

                 one should try to ration

Time and devotion

with the notion

that you'll never have enough

room for more stuff

if you keep acquiring books

yet still one obsessively looks

since solutions are often found

on pages that are bound

lasciviously labeled as Fiction

which is just a categorical diction

My endless reading is a search

                     to find how much one can know

a library perhaps is my church

                      stretching one's brain to grow

but a book can also be called a spell

                      some are innocent and some evil

by the cover you cannot tell

                       the influence is one's own will

caving under printed pressure

                       but as long as you enjoy the ride

or maybe find a buried treasure

                        I will no longer try to hide

This minor flaw in my character

Just ask the narrator

Where in my own life story

Tells not for glory

But to assert aloud

that I am proud

to admit I am a bibliophile

and my 'To Read' pile

is at least a mile

it should take me a while

to read them all

so I really shouldn't fall

for another book sale

until I finish my latest epic tale.

Image By Burnett, Alexander. [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons