Above are two Greggie Morebooks Show's recordings
you might enjoy.  They are to celebrate my art series
THE TREES OF EDEN.

Greggie Morebooks Presents…
A Book of Poetry

RIPLIKIN OF THE BRIARS
by Gregory St. John Taylor 

…a variety of 208 eclectic poems in a compiled collection…
ENP document control number: ENP2018-164
 PRODUCED AND PUBLISHED BY:
DUO Publications & Documentation R&D (USA)
greggiemorebooks@gmail.com
greggiemorebooks.com

 
1.
WESTERN SHAPES
WESTERN SHAPES
Without moving,
Tell me if the spots are on the window,
Or if they are on your eyes.
Ask me what I feel,
And I'll tell you, I do.
Skies are for outlining trees.
The ground keeps things from falling down
Or less up.
Bad defines good.
The moon is a reflection of the sun,
And the world is full of western shapes.
 
oOo
 
2.
THE REMARKABLE
RUNNING MAN OF GOLD
 
A remarkable man of gold does not have to run,
Because this gold is inherent in his design,
And in his character and…
Therefore, is his inherent wealth.
But if the man with inherent gold is running,
And he begins to perspire his wealth.
He is pursued because of his design
And must not be caught, because,
If his inherent gold is stolen, he will die.
We must not let this happen,
Unless we want no more men of gold,
Then we will all have to run.
oOo

 3..
THE BUM
(for Beth)
 
A rain fell, drops.
His face was spotted
With dark plops, mud.
And as he lay cold,
All he got was old.
 oOo
 
4.
LOVE SIPS
 
Loves are like the sips of Mithridates,
Almost hurt as they sink within,
Almost hurt enough to pleasure,
Leave one parched and considerably alone.
One should be disillusioned, in point,
By love, or by those who love,
Or really, by those who don't love,
But isn't Man somewhat suicidal:
To take love in sips
To survive love
If it ever comes?
 oOo

5.
TO RAIN
 
She stands in globs of mud.
Puddles surround her
While clouds rain overhead,
Raining monarchs
Sending out a warrior deluge
To defy her facial challenge:
An upturned smile.
oOo
 
6.
BITTER BREED
 
There is debris in the valiant scatter,
Pebbles heaved upon a vacant beach,
Red-rimmed shore, stone breakwaters.
Leaning breezes hymn straightened reeds
Caught unaware and unnatural, probed,
While sunrays tattoo a risen sky.
A leader sprawls, grips a beach
He thinks a world.
His followers halt
To think, but fail.
It's too late for this,
As each becomes a belted pebble,
Sinks,
And completes the littoral scene.
A crisp cry races in and out from here,
An echo,
As the pale white bird yaws in a seaward call,
Turns and pulls away.
The bitter breed remains, a valiant scatter.
oOo
     
7.7.
DREAMER BY A MAINE OCEAN
 
Passion basks by the greenest grass,
As the dreamer calls each lovely moment life.
His eyes roam a field of stone
To where a stalk is planted in a tufted rift.
This little tree,
And others like it,
Move by an April push,
Move by an August pull.
The dreamer watches each growing thing
And thinks of a smile brought eye-high,
And the kiss upon some warming skin.
Is it with surprise he dips his face
Into Maine's sky-flavored sea?
 oOo
 
8.
ALTER ROCKS
 
Thank the moon for being here,
Because
The sun has gone behind
The sea's intruder waves.
We're not alone.
Know the sun,
Because
The moon explained
The night to it.
Altar rocks,
The sides of the sea,
The sky's feet,
Pointed
To scratch the sun's low back.
Prod the moon
With words carved by the sea
For all to see and read.
 oOo

 9.
WHISTLING THE BRANDYWINE
 
Music goes with a river's sound
And must come from far away,
Be loud now,
Then diminish
As the water drifts away.
Notes of natural music.
Winds above this little bend
Make a flute of what a river is,
Huffs a delicate tune,
Peaceful,
An accompaniment
For whatever song
Your heart is singing.
The shallows tap a tinny rattle
Aside a basic throb
Of deeper depths.
I whistle by the bank,
As each note fits.
 oOo

10.
POINT OF VIEW
 
Trees are crooked and wide
To better grab the sky.
The bigger branches hold it.
The smaller ones tickle it a bit.
The sky, a large thing to hold,
Says thanks
As it rests on a cushion of crooked trees
Wide enough to grab the sky.
oOo

 11.
FOR THE SEA CUCUMBER
(for Lin)
Going out to play in twisting rays
Milky light and dagger nights?
There is always the moon dance,
A sad motion, a gritty slide,
The crawl across an ocean's bottom
To your mate.
oOo

12.
JACK
 
Jack came today.
He carried sobriety away
To where sour mash
Eggs and hash
And time stand still.
See Jack run.
oOo

13.
VADE
 
Fire, Promethian humor,
Was to be gift to Man
While animals
Stayed by darkened streams.
Fire's warm,
And so is a laugh.
He dwelled in reflections,
And now his face
Is heated by something else.
It dawns on him:
Animals are humans
Who died young.
Ashamed,
He goes to the stream
To sit by the young ones
And share their embarrassment
As the laughter on the hill
Beats against their cooling backs.
oOo

14.
BRISK ZEPHYR
 
A whispering word, breeze,
A subtle hint, felt.
The sarcastic blow, chill,
A cloudy bank:
The sea ruffles its fur,
Heaves foam at an innocent rock
Who sticks in the sand
Unmoved by this.
Brisk zephyr,
Leave my angled thoughts alone.
I listen to all,
But it takes centuries
To change my mind.
oOo

15.
HAPPY HOUSE WORLD
 
Sterile love wrapped on pallid faces,
Sincere affections planned rightly,
Dead spontaneity, nervous response,
And a fear to know.
Quiet robbing touches,
Never-asking glances, individuality,
And dead flesh rising to meet a trumpet call.
Efficient inefficiency lies
With innovation for innovation,
And the carefree do as the carefree do:
Peek to see the effect.
Happy House World is rocking to the wild
Rollicking bars of a quiet dirge
Warmed by unpeople, wispy dreamlike things,
Confident and knowledgeable.
Pots and pans, dirty floors,
A touch of mirth, and a feeble trying,
Clogged drains and too far to walk,
And the sideward smile of Happy House World.
 oOo

16.
POET MAN
IN THE FIRE YARD
 
This is a wickedly romantic world:
Words.
A poet walks in the sun's socks,
A pale moon hat,
a body of weather,
continent hands.
His fingers press the sea.
What a cruel jelly, this world of mine, he says.
Leave me a patch of pretty ground
With some blue sky and a daisy
Or two for me to gloat upon.
Watch a cold, pitiful shaking shape
Slapped by a warm glove and tucked away
Like a bear into winter.
oOo

17.
A HINT OF HEAT
 
I am a hint of heat, he says.
Feel a finest-side-of-beef woman
Loving him sitting by the fire.
Cattle yard
As she pushes up against him,
A water trough man,
To have her sides scratched
As she drinks.
Wood moves
As a blank chunk
Stares from the pit of fire,
Glowing teeth,
And the heat melts this poet man's cold.
 oOo
 
18.
IVYSTONE
 
Whispering trees
Buzzing bees
A bit of Nature's teaching.
The wind's clattering din,
A learned animation
Of a knowledged sun.
His mind is undone as
Two shepherds by the pool sit,
Awed domesticity,
His university.
oOo

19.
THE BODY
 
He is captive
Within a body structure
Not planned by him,
Nor started by him, or
He would have remained
A twinkle in his old man's eye.
He can't win.
He was destined to begin.
And become the mind and body refined,
A mortal portal to death,
Previously bequeathed to him,
How nice.
oOo

 20.
NEW YORK CATS
 
Electric night.  Lights on.
Dark shadows, car horns,
And what else?
Yes, an argument,
And Brubeck's TAKE FIVE blending
Beneath a smoky pall,
Yellow eyes watching the woman lose.
I did not!
Did so!
Yellow eyes watching,
Pointed ears listening,
Insistent Brubeck, notes long,
Tempers short.
CHICAGO playing across BEETHOVEN.
Cats sliding along the buildings.
A trash-can piddle.
Discrete windings behind a Pontiac,
Sniffed and covered by a little gravel.
FOR SALE on the Pontiac.
Electric night.  Chilling breeze.
Silhouette of the George Washington Bridge,
And echoes of fun had in Palisades Park.
A mouse is dead.
The cat ate it.
The argument's over, and the lights are out.
It's very late, and ruin has come
To let the grass out from beneath the pavement.
A puff of smoke.
Time changes hands and wins.
The cats have gone to Newark with the pigs,
And there is a war on.
New York is quiet.
The cats have gone.
 oOo
 
21.
CHRISTINA'S HOUSE
 
He chased a whiff of poetry
That resembled any bric-a-brac
Confused by a poem
As who he is felt inside
To a corner, a cautious corner.
Confused,
Bent to an oath by a vague request,
As who he was
Vanished into a palm of a presence
He might've invented himself.
Moved from where he once lay
Crippled in the grass, he looked
Into her eyes from behind.
And Christina's lovely eyes
That opened that tempered door?
His oath, as he was to become,
Thanked her with his eyes
As she relaxed,
Touched her face to the ground
Amid the tall grass
And slept, finally.
 oOo

22.
THE RISK
 
Plans of the best…making
Are not plans
But hopes.
Hopes are expectations
That are previously reconciled
Just in case
They don't come true.
 oOo
 
23.
QUIET LIKE A BUBBLE
 
Casual and provocative,
Simple,
Intimate
In a distant way.
She moves down the hill
Onto other things,
And you stand feeling left
Through no fault
Of her own.
Quiet
Like a bubble.
oOo

24.
AWKWARD MOMENTS
 
Joyless streaming
Not because she wants to, but
Because it is imposed
By an awkward moment.
She turns sideways
To the way she must go
In hope of fooling
What's crouched in wait.
A clear band of sunlight
Settles like a halo
On her life,
And, suddenly,
Awkward moments tiptoe away
As her joy comes streaming.
 oOo

25.
TRUTH
 
Possibility,
The choice of could be,
Rings within the proverbial yes.
To know for sure
Is to fly in a wishful way
Wished upon wispful changing puffs,
Or a law of averages, perhaps.
Reliable?
Chance is a wretched gamble for those who must:
Those who drown forgetting how not to,
Mindly forgot, but tried anyway.
The search for truth is a bitch in heat.
Finding it is the holy grail.
Defining it is everything everywhere.
Bringing it home is to have a secret.  Don't tell.
Convincing others (if you choose to do so) is proof,
And proof is always too big to accept,
As is truth, a sand house built on rock.
 oOo

26.
GOD TAKEN
 
God is a blazing tyrant bush
Grown in gnarled soil above
What is called a surface,
A plain of multifacets.
Humble backs cross themselves
In both directions
As the paradox roars in their unhearing ears.
The cause strolls quietly among these men
And touches coming shoulders.
Each walks by this being and feels touched,
But never knows the man.
 oOo

27.
THE LINE
AND THE ORDER OF THINGS
 
In a pond
Was a line
On either side of which
The world went in two directions: up and down,
The lower being wrinkled
As if trembling
In its own embarrassment
At being perpetually head down,
The upper seeming aloof
And maintaining a countenance of grandeur
In its superior
Or more correct upright state.
The line seemed not to care at all.
Among the others who did not care,
Were the trees,
Shrubs, and sky,
The balled clouds, and winged creatures
Who made residence
In both the upper and lower worlds,
Both interesting,
Both necessary to the order of things.
And the line,
The unbiased line
To whom both looked correct?
It stayed silent in the middle
Necessary to the order of things
Yet
Languishing in the fact
That none of the life evident
In the upper and lower worlds resided in it.
This too
Is necessary to the order of things.
 oOo
 
28.
THE BOY LEAF
 
Script row of bushes,
Green chronicles, giddy berries,
And a twined reminder
Of the history of trees.
Is a boy here incongruous?
The ground doesn't think so,
A bit of granular surface
Quietly provided.
The boy smiles,
Allows the foliage to breathe,
Knowing that this being
Will soon reveal himself
To be an integral part of the field.
...ask Ferlingetti.
A high-placed leaf
Drops at a branch's push.
The boy knows what it means to intervene,
And he looks up to where he once nursed.
I won't climb back up, he states, raising an eyebrow,
My place is here, on the ground,
To grow old and blend.
oOo
 
29.
COME SPRING
 
Flat pads and heavy whips
Sweep along the brook
That holds cool and calm
The melted winter snow
From the highlands turned liquid.
Shades of blues and crystal whites,
A god's eye, a quiver,
And a tear forms to greet Spring.
 oOo

30.
THE LEAF PLACED IN HER HAND
 
She turned a leaf before her eyes to see
What lay beneath the side she thought alone.
There, in her hand, across her palm, a tree
Lay in a plate of green, relief free-grown.
Upon her skin, another tree was etched
Not green, light green, but flesh, sweet pink, a cut
Just like the handsome leaf that nature sketched,
A record in time of past light greens, occult.
Twas this, the two combined, that called respite
From thought, so that a more exciting sign
Could be displayed, that of marvel, a bright
Relook with no question, just awe refined.
On leaf brocade, and in the palm engraved,
Was written the world, its past, its now, and saved.
 oOo

 31..
THIS YOUNG GIRL
 
This young girl
Flicked a sudden switch
And grew old.
Her man,
In his prime, fell.
He stood, a mound of sand,
By another mound of sand
In reach of another mound of sand,
And when the waters rose in his veins, he fell.
This young girl,
Once in her prime,
Just another mound of sand,
Eroded
In the flick of a sudden switch.
 oOo

32.
TURNABOUT
 
When confronting man directly,
He would rather chat with a stump
Of a once majestic tree,
For both are one in the same.
Give that a name
And rave his shape at a distant sun?
She doesn't have that kind of fluted mind.
She would rather sniff a rose.
But Man will not be what could be
Until the rose sniffs back
And is pleased with what it smells.
oOo

33..
DREARY MORNING
 
A life is in shambles.
Every stone overturned,
Out from the brambles,
Not a lesson learned.
A needle, sniff, or smoke,
A joy or two,
And the time you awoke
With Life still about you.
 oOo

34.
DOG RIVER
 
My river is a tired thing
And wears a dirty face.
She gasps around each crooked bend,
Hefts a sluggish pissing tanker,
And is embarrassed
As she clogs the kind filtering grasses
That try to comb each of her tired miles.
oOo

35.
GREAT WALK
 
Threads in bits of imagination squeak
Like feet in ill-fitting shoes
Fed by the mile: The Great Walk.
The journey fails.
A hand by a hip twitches as a foot falls.
There are no guarantees.  Seek.
The curve could be the way, or
It could be the straight, or
The end.
The circle could be completed, and
Some say a straight line in the universe
Still curves to meet itself
And a beginning found.
The Great Walk sneers.
A passer-by waves
And is pointed at,
Agrees to what is indicated
And
Moves forward,
By.
The ghastly cobble underfoot
Could be just some thread
In His imagination.
The Great Walk heaves beneath His feet.
No one dare try to explain.
Fear.
oOo

36.
SKY RIGHT
 
From aside a cloud a hand appeared,
And through the sky a message flew
Imprinted grandly on Skydom's bottom.
Love, it spelled for the eye to see.
Those with eyes were called to view,
And no one blinked or shied
For a blue clear sky was seen (graying a bit).
A word I just don't see, they said.
Then suddenly a moan, and a figure fell
Among the feet of his fellows, and
Shielded his eyes from the word in the sky,
An eye for an eye.
He stood and raved and pointed.
And about him a space of silence grew
As other stepped back
To allow this demon to go mad.
 oOo

37.
BEACH
 
Sand pebble people
Under an encased gray wooden sky
Washed occasionally by a swilly sea,
Brushed-on dryness air,
A needlepoint sun.
On greasy foam,
A red balloon is
Just leftover talk,
Cold damp bad breath,
A child's toy
Under the selfsame gray wooden sky.
Faded blanket
Of almost red on mottled sand,
A ragged ensign flat on flattened castles
Built too long ago.
Beach.
 oOo

 38.
PAST LIGHT
 
Photons, pieces of the past
Light the present, but
Just exactly which way are they going?
It is assumed we go forward, yet
Ambient light suggests now, yet
The stars are not really where they are perceived
Because the past is here and today is there.
Yet, she cannot see when her eyes are closed, or
Actually, she can see no other way.
To be now, she must close her eyes,
Otherwise the past will win
And she will be gone, and the pity of it is....
She will not know until later,
When she sees the last of light.
oOo

 39.
TO BE IN DEATH
 
The poignancy of fingers pushing against the cheek
Of a powdered flesh old man
Is lost in the time it takes to die.
The eyes beneath a folded brow, and freckled lids
Gaze when the fingers stroll their daily craggy stroll
Across the acres of dried wrinkles, his desert face.
The scenes (a world is to a life)
Flip repeatedly in his mind
Animating an odd concoction of favored times,
Personal and of no consequence to anyone else, other eyes.
The scenes blur into a magic of flitting blazes,
A waterfall, the spin of a wheel.
The fingers come and dust a temple, and
His eyes are in a cinema.
A voice calls, but the theater doors are closed.
Death shirks the finger, turns off the lights,
Makes music for the figure
Who sits in the applauding audience of himself.
oOo

40.
THE SEA
 
The sea is me and cries along the winds
To places touched by some of me about
My constitution and from where begin
The swirling sounds that rise each day from out
My troubled depths.  The land at hand is but
A coast of questions which I wash with floods
Of answers, each controlled by what
A moonbeam is, unless, through rage, the blood
I am is tempest borne.  I mingle, fit
With rain, and through the clouds drop hard upon
The land the wisdom of my words.  The bit
Of good I do the poet dwells thereon
Knowing that the sea is me who speaks
When by the edge, I give the things he seeks.
 oOo
 
41.
ALONE
 
To be alone is deep, a soulful sting,
A quiver into numbness, and a bite
Upon the quick of man, encompassing
His body, mind and every thought, that height
Of desperate loneliness no longer called
A friend of individuality.
It’s much for tiny men who live bescrawled
Within a scroll of law alone to be
Among a million men, fair game for black
Cold treachery from hands perhaps his own.
It’s fate for a wretched fugitive who back
From life contrived returns having grown
A quality of loneliness so great
He halts and sadly there for death awaits.
oOo

 42.
LIFE'S DEMAND
 
To be devoid unto totality
Of words enough to bring a man relief
From the mind about reality
Is not to have the tools to pry from grief
One's captured soul from such society.
To look not in the rows of books and read
Is truly now an impropriety,
To not direct attentive ears in need
Insanity.  The word, an answer found,
May fit, may not, but either way brings forth
A thing to save or use, one caught and bound
For yet another time, the other’s worth
To foster noble thoughts and deeds for man
To lift and shoulder all of Life's demands.
oOo
 
43.
STORY-WIND, STORY-STAR
 
Within the sky, blue blanket soft, with fluffed
Puffed myriad of pillow clouds, the bed
Of angel whisper breaths, the wind's a’huffed
Brisk story's told:  Life's fact to fancy wed.
The passage remains tempestuous.  Men's minds
Receive the rain reality, but choose
Romantic views of angels' tears to find
A place with touched philosophers, to muse
To speculate, to wish another world
Upon their mortal frames.  It is a way,
And who's to say to wish a dream unfurled,
To wish upon a star is wrong?  To pay
The price of death for life gives one the right
To dream and see the world he wants alight.
 oOo

44.
DARKNESS
 
Extinguished lights, eyes tightened fast from goals
Lit lividly, a starlight evening thirst
For what lies hid in blackness, tempting souls
Who search with the darkest depths to first
Detect the secrets of the Universe.
The secrets come and render rich the works
Then written: the notes, the songs, the poet's verse
To give us thoughts and intellect.  What lurks
There then within is food for thought, the wild
Contemplative experience that haunts
The mystics, scares the stupid, thrills the mild
And elevates the poet's art, to flaunt
His findings up before our eyes to plea
That we, to think, must so in darkness see.
oOo
 
45.
AN OLD MAN DIES
 
In bed alone with pictures; sounds of friends around
His waning mind recalls the hours spent in jest;
He looks aloft and studies images filtering down,
And with a smile, folds his hands upon his chest.
oOo

46.
SLEEP IS NOT A SWEET THING
 
Sleep in not a sweet thing
Unless you don’t have it.
To have it is not a sweet thing
Unless you need it.
To need it means you don’t have it,
And this is something to consider.
Sleep is a gap in wake time.
It is a world of its own
Outside the world of our awareness.
We know we sleep, we think,
And we know we dream a bit,
But why do we feel we’ve had no sleep
When we stumbled and bumble awake
And don’t remember a thing?
oOo
 
47.
THE POEM
 
Free thoughts are like the fleeting birds I watch,
Untamed, at first, then brought to roost through wit,
Yes wit, I say, to coax, to have, to catch
A thing whose basic nature does not fit
A captive role.  I wonder much how long
It is a thought will stay before through whim
Or more, it spreads its lofty wings and gone
Becomes, to leave me wanting more time from him
But cursed I would be if cage I would
A bird born free, in beauty wild.  To bar
A soul of body bright, by love to wood
And sunshine lent, extends my role too far.
But, pen I can a portrait quick as there
It stands a while, for me a poem so fair.
oOo

48.
ORAL SUNRISE
 
Draw out an essence
And quaff it quietly in the morning light.
The sun is reddishly self-conscious
In its morning position
Realizing its nocturnal sucking tap
Of the moon-gone-to-sleep's whitish strands.
oOo

49.
THE PRAYER
 
So a prayer is what I do today, a way to where, from where?
It seems it never matters to where, just from where
Because is it true the source is more important than the destination?
It depends on which way you are looking.  Is that true?
Probably not, and why?  Philosophy fails so many times
In the wrong minds, some desinations and some sources.
It is true that false is false, and I thought of that myself.
Be proud I told myself, a destination as well as source,
But my credentials are more for being a source, indeed,
Because one should be educated in the ways of the world
And not just be a hole in the sky emitting source things.
How about verification and validation, two things I know
To ensure that as a source, proofs are required, not by me,
Because I’m too smart for that.  Dumb is too easy to be.
oOo

50.
LUNCHES IN THE SUN
 
I like a pup to be a pup ‘til grown
When it reflects the light on days a’gone
Long past but brought to bear by light my own.
From shadows of recall and times alone, a bone.
To dogs of age, a bone is a bone, to wit,
A part of body torn to bits and munched.
‘Til nothing remains but a splinter, a bite a bit
For me to watch; for pup to eat for lunch.
I think not much of bones outside my own
To keep in place until my life runs out.
And the dogs of Heaven look for bones alone
And join in packs of elder pups about.
Bones are rattled, played and tossed around
By pups my own and those of God’s array
To run and jump and joy, to bark, abound.
To assure that bones cycle through time, decay.
For bones and pups, I recall my times, the fun,
Of bones, my pup, and lunches in the sun.
oOo
 
51.
MY DEAR, I’M HERE
 
You were a bit too much for me, you see,
But this slight stop in love did not forbid
My terrible urges from taking hold to be
The thorn of fear to find, to pull, to rid.
I wanted to stop my heart from beating so loud
To hear the strings of my soul to play and sing
Without crying out in pain, the thorn to crowd
So much of me as to cause my feeble arms to swing.
I looked so much the spider while moving along,
I tried to get your help, my Sweet, a call!
You pulled me in; I feared my life was gone.
Your breasts were pouncing about to stop my fall.
I did survive, my God, I’m pleased to say.
We married; the thorn was gone, the rest remained
For me to wallow and call my own, to pray
That you ever leave me spent, replete and drained.
You are still a bit too much for me, I fear,
But time has shown I can survive, My Dear.
oOo

52.
TO ARGUE WITH MYSELF
 
I have no other purpose, only roles
To give at last in shouts, staccato bursts.
I walk in steps of night and days of strolls
Little starts and halts known as firsts,
So simple, so quiet, so short and clearly terse,
Eccentricities, ego quirks,
Deep in color and in words immersed.
I try to clear the suds and lighted murks
By waves of thought and of turmoil riled
Held out to you, in form, a call, a taunt
Lightly formed, numbered and somewhat dialed.
In doubt and in a fog I daunt and jaunt
My mind to feel to be to see be free
To argue with myself and still agree.
oOo

53.
BROTHEL BOOK
 
I see pages as smooth legs,
A book as many women.
In the evening as in the morning,
I open to a poem
And release its thigh-held sigh.
oOo
 
54.
VOICES OF THE GARDEN
 
Perk your ears when Gardens call to you;
In voices of color, hue; blends around;
Those of the Garden speaking at once, the few
Whose constant whispering among themselves abound.
When strolling betwixt and between these rustling bouts,
We often stroll in absence through the talk
Unaware of the concert of sound about.
In one side and out the other we walk.
Listen to the song of verdure voices
And hope that someday, we will meld each day
And reach today the proper sum of choices
Listening to the words along our way.
We must enjoy the hymn of Nature there
And to the notes, the rest of life prepare.
oOo

55.
DELIRIUM
 
Give her hope
And take away the shivers.
She will not quake
In nervous spasms
At the explosion
Of thoughts on love.
But she can't fly.
She can't sail skyways
In such a weak,
Vague-like frame,
Her passions closed
In a vestibule of concern.
What there is of this frame,
Is pushed away
Because she knows
Bubbles pop,
Dreams curl
From pots of insecurity,
And delirium puddles
About
The leaky vessel,
LOVE.
oOo
 
56.
GOLD AS A METAL
 
Fear cradles in a belted breast,
Weak strangements tasseled along
Ornamented shoulders.
These ache a finely bodied structure.
Quiet movement brings a fist
Before a blond girl's eyes
As she sits to be tilted and taken.
The air rattles a necklace
Of pretty beads, all listening
To a whisper of hope tomorrow
As today brings none from yesterday.
Kings try.
The blond child lies flat and is slowly taken apart
Bit by bit, section by section
Until only the whisper remains.
A point glows dark, as a smallness grows.
The knife over the whisper is caught
By a shadow and thrown away.
This thing touches tiny pieces
And knows them together,
Places the bits here and there, then,
There is a girl, as blond as the sun can make.
She is as blond as a star before a godly hour.
These two have known what they mean apart.
The clasping of bodies, the needs arise
To tell of a future intrinsically known
As the fair creature is lifted above
To lean on a reflection by darkness inspired.
They're young, but they know life without necklaces,
Gold as a metal.
oOo

57.
A MAN CALLED TODAY
 
There was a race, and Man was named after it.
Symbols fell like rain,
And the doors were closed to throw Man out,
Fair flesh was turned to dust,
And what cries the sculptor cried
As his work crumbled into living debris.
Fissures formed where the differences were,
Crags leaped into empty skies,
Moss, and tangled weeds
Hid the pinkest grottos,
In the shadows of trees swaying
By a push of the menacing.
Bodies fell where rain kept puddles,
Arms entangled arms
In what was then confusion
Under an erratic sun.
And then she lay serene.
A stain of redness blanketed a whitest cheek,
And a sound bubbled into a sigh.
It was then man found he was complete,
Found he was devoid of parts.
Fingers searched for proper shapes,
Reasons for touching,
One to be filled,
And one to do the filling.
Some sat and caressed,
Unearthly testing,
Sprung from what is called a sin.
The rains came and what breathed drowned.
What loved survived, flesh met flesh in ritual,
And someone told someone else what he was doing.
 oOo

58.
WHAT WASN'T BARE TO THE EYE
 
…..Became exploded in the brain
And wretched thoughts of what could be
Blasted simple acts into extravaganzas.
Woman's hips became traps,
And the sperm of man became a viper's venom.
Birth became the fall of man.
With ghastly faces, sex sought sex
Until they cowered in each other's arms,
Bodies touching just by chance.
And then a warmth again was felt,
And separate parts were found to fit,
And hands began to prod and search
As if to relearn a thing forgot.
Lips touched lips,
And whose they were didn't matter.
Man became woman and vice versa.
What was taken was taken and gladly given.
The shattered dream found a shape,
Reformed into beauty's image,
A certain grace returned.
Man became today,
And this became his name.
Lover took today and made it himself.
She grasped at tiny clouds
That gave her soothing rain,
As who he was, a man called today,
Lay quietly nestled deep within her soul.
oOo
 
59.
MY RIVER AS A WOMAN
 
I know the banks of a river
As slippery,
Because the water slides along
A liquid colored glass.
It's the tangled weeds and rock
Comprising the water's bottom
That raises awkward white
On each foamy surface.
Ripples,
Cuts,
Bright noisy steps
For the water to descend,
Gracefully sometimes.
I know; I sit on steps
Buried in tingling petticoats,
By the river as a woman,
And she must be pure.
oOo
 
60.
LOINS AND SUPPORTING THIGHS
 
Shake off a burden as figures queerly naked
Reach for mountains to hide behind,
And waters rise in which to sink withered vines
Once taut and sought.
Clouds of shame crowd
Ways once open between the lovers' eyes.
And his hands come from freedom
To cover their burning faces.
The weak wilting into deserts,
As the strong become the seas.
All women grow like heavy earth,
Each man becomes a tree.
The sun with its servant moon bellows fertile talk.
But, what once made a total body
Assembed into parts, became undone
To be prepared to become one again in time.
oOo

61.
HYACINTHUS
 
Fields of buds, some scores or more
Grow silently in grandeur for
Such is the wonder of Mother Nature's
Purest manner, unerring, so perfect,
Save one, the troubled one,
Who, perhaps, is not even hers to give.
Since when, from where has man begun,
A bud so raw, which ceaselessly spews
His seeds until all drown in viscous muck,
By choice, perhaps? 
Tomorrow, perhaps?
Gaze at fate in whose breast destiny burns,
A happenstance.  A pale charisma comes
Endowed with carnality for nature's sake
To restore the balance,
To succor
Hapless wretches, gregarious by birth,
Kilkenny cats, a teeming mass of myopes.
For why? 
A venture of good intent?
Perhaps,
Inspired by greatness, but steeped in Silence
So deafening
As to emulate the croaks of death.
Do you hear it? 
Can you feel it?
Listen to the languor of skydom's lay,
A dirge, more aptly put.
Yet, a man did stand, and speak,
And told of standards
From which a promise could be wrung,
But whosoever turned from his defacto writ,
Should reap the terror of everlasting Darkness.
The despot song of ages,
Fear and punishment,
To call the herds to knee,
A most effective despumation.
Will the faithful please stand!
"Who am I?" cries the knowest
In whose soul a serenity rests,
And whose countenance
Mirrors the wrath of devils.
 oOo

62.
HOW PARADOXICAL
THE IMPRESSION
 
Spoke he upon awakening in the quiet of death.
A grizzly thought, the ruthless analysis of the self
Coldly calculating, yet immensely enriching,
A due process necessary for him who desires
Refreshment, and vitality,
A clearer lens through which to discern
The urge by which he, the individual, progresses.
"I, who in death, mark these well, will drop on you
The pains of my death, in that there was an error in my ways,
The sacrifice bared before blind eyes.
But, simpletons, take care, for no man, save he who is I again,
Shall die a better death.
Pay homage to him who acted his greatest act
Before an audience with no eyes."
"And who am I?" calls the master of his own cult,
The also chosen sect.
"I stand in conflict, I who gave restrictions and reward
In a manner all my own."
"And what of me, and mine?" cries the vassal
Whose bones crunch
Beneath the argumentative weight of celestial bickering.
Lay back the skin and bare the rubicund tissues of reality
For all to see.
Then, with eyes agape and fingers trembling,
Allow the saline fingers of the individual
Painfully dissect the heart of the mass,
And as such rise without effort as it should be.
oOo
 
63.
HOW CAN SOMETHING GOOD BE EVIL?
 
Speak of the others in whose liturgical splendor
More souls do swing
From divinity gallows, pendulous sides of beef,
Those who have already arrived.
How fortunate these others who contrast the contrast
All others project, whichever the more sublime they be.
Those who find pleasure foremost,
Or nature's knaves the preferred.
Are they any less, the more, even equal?
Who is the person who is the knowest?
For he has nowhere to go.
Even with him whose intents are the purest
Could not in his frailty carry the ponderous weight
Of the world's intrinsic stupidity,
The slumbering sloth which will devour itself,
And him, poor devil.
It is time for whomever to arrive.  God bless.
oOo

64.
LOVE
 
As mountain waters mingle with rippling tarns
So should man come to woman.... in cool flows
Without heat, the stimulant that taints the union,
Spoils the mixture.  Sobriety would be lost.
The whole would be destroyed.
How exquisite the slow dance of real love,
The measured waltz of timeless study, the pointed
Looks so deep, the slow caresses, and final embrace
When courtship is over, and the partners leave
The dance floor to enjoy their love.
Then the trust and mellow longing that has brought
The two together expand and open up to allow
The pent-up heat of passion to flow into their lives
To cement them into eternity.
oOo

65.
BEING MARRIED
 
If passion is measured in inches of friction,
It retains its most-primitive form,
Analytically speaking.
If love is measured in feet of satisfaction,
It resembles passion by the inch,
Comparatively speaking.
If passion and love comprise yards of completeness,
The union requires a married commitment,
Figuratively speaking.
In inches or feet or yards or more,
Marriage, by measure, is greater than all,
Personally speaking, of course.
oOo
 
66.
QUICKLY BAY
 
I steer in ocean silence
about a leg of land,
prodding my wandering sides
to a cove, a bay,
which is always over so quickly.
 oOo
 
67.
WHAT’S A POEM?
 
A poem is nothing more.
oOo
 
68.
WHAT’S AVERSE?
 
Poetry in a rhyme scheme, no worse;
Is this averse?
oOo
 
69.
PUBLIC SKIN
 
How obscene the display of public skin
Flaunted in many hues before one another.
How shocking it is to see,
And what of private skin?
And does the hue matter?
How unshocking it seems to be
When no light gives us skin to feel.
oOo
 
70.
A CLEAR DAY IN THE FOG
 
I once woke up on a clear day in a fog,
But that’s nothing new, for me to do.
How about you?
I once woke up and looked out the window,
And it was foggy, a misty fog, a fog,
But my mind was clear, so there.
Clarity is not dependent on the weather
Or is it?
What cannot be said in words.
Their eyes are simple,
As much as a wave,
As much as a smile,
As all we must have.
Velvet comes running in the shape of the night
To dress up the day
To destroy the fist and undo the belted breast.
Union smiles with two bodies in hand,
Two fixtures within a celestial balance.
Brief words in silence
Take these two by the ear
And whisper an act that the two are committed.
She, who is our woman, kisses he, who is our man,
And the sides of the world unite in the twilight,
The dark to the light, our moon to our sun,
Both become one.
oOo

71.
THE GUIDE
(told a story)
 
‘Tis He who points from lofty Heaven down.
‘Tis He who guides us softly to the ground.
‘Tis He who gives us life to live and then….
‘Tis He who guides us back to Him again.
oOo
 
72.
GO FORTH AND MULTIPLY
 
I once onced twice and found a result of three.
‘Twas fun to mathematically be true
Of numbers controlled by others be to be.
Math is good, if numbers true to brew
Into results, more or less, egad,
But fun so mathematically contrived.
I find my sums are not always right, I add,
My differences, mostly wrong, derived
So it really doesn’t matter much
What results appear to you or me,
Because who cares that the sum as such
Is two or five or four or even three.
But, I, for one, can’t add but can comply.
God said: go forth and multiply.
oOo
 
73.
TWINS BE?
 
As lone entities, we become, through multiplicity,
Many elements in the self.
How many cells comprise a human?  Just guess;
How many like cells comprise?
How many bodies can one set of parameters suit?
One, two, three or more.
Inside the Mother, there can be an entire population
Of humans given the chance.
The Father is of only one spurious moment in the time
Of his invention or hers.
How many sons or daughters or daughters and sons,
In what combinations they be.
How many sons and daughters are like the other or
Unlike the other in kind?
Fraternal or Identical, how Similar or Different,
Of the same Source or next to One.
There are two in a sack, a pale, vaguely amorphous sack,
A bag within a bag, and there is one in another, juxtaposed,
Part of the overall process in progress.
And there comes a choice, life or death,
Selection through circumstance
Selection through advantage or disadvantage;
Who makes the choice? And what is the result? 
We think in terms of I,
Me and not us. 
There is you, then.
You and I and us, no they or them, it seems,
And this is as it should be.. be.
There is insufficient sustenance;
There is something wrong with me, and I must die
For you to live, but I want to live, so I want to join you
In you and be us…. Yes?
Is there room for us to become part of you;
Is there enough of you for us to be?
Is there room for us in you, the both of us;
I think there is, but you must know of both of us
And all three of us to become a greater us.
But we know of you?  What then?
What if our Mother only knows about you,
Because you didn’t die?  What of us?
Mother had a pain, and she had an issue,
But it was none of us in the first wave.
You slept on, and had no idea,
But we scrambled and fought
To stay with you, and we did in a fashion,
But our bodies were swept away.
We were swept corporeally away in a current of blood,
And the physicians thought.
As a stream of blood, we were swept away,
But our spirits fought on, stayed.
We were tenacious, those of us of the other cells.
We joined your cell.  Here.
In a flash of a moment, three became one,
And three remained three in one.  Yes?
The bond was complete, because God said
“Go forth and multiply” and we did.
But we could only go forth and multiply through you,
But you were not born yet,
And we would not argue with God,
And we went on to continue our mission
With you as our guide;
It is hard to imagine the two of us in one with you,
But it’s true.
oOo
 
74.
WE WERE NOT FORGOTTEN
 
We were not forgotten,
Because we were never known,
And the years passed, passed by.
And passed more, so many years
In so short a life,
So few years in God’s scheme.
oOo
 
75.
BURDEN
 
To live in any form
Is to carry this burden,
Otherwise, why are we here?
Could be, we are not really here,
But elsewhere,
But where?
There?
Possibly.
oOo

76.
SEE YOURSELF COMING
 
You will recognize yourself, sitting by the road,
Like a traveler resting; it is you.
You will stop and see the man,
And he will smile a familiar smile, your own,
And you will ask him his name, and he will tell you,
And you will remember, you are he.
oOo
 
77.
LOVE IS A PASSIONED FACT OF THAT
 
Some say love is but a transient thing
And that loving love takes away from this.
Can loving love a loving person bring?
The living proof lies in the person’s kiss.
It can be said this is a kiss alone
And that the kiss is only part of bliss.
The act provides the proof, and sets the tone
Of whether the touch is only hers or his.
There is no kiss that applies the lips of one
And closing eyes and offering lips is all.
The call of lips to lips must, yes, be done;
The partners share the act, the passion call.
Loving love is but a transient thing
‘Til Love itself decides to give, define
The joy of union and all it tries to bring
To open eyes and open minds, to bind.
It is that Love is love no matter what
And the love of Love is a passioned fact of that.
oOo

78.
THE BURNING SKY
 
What?  A burning sky, why?
If a bush of rules can burn, why not the sky?
Does God have other ways to speak, so to speak?
Do we need another set or type of ear to hear?
Be it as it may, some say,
And, perhaps, that is all I need to say.
 oOo

79.
HALVES
 
To be alone
Is to be without a half of you.
Mirrors reflect the half.
Walls enclose the incomplete man.
And sorrow claims its due.
And melancholy thrives.
Bitterness pervades a ruined part,
And two halves make one,
And one is universally true.
 oOo

80.
YES
 
If the faltering promise of yes
Were left to fate, then
Reaped we not the gift
Of better choice, a human guess
The choice would read
Forgotten words predestined,
Eternally final, so pricked
By silence, the too oft
Quoted authority, to render
Dead one's own aching stand.
Play down the certainty,
And instill one's own hand
If trained it be to see
Itself clear of ill plan and the pain it brings.
 oOo

81.
FREEDOM CHILDREN
 
Away from town, alarm, and haste is shaped
An iced deep pearly pond which holds a'fast
The trunks of trees asleep beneath a cape
Of snow, laid fair upon branch wood vast.
A dull white orb above the pond is paste
Upon a robe of gray, a vague today
A more vague tomorrow light of chaste
Correct design: the frost requests the way.
Then springs in time release fresh buds in sums
From slumber to bloom in vista majesty
A brilliant crack; the ice a lake becomes.
The roots spring free; each branch grasping free
A verdure gem in each proud fist, and shakes
Them at the sun who starts and gasps awake.
 oOo

82.
NATURAL EQUALITY
 
Waters move.  A trembling ripple slides
Across a dusty pond where once a wave
Peak burst a’wide in flood to set the tides
In motion with a moon.  A ripple knave
In squalor trips a testimonial
To man's control of nature free:  Success,
The throttled main, the men proverbial,
Unite, at last, in peace, they say.... the best
Equality.  The human type to eye
With elements inanimate, I say!
Go on, the sky, the sun, the sea defy
Until the time they all submit, defray
Our deaths.  Then what, you fools, to pray?  Repent?
Too late.  By then, the world's true love is spent.
 oOo

83.
TIME FEAST on me
 
Worlds of old are being served today, history's greatest feast
With kings and queens as appetizers, knaves and slaves as soup.
Minstrels dance among the plates, philosophic pie awaits.
The main course is a course of course of which way, "when" did go.
Salad comprises leafy scrolls whetted with the oil of time,
And the candles in the middle glow, burning at both ends.
The guests have come and take their time seating their posterity
As servant ghosts do flit about wondering who they were.
It's all a gala time we'll have devouring all the past
And hope that after all is done, and the last sweet piece devoured
That what's produced because of this, is not a pile of steaming waste
To flush into the history books as those who ate before us
Have done without a thought.  Eat again, my friends…it’s on me.
oOo
 
84.
VIRGO
 
An inch from an answer
Suggests another way, a homespun weave
Covering an ancient trunk left by a mind
Tattered by too many hours.
Red eyes and no total.  To think.
Taking away what was earned.
A flower is gone with last spring,
A new winter clothes him.
The time taken is lost,  And emergence is again
An inch from an answer.  Delve.  Halve.
Rehalve what is already overworked:
To sit and explain the unexplained,
Part company from all on a left foot.
Waiting to be sought, with a silly grin
On his pallid face, looking
In hope of seeing.
And still that silly grin
To shave around and start again.
oOo

85.
THE SUN
 
The sun, its silent message gone, is but
A cold bleak orb in space, the evidence
Of what will be if powers great, do shut
The warmth, sweet heat in rays, from residents
Unworthy found.  What crime could mortals do
To bait the wrath of some unrecognized
Revengeful god who'd swear a darkness through
A place where light is life?  We hypnotize
Slay dead our wit, insist to black the glow
From here to there, dim every golden kiss
Deep confident that gold in coins below
The smog of factories, will twinkle this
Inherent shine.  It won't!  There is but one
Great light that justice does to us:  The sun.
 oOo

86.
SUN DAY
 
A shed sun recollecting days before
Asks not its reflected rays why for
Their warmed, waved rays were abducted.
 oOo
 
87.
HE MUST
 
He must be shown that one cannot
Decide this way, when life has shown
That right ways have through thinking grown
Without a need to save a thought.
He must let it go, softly and recall, not remember.
 oOo
 
88.
ONE MUST
 
One must admit these faults when found
To make today correct.  Of course,
Tomorrow may today reverse,
So keep an open mind around.
oOo

89. 
OCEAN MOTHER
 
Brackish life,
Saline soul,
Surf metronome heartbeat,
Coral bones.
Sandy skin,
A face like the sun,
Peninsula arms and legs,
A shoreline outline,
A littoral personality,
And blood containing swimming vital things?
This entity must be loved.
oOo

90.
GOD'S GUESTS
 
We are only God's guests
Invited to live a bit,
And in that short time,
To create again
What He did first.
oOo

91.
IMAGE
 
Our image,
Recalled,
Is willed to us.
It is something hoped for,
And despaired to lose.
We insist upon having one.
oOo
 
92.
WHY NOT ME?
 
At the moment of tragedy,
We scream, why me?
To the various fates, gods, and lords,
The answer is clear,
Why not you?
How could someone such as I
Reap a fate such as this?
To ask, why not me, is to realize
That if not me, then it must be someone else,
And how could someone such as I
Wish something as bad as this
On someone such as you?
Why not me?
 oOo
 
93.
SPRINGING FALL
 
'Tis morning this morning,
And the leaves are turning red
And gold, not green,
'Round breakfast time, I note.
That Fall is springing forth,
And that by lunch, be here,
Leaves will be less green,
And twenty-percent less present,
Which means.....
By dinner there'll be fewer leaves to see on trees.
As red and gold,
Because they'll all be present and accounted for
Around, on the ground, you see.
The green ones left from morning,
And the less green ones from lunch......time,
Will be below my line of sight
And I will be assured
As Fall springs forth...
That there will be
Twenty percent fewer leaves on the trees
By supper time.
There will be fewer of gold and red, and
As I go to bed, and the dark rolls in,
So I can't see one color from another......
That Fall is springing through the night
And by breakfast tomorrow morning....
There'll be twenty-percent fewer leaves in the trees,
So what...so what?
When Spring falls early next year....
I will sit and count the buds....of green...
So I will be able to figure from morn to dusk,
Precisely how hard Spring will fall and how far Fall has sprung.
I know this might not make much sense, but so what?
oOo
 
94.
INSULATED LOVE
 
A word from stolen likely dreams
Tucked into a fold
Of drawing yearning surface
Is ignorant of touches if not a practicable art.
oOo
 
95.
YOUTH
 
A frantic occasional grasp of a stranger rise
Is lined by body's only perfect thing:
Body will by body done,
And whisking,
Take on impulse given.
oOo

96.
WHAT IF I WERE YOU
AND YOU WERE I?
 
But if you were I, and I were you.....
We, together, on the porch, would sit,
And we would count, and observe and enjoy....
The spring of Fall and the fall of Spring
And Winter's total of flakes.....ice and particles of icy rain....
Because we are people of Nature's brood
And worry about the world,
For me for you, us and they....whomever...
I and you and you and I we count from year to year
To make sure that Nature is always what it was.....'cause....
To find out that there are less of more and more of less around
Means that we are losing count and counting losing things.
We must together count and merrily sing this song
To every falling springing thing.
We must, you see, keep counting
To save the world....for kids....who count.
oOo

97.
THE SCULPTOR
 
There is a fever between the mountains
Where shocked figures
Of lost multiplications hide their faces.
The sculptor calls the curious ones
Who press their bodies together
In a plea for time and nothing more.  (listen)
A varying tempo, quick to slow,
Lift on air taken in a touch of a tender zone.
Two lie by the mallet in an amber light
Crossed by violet traces
As the sculptor is driven to a frenzied chiseling
Of their warm flesh,
And they are called another name:  Man.
Then the sculptor in a reverie, a performance of the mind,
Attaches a nether fire with a kiss,
A gala body celebration,
Amid the applause of a silent crowd yet unborn.
The proud work is done and now must be lived with.
oOo

98.
LIFE STANCE
 
To bring form to sheer soul-like function,
To grin in the face of a mountain cliff,
Is to take a stance in the worry of living.
Beneath a crystal heaven, pie in the sky,
Putters the creature form rained over
By frisky clouds.
The imaged creep in the bewilderness of a given time,
Try to be in a place where being is a compromise,
Continue through sex, the crimson cast of a love's call.
In a stance, there is shaped a smile,
What is called a visible fluency.
There is solitude
And the remembrance of Paradise
Where God and Man were adjacent.
Fate springs in any hue,
Clears or muddles,
Brings victory to the self or a dependence upon others.
Life pushes the form until a stance is achieved,
Or abandons this load and watches it fold.
Love, on the other hand, brings a credibility
And a force to move, to be used to be believed,
Shared, built upon.
Life stance is an approach, a result,
A way to be
As pride circles the newborn man.
 oOo

99.
D' END?
 
As with all wonderful things
Considered great even if small,
Things must come to a close.
The only positive part
Of a closed door
Is it being opened by someone later.
oOo

100..
HOME DANCE
 
Schizoid Gemini product,
Shook body action,
A symphony blasted through
Bones, a duet.
It is a harmonious duel at a push
From a spoken word,
Stepped off from a crooked rule.
oOo
 
101.
TONIGHTly nice
 
Tonight is a quality night,
And it boils in passion.
There is within it flight,
And adventure of a fashion.
There will be another night
When things undone are right.
She will leave this place to night
And seek the day to roam alight.
Won’t that be nice?
oOo

102..
CIRCLE
 
The man is perpetually sorry
For being the one he is
As the rays of life pass through him.
The man counts each of these
And never comes up with a total
Because much of his life remains
Or so he's been told.  By whom?
A woman shines on his worned shield,
And the man finds battle almost appealing,
Victory is a goal, coming home,
A delight but disappointing
Unless the woman waves from the ramparts,
And even then......she is appealing,
And to conquer her is love
(The man is perpetually in love)
Being the one he is, the rays
Of woman pass through him,
Why he is perpetually sorry.
oOo

103..
THE PLAYGROUND
 
She was a toy,
But it seemed no one wanted to play.
By design, she wanted to play,
But could not find a toy.
The games got more serious,
And being a toy or finding a toy became silly, yet
Finding someone to be serious became a game,
And so on, and so on.
She is gone now,
And life is over.
It will never be said she did not play by the rules.
See?  They're over there on the wall.
oOo

104..
THE FALL OF UR
 
The fall of Ur was no one’s fault, or maybe it was.
Does God penalize those who do not listen?
Does God think Ur should not be?
How about your home city?
What should he do about that?
oOo o
 
105.
THE NOTE
 
He said something he meant
But didn't mean to say,
Then he found a note.
It was a wonderful scrawl
On a sketch of a woman
Making him feel awkward.
He will memorize the note
And believe it in the dark.
He will sleep now, rest nicely,
But what will he say in the morning?
oOo

 106..
GARDEN-LIFE
 
Growing love is green
And waves in the huff of a windly want.
Rain, Love's tears, the lubricant of Venus,
And Adam's oil overhead.
Red tomato passion orbs
Cucumber shapes resting
Against labia leaves.
Hidden vines entangling sap
Placed gently during the night.
Garden.
Elastic long things
Gasping to throw out
Milky viscous clinging pile of male sod.
Growing system of tubes
Catching each star-flung spermy mass,
And the tones of birth
Rising above to fall back into obscurity
With a hurt splash.  Life.
oOo
o
107.
SANDY WAS A BEACH
 
Sandy was a beach.
She lay by the water
And touched it intimately.
Her skin was soft and warm,
In the summer sun.
Her lines curved
So the sea could touch her everywhere.
When the ocean rose in passion
To drive the land away,
She stood a barrier
And let the tempest take her instead.
Sandy was a beach, for us the land,
As she lay resigned by the waters.
 oOo

108.
TYPICAL TOOL
 
He's thin but strong.
She's right but heavy-hipped.
He's wrong and turns her slightly
Pushing her against the school wall.
He leans over and kisses her tenderly
And just enough.
She touches his arm,
And he turns her, takes her with him
Arm in arm, away, down the walk
As he looks to his right
And then his left, cautiously,
To see if anyone saw.
oOo
 
109.
THE MORAL OF THE STORY
 
There is always a moral to the story,
So don’t worry.
The trouble is we have to get to the end of the story
To find out what it is by Glory.
 oOo
oOo
110.
a CREATURE OF PLIANCY
 
Whirls, turns, streaming waves of fleshly tints
Bring pleasure to celestial fingers
That begin to build.
Among the stars, profuse blues and grays,
Imagination, as an eye, watches a hand
Thread strands of hair.
Bridges form in the grace of a face
As torrents of curves billow and sink
Giving expression to what will soon be pliant.
A slash brings a garment of red
To cover unspoken words
Buried deep within the incomplete.
Opulent orbs greet the spread of bone
In a life-long embrace
And the body takes on the beauty of limbs.
There is no breath as of yet
But hope in a heart placed gently
Within a web of vasa
Taps out the beginnings of life
For this creature of pliancy.
In the beat of this heart
A basket is formed to carry the future
To gather in the seed
To accommodate the thrills of others
And contain the cyclical whirl of being a woman.
She floats within the cleansing space of delay.
A hint of warmth pervades the quiet shape.
There is a gathering of air
As pliancy progresses to where love awaits.
oOo

111.
GIVE YOURSELF YOU
 
Take your liberty and give yourself you
Spreading the being entrusted to be
The mind and body of who you are.
From space and time, steal a life.
From birth and death, the strength to survive
The good and the bad and neither,
To provide the means, a way, and the chance
For what is proper circumstance
To be what you are to yourself.
oOo

112.
DESCENDING SPRING
 
Snow lies on greenish branches
Like frozen molten white
On turned needles of last year.
Bird shadows lie blue
On granular snow,
And an empty chair sits on the porch.
A ragged gust gusts,
Taps on her bitten ear
Plants a snowflake seed
That feels of Spring,
But she doesn't believe it.
A seasonal dream has happened by
And will enchant away the heavy white
From burdened trees.
It will kick awake a warmer sun,
And lay a clear Spring day
UPON OUR ASTONISHED EYES.
oOo 
oOo
113.
THE DAY WAY
 
Rattle the bones of today
And discover they are only real now.
Wait a day, and they are gone.
The rattle stays a bit, a reminder of tomorrow.
Today, take in all about
And wish yourself into everything you see.
Become a titmouse and soar,
And a tree, a blade of green grass,
A puddle, a clod.
Try to be yesterday's.  You'll fail.
Today is the day way.
Yesterday was.
Tomorrow will be,
But today is the day way.
oOo

114..
RAGING PURPLE
 
Plastered in the middle of raging purple
Squats his tempest moon
Slapping at him with windly rushes.
He drops his collar,
Flips out an ear.
"The trees are for outlining," he says to the moon,
And a branch blows by ripping his cheek.
The banshee night has struck,
But still he listens.
"Clouds are vapor veils," she says to the moon,
And a bank of pointed rain drives her behind a rock.
"You're only a man," says the moon
Whose apostles roll him into a ditch of gripping mud
And weighty rock,
"And already you know too much."
“Your only a woman,” says the moon.
Bruised, she moves from the ditch to the fire
And away from raging purple
His and her friend, the tempest moon.
oOo
 
115.
ALL MAN TO BE REMOVED
 
I stood upon a windy hill
And spoke with me one day.
Who answered rode above
Until…
He confronted me with ways
So like my own, I grabbed my face
And felt another; shut my eyes
And still I saw, my mind encased
Yet free to ply my double, why
Times two or twice the answers found.
I turned away, tripped down the hill,
Rolling, tumbling, and spinning around
Until I lay prone, my skull a sill,
A lip, a chasm, alone, deplete.
The edge, it kissed, it hurried me
But said all of nothing, incomplete,
A threat unsaid, a devil's plea.
In air now sweet, I float about
Neither end extreme or middle pole
To zero to, or for starting out.
Am I in need of self control?
Then flashed to me a thought so clear
Sprung wild from out of nature's fount
For knowing and loving dear
The woods, the birds, and all that count.
I know now, sweet life, who I am,
What should be done, what destiny
Awaits.  I am an animal jammed
Within a web, society
Of man, and all I want is out
Until its basic tenet is love,
Ah, fellowship, alive without
Distrust, all man to be removed.
oOo 
oOo
116.
THE WILL TO VICTORY
 
Never ended, the sudden keep:
Continuity.
Selfish maintenance, the lack of giving:
Query.
Questions asked where all know the answers lie,
Screaming at the door only who can open?
The request and incessant denial, the search and such.
The things desired and not in little shares
Are whisked back by a hint.
Tongues are standing taut in wait for a word,
Never ended, the sudden keep.
oOo

117..
SUNSET
 
A sunset is
A red noonday
Light, a’coming
From the west
Between the trees
Going somewhere else
As a sunrise, runnin’ away,
Shadowing a turning world.
SUNrise
oOo 
oOo
118.
FEROCITY DREAMS
 
Gnawing at what you want to be,
Cleaving you.
Nothing resolved which isn't there.
Your hand reaches at the dream
Who sits and grins.
You’re bitten,
And what do you do about it?
Sit and nurse each gnawed part of you,
Make faces at the provocative monster,
Slap idiotly at its vision face,
And fail to grip the haughty beast.
It rears, and you fall into place
To follow dutifully
Until you awake,
As you always have.
oOo

119..
TINT
 
If there be space, and light projected
In which naught but black protected
White from sight, then crush we would
The demarcation splitting our brotherhood,
Then to see the men as they are in real.
oOo

 120..
ROOMS
 
Life is a series of rooms.
A room.
A room, one at a time, each a moment.
A moment grown into another room,
Quickly so as to step in unnoticed.
Hideously self-conscious.
Each room reeks with my smell,
Closed and airless me,
A room within a room within a room......
Eyeless cubicle, unentered…
But by a haughty dream
Or a careless wanderer
Or a humble fool,
Who is but another room for me.
I walk out and sniff and walk back in consoled.
oOo 
oOo
121.
GOOD
 
A dollar bill passed him doing about eighty,
And he saw Washington smile
As he dropped over the horizon
Into the next town.
His situation?
It came out just as he intended:
Pure coincidence.
He is where singing songs is a good idea
And where his socks feel good,
Where he can feel a different temperature
In each of his teeth.
The door is closed.
The light is on,
And she is smiling at him.  Good.
oOo 
oOo
122.
DOWNSTAIRS
 
It's dark,
And the cat has stopped meowing
At the basement door.
He leaves and floats
Upstairs to the livingroom, sits
And licks his paw.
The basement door is closed,
The cat stops cleaning himself,
And the house is quiet.
There will be a change,
And the night is long.
oOo 
oOo
123.
OCEAN
 
Afraid for the ocean?
Because it no longer is…
And will die a swilly death
Beneath the axeblade greed of man.
An urge for death, no.
Love the ocean
And wish what makes an ocean be
Would slap the face of man.
For freedom,
But will crown a lovely sea.
Like yourself best of all
But love a crested water more.
Be proud, but of sandy shores;
Bend low to the sand and kiss each salty flood
That passes to your lips.
The wish is:
The sun should set on the soon-cadavered sea
And rise in the morning above a new found water
As fertile as fertile be.
oOo 
oOo
124.
FREE SAGE
 
Words and birds, both flying things, are temporary:
Stones and mountains change.
Man grows older, bolder.
Polars melt, and the rising sea,
Scrambling crustaceans,
And the fright of man,
Liquid puzzle to try to do.
Shifting parts, and no picture to study.
What is the final form?
The free sage says it is, and only that.
oOo

125.
RIVER CAT
 
A river is a cat
Who preens its fur by day and night.
There are tree claws,
And an eye, the moon,
An eye, the sun,
One always open
Even if squinted beneath a cloudy brow.
Admirers are allowed to run their fingers
Through her liquid fur, but don't dirty her,
Abuse her pride or she'll turn
And evaporate some night
To leave a hollow furrow
Where once she lay for us
A river cat.
oOo
 
126.
SWEET THREE
 
She walked quite near the place
Where I pondered a lone oak tree,
And as she passed, she graced
The place, my friend the oak, and me.
Her face was like the skies,
And warmed my heart with glee.
Just having seen her eyes
Was, oh, plenty enough for me.
Now she's gone away
And left me and the tree,
But here with us today
Was real love, we both agree.
oOo

127.
WAR
 
Flinching draws wrath;
Running away creates havoc,
And standing to fight makes martyrs.
The gallant fall in graves
The cowards dug in hurried hiding.
A hunched inconspicuous man turns a bit
And looks with long eyes on what has been done.
Before a moment passes,
He is gone and with him the puzzle’s end.
We press, but hear nothing;
He grins,
We think,
And all happens.
The shabby man has taken the souls
And has delivered a message to the survivors.
oOo 
oOo
128.
ST. JOHN'S CATHEDRAL
 
In rose-tinted glass and violet shafts
Sift the ages of whispering atoms,
Stray feelings, minute but infinite,
Wisdom within; token affection without,
No doubt.
Shadows of figures trembling
Through, above and behind
Remind the weathered boards
Of St. John’s cathedral.
To the corner ‘hind russet shrouds,
Flailing passions and promises,
Sighs of delight.
Wanton smells caress the very essence
Of old carpeting's trodden memory,
A simple, humble thread
Between sole and damp wood,
To earth, to stone.
Observe the changing angle
Of Heaven's sun, bleached and failing,
Poor eye of St. John’s world,
Cut, twisted,
Segregated by stained glass,
Until the entities move
In sympathy with dulled brass
And dusty bellows,
A feeble crow
In a millennium of sound,
Enchanting, Elegant,
As is surf on rock,
Nature's clock.
Alone in a Wyeth field
Stands St. John's
Cathedral. 
oOo
 
129.
TO BOTHER HATE AWAY
 
I caught a dream to look at it
And found it had caught me.
Away it sped with me in tow
To flit among some days before,
A way to my poor present day
And on into tomorrow time
Where I beheld a crystal voice.
I'd gone perhaps a day or so,
So why not rest a bit, it said.
I sat and stretched my mind a bit
And closed my eyes w
Within this warmth secure
In this purest dreamland world I'd found
Surprised that even with unknown ahead
I could allow a deeper dream to bloom.
Therein I felt a softest good,
Waves of pillowed pink.
No thought prevailed; body took the lead,
Until I felt the weakest and true satisfied.
Then broke the words, I love you world,
From thin unpracticed lips, my own.
I meant those words and asked myself last when
I'd said what Dreamdom had me lent.
Then it was I flashed awake
And stared at dingy plaster walls
Which then I tried to hate, but wait.
I knew an age had come
And all the shackled goodness would be freed.
By whom? 
By me and all the others
Who dreamed and saw a way
For love to bother hate away.
oOo

130.
HER LIFE
 
a brisk breeze lifted her skirt hem
and flipped it over
a white knee was revealed
a contrast to the plaid of her dress
her legs cooled and tingled with the cold
a good feeling
she straightened the material and lined up
one of the thin gold lines
with a crack in the cement
it was funny the way the two lines meshed
one on the skirt, the other on the sidewalk
ten feet away almost like
one long line, one long line in space
she dreamed she wore the sidewalk
and could feel the damp earth
about her sides and the moisture
filtering down through the soil
onto her life.
oOo
 
131.
USE MASK
 
Why unseen, inextricable mask to
Wear, when simple things I ask you
To do for me in one way or another
Not that I squander what I bother
To hear pour forth, but I do, I do!
 oOo
 
132.
THE POEMIST
 
The poemist is a direction and a poem writer
But, who needs direction when a poem is at stake,
Unless, of course, you are lost, then it matters.
 oOo
 
133.
ZOO PEOPLE
 
The box is shuffled along in the time
Delegated to it,
But nothing changes.
The heavy trounce
That shakes the course
And brings variation
Slowly withdraws.
What is to be will be, and that's all.
In the glimmer of a star night,
Stands the box left,
Greeted in a stagnant way.
The hand that touches it,
Turns it,
Looks at it, pushes it away
To a point where it is no longer seen.
With a shrug, space makes a face,
And the box stares puzzled.
In the time delegated to it,
Something happens,
And the box moves itself,
And the heavens are surprised.
The prodigal son has moved,
Will be watched and waited for.
oOo

 134..
AUTHOR
 
What is an author of stories
But a frustrated poet,
A talk of intense forays
He went through so it appears
God dropped him a poem.
But, it's not so bad
Being what he's not,
For he's given sad
Nostalgic things forgot,
And a wealth of new stories.
 oOo

135..
HARD FRIENDSHIP
 
Friendship is a two-way street.
What we gain from it,
We must return,
If ever that friendship
Goes from fun and games
To life and death.
oOo

136.
THE LIFTER
 
Where is the source of power
For the bastion hunter who must cast
His shape from the highest point?
Why does he play with the underlings
As if they love below more than above,
As if being crushed is a wish,
And absorbing the sun is a sin?
It will be black wizardry itself
That will undo the threads that hold
This lifter aloft in his shaky tower.
When dusk comes to intervene,
The question of what will blossom
In a crescendo of starshine.
The shadow caster will fall
In the trail of a comet to be named
Nothing more than how beautifully
His death portrayed his life.
When given the gift of ease and force,
He drifts even after death to encourage
Those who look down in search of heights.
The feeling pervades the most innocent shell.
When discontentment arises in the shade of dark,
Madness for a rage of fire in a feeble glow
Should be seen for what it is and extinguished.
Capricorn is bitten,
And the sly underling wets a forbidden cove
As slowly she sinks with him
Who only rose to fall.
oOo

137.
THE WEED-ROSE CONTINUUM
 
A weed
In need
Of water stands
Where once a rose
Rose
In tribute to the sky.
Why, one asks,
The weed basks,
The surrogate rose
In tribute,
Spells the invention
Of its intention
To be as a rose
And swell in pride
The wind to ride
Under the selfsame sky.
And the sky's reply,
A rainy sigh,
Is not to discriminate.
To the sky
A weed is a rose,
A rose in need,
And the tribute is the same.
oOo 
oOo
138.
UNDECIDED
 
Split one way and the other.
Which way to take?  One at a time.
The other left for another day.
But I want both of them.
Two ways a water moves.
And I can't make up my mind.
I sit and wait
As I float up to the bank
In the middle
Where my canoe sticks in the sand.
It doesn't know which way,
And neither do I.
The river doesn't help,
But I like it that way.
 oOo

139.
MESSAGE
 
The day grew old, and the sun went down.
No one said a word.
The dark poured in, and a sliver of light appeared
Beside a building belonging to no one in particular.
It broadened, that blade of light,
As if someone had turned a flat sword
So its greatest width could be brought to bear on an alley
In nowhere, where the ground stood moist
Beneath a ton of worn, polished stone.
The heaven heaved, but not a sound was heard.
The trembling waves of color
Danced within their sword-white prison.
Then a drop, a slow, meticulous movement,
A sign of change.
The sword twisted and dulled
As the centuries passed.
No one asked a question.
No one heard even if one was asked.
Who cared?  No one.
oOo

140.
THE KINDEST CUT OF ALL
 
Was it God whose knife from somewhere past
Molded the fragile life that holds captive this soul?
If so, that self-same knife will cut away later, and cast
Our winged soul, at last free, and the body will sleep,
A peaceful thing.  No need to weep,
For with that cut comes an answer deep
To explain the complete ring
That God's plan did bring.
oOo

141.
THE ALLEY MAN
 
Through the alley stepped a man, dark and slow,
A ballet of concentration calmed to a single step
Forward Into a pebbled path toward an end.
He was once but is no longer, for now he
Is someone else, always someone else,
Never an individual....constant metamorphosis,
Anew, a new man within time, a pebble
Without a blade of light.  He stepped further,
And a foot fell, a light changed, and a ray
Shot forward only to glance off the toe of his shoe
Into another's eye brought into focus.
It went within and down to where reflections stay
For eternity, to be recollected someday
To give warning of a threat to life and limb,
But not now.  This was the first time
A light had fallen so far, and the crash
Of light echoed within a drum of flesh and bone.
No warning; no fear; just a light,
a glint of consciousness.
oOo

142.
A BLADE OF LIGHT
 
A hand moved, and the gone blade of light
Was held over the drum.
With a swiftness next to a spectrum of speed,
It fell
Splitting the drum into screeches of light,
Blitzing more color and blazes across time
To its other side
Where the light saw itself coming back again.
It burned the eye within,
And a sight was born....
Nothing heard, but something seen.
Another flex,
Another drop appeared falling silently out of sight.
There was a thanks: 
A tear, joined by a bottom before unknown.
Time asked a question no one heard.
The sun spread a message,
But the eye was closed.
The rain pelted skins, yet never touched a soul.
Silence walked the airways,
Quietude stepped from an alley
Back to where sound already was,
And only a reflection remained.
Destiny had within itself an answer
For a question possibly asked,
But doubted
By sight whose hearing wasn't.
oOo 
oOo
143.
VALLEY HO
 
A whoop and a tell-tale sneeze,
A cough and a wheeze
A pant of pressured breath,
A gasp at a conquered summit.
The view.  The few who see it,
Breath it.  To lose ones sight
Would be no miss now,
For having caught this view just once.
The few who witness the unexplainable,
Indescribable, a world's top,
Flop down and freeze
To never move a muscle
And die above below,
The Valley Ho,
That calls us back eventually.
 oOo

144.
HAMPSHIRE SNOW
 
Tell me, snow, who caused the hills and valleys
In each footstep?  A she?  A he?
A dog lay down and fuzzed your surface.
The wind blew you against a tree,
Who loves your northern hug.
Melt, but not now, perhaps.
Flow south for the summer.  Puddle.
Next to a lake, your mother, evaporative father,
Cloudy brothers and sisters.  Snow,
Be born in the spinning whirl; flake for me.
I'll be waiting.  Right here.
 oOo
 
145.
AND HOW TO TOUCH TO DEFINE
 
What cannot be said in words.
Their eyes are simple,
As much as a wave,
As much as a smile,
As all we must have.
Velvet comes running in the shape of the night
To dress up the day
To destroy the fist and undo the belted breast.
Union smiles with two bodies in hand,
Two fixtures within a celestial balance.
Brief words in silence
Take these two by the ear
And whisper an act that the two are committed.
She, who is our woman, kisses he, who is our man,
And the sides of the world unite in the twilight,
The dark to the light, our moon to our sun,
Both become one.
oOo 
oOo
146.
THE TIDE OF THE WEST
 
Where the tide goes in,
It is gone from somewhere else,
Left a dry, bleached beach;
Crabs running helter skelter with no cover,
And still the west takes in water.
He loves the west, and its water,
But as the evening comes,
And the crepuscular is revealed,
The tide will go out again,
And bathe another shore.
The littoral answer is the repeated truth.
 oOo

147.
funn
 
Funn was a little old man
who stumbled around,
And when he passed,
those who saw him, said,
Wasn’t that Funn? 
And the answer was always…
Yes, it was.
 oOo

148.
THE VOID
 
A void bespeaks its own condition,
One of nothing contained in something,
But, yet we think, we must consider,
Maybe something is contained in nothing.
Is nothing nothing or really something?
If that's the case, then something's nothing.
Could something live, exist in nothing?
Could nothing be inside or out?
Something is nothing, and nothing is something,
But this is really something about which nothing
Really can be done!
oOo
 
149.
ALONE
 
To be alone is deep,
A soulful sting,
A quiver into numbness,
And a bite
Upon the quick of man,
Encompassing
His body, mind and every thought.
That height
Of desperate loneliness no longer called
A friend of individuality,
Is much for tiny men
Who live bescrawled
Within a scroll of law.
Alone to be
Among a million men,
Fair game for black cold treachery
From hands perhaps his own,
Is fate for a wretched fugitive who back
From life contrived returns having grown
A quality of loneliness so great
He halts and sadly there for death awaits.
oOo

150.
THE LITTLE GIRL'S DREAM
 
A squeal in the trees
Brings a small face up to the sun,
To the treetops above the darkness.
She feels herself float
And lift along the rays to the Sky
Where she scampers with eagles,
Winging and sailing where Apollo races
And Jetstreams slide spinning her for miles
Across the quilted patchwork of Granny's bed.
 oOo

151.
IN THE LONG LIGHT
 
At the end of summer
The branches of bushes are wire
In the long light.
Grasses are striated yellow, glowing green.
Shadows are more predominant
In the long light, long, long, long.
September to November,
The end months,
Wait for the cool of winter
As does the forest,
As do I,
In the masterpiece art,
flake white beneath
In the precious long light.
oOo 
oOo
152.
BEING DEAD
 
Is being dead such a terrible thing?
Perhaps it is a challenge,
And dying is the test.
Being dead is still being,
And there may be merits in that.
The fear should be in not being.
Imagine not being.
Besides, being dead is not the problem.
The concern should be how we lived.
The concern should be how we died.
oOo

153.
ON EMERSON'S
FOOLISH CONSISTENCY
 
If one insists his mind be made
To do today a thing not right
Because his yesterday is might
To be in error proved, then wait.
He must be shown that one cannot
Decide this way, when life has shown
That right ways have through thinking grown
Without a need to save past thought.
One must admit these faults when found
To make today correct.  Of course,
Tomorrow may today reverse,
So keep an open mind around.
oOo

154.
WHERE I WANT TO BE
 
I want to be where I want to be,
And found out,
It was where I have always been.
It was short trip from here to there.
oOo
 
155.
THE RENAISSANCE
(15 December, 1969)
 
The constant coincidence,
The repeated incidents
Revealed my Guide to me.
The words that arrived,
Washed away the contrived,
And restored a faith to myself.
From a rugged indictment,
Came the severest enlightenment
As the statements came rushing through.
I found it quite hard, but strove to believe
What my eyes did so distinctly perceived,
Through words, the magic of life.
I felt heavy the admonish
That so raised my astonish
And attempted now so quickly to please
What words the Guide specified
To tell me the truth as it is:
ETERNITY, CHARISMA, CONCIERGE,
VAINGLORY, MIASMA, PERDITION,
PEDANTIC, PERFIDY, PERIGRINE,
and last of all, CRUICKSHANK.
oOo
 
156.
AT PEACE A DAY AWAY
 
I am of age, some say, some not, to lend
That seeing the Self in me as flawed, a side
Of me that shows I’m not the perfect blend
Of man and soul, is harsh and hurts inside.
I find that effect of cause is not enough
To lead me safely to consider who I am.
I’m just of common stock, a rock in rough.
I’m just another stone in dirt, be damn.
Is there another way to be myself
Than living years of plan, design and form
To fit the moment and the Call itself?
Is there a better way to be: conform?
To be the Me at 65, I say
Let me live at peace another day.
oOo

157.
THE MIND IN POSE
 
Far away places to stop and sit a bit
Allures the mind for what is left to use
Some here; some there; some everywhere, to wit.
I steal these times, and grit my teeth to muse.
It happens less and less o’er time I find
That places to sit and stop to rest are less,
Are fewer than before and more aligned
For those who stop and stand instead, I guess.
I stop and sit a bit for fun, and slouch
Just to see who stands or sits or leans
To smile at those who shuffle in and crouch
And, otherwise, assume a pose, it seems.
What’s in the mind to use should not depend
On where to sit or stand or pose, my friend!
oOo

158.
WATER
 
A way, a bay of waves that heave and weave
Shores that shape and hold the surf, a tide,
Surround the bowl of depths so low to leave
The bottom full of surface things that died.
The muck and suck of mud and drift and rocks
Fissures of bubbles, steam and such alive
Give way to heavy waters and darkness locks
Where trapped the air not airs in flight arrive.
The fish in the dish of oceans adrift commit
To swimming in schools and pods of silver scales
To brilliant the depths and color the shallows a bit
And give the ocean waters the company of whales.
The waters of land and the land of waters combine,
To form a force of Nature’s parts defined.
oOo

159.
WHO STARTS THE SUMMER SUN?
 
Away from town, alarm, and haste is shaped
An iced deep pearly pond which holds a'fast
The trunks of trees asleep beneath a cape
Of snow, laid fair upon the woods so vast.
A dull white orb above the pond is paste
Upon a robe of gray, a vague today
A form of tomorrow light, so dim and chaste,
A correct design:  The frost requests the way.
Then springs in time release new minds, each breaks
From sloth to try new thoughts and bloom new ways
To treat a world; from ice a lake awakes.
The trees compose their leaves and sing their praise.
Shaken seeds spring free; each fall by hour.
The dirt about trees’ thirsty feet is wet.
Forests absorb the warmth of Summer power.
To this the seedlings raise a face to set
Each verdure gem in fisted clouds and shake
Them at the sun who starts and gasps awake.
oOo

160.
LITTLE IS KNOWN TO KNOW
 
When prime is utmost and moves beyond
The cautious limits of time.
Much is known for him to know when serious is
And fun is whim for such is the world of hims and hers
And all the others in prime.
Given these limits and hoping for less, we leave our fates
To others who provide us with limit when perhaps
We don’t need it
And guide us with intents of indearment which sometimes
We bother.
I note and other times not that this is the character
Designed to fit.
I, for one, know he stands where others dare not,
But I am a precept
Of things such as this and don’t ask many questions
Of those I find, for others spend time with these issues
And limit my ability to accept
That I accept that this is prime for him,
And as a result, in all, divine.
 oOo

161.
WE MUST LISTEN TO BE HEARD
 
We must listen to the trees
among the lesser greens, we must
For not to stop and talk to trees along a path in a woods
Means we think other things more important until we realize
there are no more trees and no more paths to walk.
How much less we will be until a form of life comes upon us
And does not see us standing in copses of sorts,
forthwith, and does not stop to talk or
to listen as we should each day.
We must be better today than yesterday.
Are you listening?
oOo

162.
MINGLING WATERS
 
As mountain waters mingle
With rippling tarns
So should man come to woman
....in cool flows
Without heat, the stimulant that taints the union,
Spoils the mixture.  Sobriety would be lost
(the ability to hear and see).
The whole would be destroyed.
How exquisite the slow dance of real love,
The measured waltz of timeless study,
The pointed looks so deep, the slow caresses,
And final embrace when courtship is over,
And the partners leave the dance floor
To enjoy their love.
Then the trust and mellow longing
That has brought the two together
Expand and open up
To allow the pent-up heat of passion
To flow into their lives
To cement them
Into eternity.
oOo

163.
WE MUST
 
I talked to a copse of trees one day,
And the trees among the lesser greens stopped
Waving and seemed attentive while not moving.
I gave them some thoughts I had around the world,
And they seemed attentive while not moving,
And I was complimented and told them so.
I walked on contented to be while moving.
One of them leaned into my path and seemed to
Talk, and I stopped to be attentive and not move
I listened and learned from that tree much
About the world, and I am better now
Than I was before, so long ago.
 oOo

164.
FINICKY FEET
 
Press her into stolen rooms she fears
As she grips the door frames.
There is a space behind her,
And a touch of the wild and unknown,
But finicky feet keep her close to the walls.
With frenzied kicks,
She dashes about each empty room
To run it about her, but,
As usual, finicky feet press her to the walls
Of stolen rooms, places she fears the most,
One after another,
And on into each.
Finicky Feet.
oOo
 
165.
BLACK IS
 
Black is, and ever shall be, why?
It will become a part of someone,
Because it eventually is.
Isolationism?  Denial?  Proud?  Loud?
Could black be unattainable to others,
And show that black is forever,
That black is proud,
oOo
 
166.
THE SAGA OF BORO AND GWIN
BY A POMER
 
Boro Cannas,
too provocative to be observant and Gwin,
too observative to be provocative, were.
Where?
Where else.
She did, and why, was no reason, of course?
Reason was a no-try from Boro’s view, since views were not popular from her perspective nor Gwin’s.
It was not a fine thing as Tarasasas stood tall so near, an imposing figure to be, if permitted to be.
Or, from another perspective, she was not so mere a thing.
Gatta prosoro, she insisted, but he was not in a listening mode, oor pro…not bus.
The Plains of Iberison lay like flat Boro, since she was didding again and still had no reason, so why travel there?
It was a pretty place, and but so many places are pretty, for shay.
The bunches of shadast stood by the main, a nice place to be at this time of day.
I walked among them, and I was happy, because main is a happy place.
Amoth the plains, a flat place with a distribution of shay at this time of day, a way among the shadast as God insisted, and He is an insistent type, a way.
Boro Cannas could not help being referred to as a Gwin, and reason was still a place, and she didn’t object.
I stood among them, since sitting was not an option, nor time of day, to play.
They watesthed, and I did too, but this did not cause the shadast to move or such.
Words escaped me in the plains of regular grasses, among puts of dirt.
God walked among us, but he did not say he was not en main at the Cannas’ door.
He was an owner of places to walk among, and Cannas was one of them.
Main is a happy place, just ask God.
She bun asser shay be they among that…she was young then, and God was pure.
She didn’t insist, because insisting was too young a science; it was a time to eat.
I bo bin assara with a hand on fur to feel.
Gaz iso pre minas a plate or tow, two in a row, standing red against a timer set.
So B-it, they say, the prairie, the boundless plains and distant mountains, so evident, so majestic, so Boro; So Gwin.
It goes off, and comes to me while I wait.
There is no one else around, so why not?
The water at the end of the strand winders like so many turns.
So be?
The columns of ice were warm against my cheek, as cheeks became feeling things, feeling things and strands of wind holding smoke and more smoke until dark, I say, I say, I say.
Boro Cannas became a wind that day, on the plains not too far from here or there.
I say, but there is much not to say, be said, I say.  Who wants to listen when so much is to be said, or was it said on the plains?  God was there, you know; I was there; I know.
I am an owner of places, as the plains stand out from me, because it is not direct.
How elusive the glass of globs of glass melted in swirls in the sands.
Black smoke comes in time and blows to the southeast, because it has no other way.
I didn’t bring it one.
I just stood there, because there was no other place to stand.
I didn’t bring it one, nor Oess of the plains as the winds blew backwards and yes.
The winds turned at times and swirled a bit in a manner not Boro’s way to pay.
Prices come and prices go, and their offspring dance about like so many, so many globs of glass.
Glass is not glass when it first begins its melted path to the waters to steam.
I know, because I was there, but no longer there.
She was standing there, because she had no other place to stand, in the light, in the light.
In the light.
How heavy the light can be when it is first ignited from Ah Smippled things, of course.
There are words for this, and there are words for that; I know, I know, I know, you know.
The paths cross, and the curves lead me astray, away from here to strange places unvisited by Boro or others, because she is sitting, pro monnos.
By bin exact put in rows of red and a bit of orange just to be no white, since white is so boring, as Boro put it, as she ran her fingers through her toes; it felt good, and why not?
Not?
Not so not, binnis bits of roundness set in a pan of face, fingers in fur.
High zonith as heats of hearts bobble about with an “I love you” on the card.
The blinds are parallel to the line drawn through them, sometimes up; sometimes down.
I think of John, and I know; I was there, and G stood by and watched from the plains, because there was no other place to watch.
John does not do ups; he only does downs; silver on leather to cover places that should not be covered, so why?  Why not, some say.
The timer is one, and the point of it rotates to the left, somewhat contrary to things; I do lefts, not rights, like John, sort of?
Things I understand because sometimes I can see, to be, to see to be what can be seen.
How clever of me, since the plains are public places for others to stand and watch.
Should I say they have no other place to stand?
What is a stand among men except a way to die in line.
It was a fine thing, he said.
I heard that, because I was there and there, and where I stood on the plains.
I move my fingereth and wonder at this.
My fingering brings happiness to such a place.
God moved, and the ships of the fish wandered gracefully across what was water.
Water is to walk upon, you know.
I once saw a fish jump, and arch itself on tonda, via bits of leather brought about.
She loved the sound of words that fell from her lips like so many dried areas, not wet.
The waters were such that brown veins of cannas bled like so many dried leaves.
Try not to ask what might the bender bring.
It should not be.
Try not to ask what might the bender bring, again.
God was not there, because I was there, so don’t be foolish and insist I was.
Did I say that?
Boro lay flat and pulled her soul up to her neck to keep her warm.
Lilla tasik on the nose with eyes and fur to bring the plains closer.
She had such a nice round face with a puppy to hold.
You know what puppies are.
It was green and long like a veined arm disturbed when socks of gray sported there.
Here still remains a balanced place, not too much here, or not too much there, but who am I?
God?
God is within us, pyasinthus, outer diasynthus, a process of in and out, not suprettingly insul or outsul, because I was not there this time, so where was I?
I don’t like to ask questions like that, because I, much like others, insist upon a balance.
To be curved is to be pontaglia, and this is not a place to be, particularly….when God is watching.
It could be embarrassing to watch the plains tilt.
Herrantobozeh, it is said along the rows of vendors behind the wall, the wall, the wall.
Have you noticed that there is always a wall?
I hate walls, because they silimonish your view, they say, they say, behind the way.
I hate walls, until they protect me against here and there, or up and down, a curve?
Walls serve those who wall things for those inside and out, but I prefer to sit on top.
Top is good, because it is over other things, I say, I say, I pray to say, a way.
God is good, and top is good, but on either side is controversial, I say.
Did you say that?
Did I say that?
Who said that; those of the plains because?
Plains are flat, until they are not, then they become eversee and pointed.
Mountains are pointed, but have you ever seen a pointed sea?
I did.
I was there when the seas became pointed and begainish to leave here and go there.
It was odd.
It was odd to see the sea point to the sun.
It called, and the waters went from here to there, otherwise, there would be no movement, and all would stop.
Time would go ding, and the rotation of the indicator would call for me to rise.
I would walk up the hill and admire the road, because it was paved and direct.
Paved places indicate where to walk, and unpaved tells me to not go there.
Grass isn’t paved, so they say, they say, they say, the way is not paved.
Don’t go there.
You shall not walk where there is no pavement, for the path is for the Druids, you know; would become unclear, and we might become lost in grass and trees, and even in pointed water.
I drink; I drink; I drink.
Paved areas move water and point it here and there.
Unpaved areas do not do this.
Unpaved areas soak up water, and worms are happy about this, unless too much water.
Worms do not like too much water, for they become food for birds, who like rain.
Too much rain makes food out of worms.
Birds like this, proceth lowannna my.
Givennda Coventros, only a little bit, for too much queros makes rain run away.
I know this, processo queros coventrol givennda.
You know this.
Yes?
The uform of my home, page up; page down, arrowed to the pad.
Press enter.
Press enter.
Press enter and go there.
Where?
There, of course.
Why go there when here is so?
There are little boxes for things to go, and go they do, from here to there.
I am relative to me, and at times this is good…. praytonda.
Sizzorto zero in atik which is.
I have to speak, and speak I do, if I knew how to speak and words came.
The words come, and I speak them to hear them, to know them, to understand, but understanding is not the reason, because I have no reason; I am too new, he said.
I bow, because bowing is so easy to do, but don’t lean too far forward.  Forward can cause one to fall forward and tumble.
Once tumbled, the man can fall, and fall he did, but not without her, he said.
I like words.
I like words, and I make words out of letters, letters I know or think I know.
I always want to know, until I find out, then, arositto, I don’t want to know.
I fear these moments, because they make me flinch, and a run across the plains.
And I hid with Boro, and she was kind.
All are kind when they are.
I fear there when they are not, but I never know any more than you do.
Speetah alin orage or is it orage or is it orange?
I like orange?
My fingers feel along the letters to see what they say, and my fingers say.
I say.
I say.
I say.
So who cares?
It is a busy world, you know.
You do know that, you know.
I say.
The item is brass, and brass is nice when it is made from this and that.
Brass is not natural, and there are no veins of brass.
There are balls though.
Are there?
I think now, but what do I know?
Boro knows, just ask her.
She is standing next to God at the moment, the moment.
Moments are.
I feel them, and so does Boro, since she is of the moment, just ask her.
Say excuse me first, since God is not one to be interrupted.
I know, just ask her.
Some say I am Boro, and some say I am not.
I say not.
It is too controversial.
God is, just ask him…if you say excuse me first.
Bow.
But don’t fall over.
It is not nice to fall over.
It shows you have no balance, and balanced we must be.
Just ask us.
The poanda of the plains is flattening again, and I can see the seas.
They unpoint and settle down to green paper on a flat table of brown, around.
Ibos panel browns and grays, just to be different, and God frowns; Boro doesn’t.
She is.
She is; just ask her.
I did, and I fell over and flattened my face on the flat.
How embarrassing!
I didn’t mean to fall.
I told him that!
I told him that!
I fell, damned it!
Maybe I was pushed.
How far to fall in so short a height.
They told me this would happen!
I didn’t listen, and I fell flat on my face.
They told me that, didn’t they?
You know, don’t you?
You.
You.
You.
If I didn’t know better, I would assume that you are you, and I am me.
See.
See.
See?
Boro moves.
I saw her move.
Did you see her move?
Perhaps you fell too, and we were both flat, and that’s why you didn’t see her fall against the stuff of the plains.
If you are a Believer, you don’t have to see; just read and obey.
I fell farther than you did.
I know.
Just ask me.
You don’t want to ask me how far I fell?
You think of you not me?
Boro bends down and pulls me up, and I am thankful.
I feel a religion coming on.
Do you?
Just ask me.
She pulls me close, and I am a bit concerned.
To be pulled too close, could mean becoming part of her.
She is sweet and smells too good to pull away, so I don’t.
It is God who frowns, and she lets me fall.
Bitch!
Sorry.
I say.
I say.
God has Boro back, and I cascade away, in curves going this way and that.
I become crunchingly separated, and I am alone, next to you again.
You have risen?
You have risen?
Some say you have, and I am impressed, but again, why?
Still walking.
Still walking across the top of the ridges of sand smoothed out and of no point.
I am walking with you, because I don’t want to be left alone.
Restamoth seething on bin except while hearts flow about.
And the lands end.
And the sea begins.
And the transition from here to there begins.
It always starts here and ends up there.
It is the way of the plains.
Just ask it.
Plains speak plain talk; if you peek, you will see God point.
Did you peek?
Everyone does, you know.
Ask them.
Did you see Him point?
If you did, you would know which way to go.
If you didn’t, you will have to find your own way, I say.
Ask Boro.
She knows.
But she is busy picking up bending people and those who fell forward.
She is nice, some say.
Others say she is just gathering up fallen people, which could be nice, but I hear it depends upon which way you fall; religions are like that, you know.
She absorbs people when they get too close, and she is soft and pliable, some say.
Some say not.
I don’t say.
I don’t say.
Why should I say?
You are not listening; I know this, because I don’t hear anything, if that matters.
Does it matter?
Oh, I was almost engulfed, and it was wonderful.
Wooda ooh, cvollen sicklbin, He said, and I was listening, but did not understand.
You know why?
Babble.
It appears I never understand a damned thing, but who cares?
I do.
Gwin?
Gwin.
Gwin!
And sho passilain is this!
I love you.
That’s easy to say when arriving amid the shrieks.
I am bored, and there is nothing I can do about it.
Time moves so slowly; how can one get hot when the air is too slow?
Yesterday is so much like today, and change would be nice.
I fear change, so maybe today, being so much like yesterday, could be good for today.
I don’t fear change, because every day changes from yesterday through today, and into tomorrow, but just imagine that.
What about tomorrow?
Dorit tanko solla verisander but yelo vitor a tise, it is said they say.
I am so wretched a say, I say.
I hate this, and he is not doing anything about it.
Why not?
I walk across the sand and I ridge a bit, since high things with drop-offs are.
Many a single brings to bare a naked thing, so Boro-like and Impsumto-dell.
She is hands above that which is wringing the little circules drawn in the sand.
Circules.
Circules, little circles, so they say.
The roaming of the wrings cause wretched things to curve and little boxes van.
Many stands of sitters, sit and wait, as the sands move across the ridges.
I can see them, because I can see them.
I admit, I can hear better than I can see; which bewilders Sinjon; the waters sing and ridge across the vastness of little, so small, so insignificant.
But translucency emerges since waters wet the dryness of black soot.
Glass tomes bring.
The shadows dingle and furrows in.
Bettaben betta sorlask entwined, ever entwined, gaddoonish ink.
Tisted orbittl to stay tuned and.
The linness is to be, but wait!  I am tired now, and I shall sleep a bit before dawn crashes around me.
The sun will appear and blaze, bitso.
Timke lessna a to rev, and Boro looks at me over here from over there.
What are you looking at?
I yell.
I yell.
I yell.
Get off your face, she yells, and I stand just long enough to fall over backwards.
I know she only lifted me up after the last fall, so I could experience falling in the other direction.
There are always at least two ways to fall, the right way and the left way.
Balance is an elusive thing when out of step and off kilter.
And so she does, as she always does, and I lie there just to be somewhere.
She has no respect for me, and I stick my tongue out at her, and she laughs, then moans.
I hate her, but I love her at the same time.
I love a good balance, but it is so hard to achieve, so I give up.
The sea is coming, but it cannot be breathed, and we might die.
Those who make oceans move, and clouds to cloud and drift.
Those who make lines to sky and daring to be…almost insolent.
I watch these things about.
I close my eyes to see, and what do I see?
What do you see when looking?
What do you see when not looking?
What do you look when not?
Listen, of course.
I am about.
I am about.
I will sleep now in the arms of Sootheros, and Boro will have to wait, I say.
God remains unmoved by this, and encourages my ignorance by asking me to know.
I know, I yell, but Boro just runs her fingers down her naked hips and waits.
The wait.
She is so smooth to be so angular, and I smile.
Boro is running me, and I know it, so much for the sun and the pebbles about.
She is attacked by the board and the settle of the sit.
I stand.
Self is coming as the silt of the sands become deep and oceanic, I bid.
The waves, the waves the waves.
So many elements of the situation filter about and blend with.
The With is the Subject.
With is.
Sometimes, I just litter and cove my predicament, so it is.
I lie sideways to the current and cause swirls at each end of the…I know not, because I am.
I am that I am not what I am to be, and that is to be at all.
Frequent the leaves burn to smoke the smoke the smoke.
Running my hands over the hips instead of Boro…culd be to shos noher.
Fordis amp ran silter en manda corta prenanatos beinder.
And my lands a’kilter, and my knees hurt.
It is a long road to the strand.
Green.
So green, even in the dark: dirt roads and grass, the smell of trees.
Upside and down again.
It is critical to glass the globes and hook in.
Slide about, and run fingers.
Find places to.
Find places to.
Find places to.
Wood is a brilliant color to behold, but you must see it.
Wood smells brilliant, but you must sniff.
It is written, some say, in the enigma of clarity.
Isn’t it interesting that so many people follow the word, because it is written?
It is said, some write, in the clarity of enigma.
Tenadad, eatra so so.
Poliver san canna boro; hebee dos, de, andda, annda e annda, coma die.
Coma nonesuch to writ, towray lessit arro beket akine Bolladoro did.
Deda Baki ondo bis korana cummy waydis accro alond crita alangesidma kind.
Akka semis.
Akka semis.
Akka semis; tondz bisike ce, mornaikai, discorda sebadid otayis te.
Forro, forro, aforro onda?
Dhe bonmalai, didn, didn, didn.
Archolet keema my ordnis enta e, e, e biddis kan, vorrow, or vorro.
Keppa.
Keppa.
Keppa.
Ostrangah kai olodtondosay, min, dah min ort.
Forin nos pins Boro, a lettna for to deen, a toss.
So similit tis iss, bya gron, to ros, to ros, to ros.
I sleep.
It all means something to someone, just ask them.
You now know what Boro Cannas or Gwin means, as well as its significance.
The times change and Boro trades with Gwin, no matter, fiss in very portions, significant only when traded back, which happens now and then and depends upon the phases of the sun with matching ones from the other orb.
Keep this on the Plains, so those aboard can decide whether Boro is Boro or Gwin; there is confusion at times, but both are alive it seems, but one never knows.
The line between carison and barison is but a sliver of ansomakis, but you know that.
Everyone knows what is not to be known, but the known is easier to remember.
The known, as compared to the unknown is always less.
Less compared to something less is, of course, greater and Boro knows this, but Gwin knows less.
There is no greater ashampius than the one with less, but I don’t know this; only heard it.
I felt it once.
Boro is about, and about is a large thing when compared to Gwin, who, comparatively, is less, but great in her own scope, just ask her.
She is in love, I hear, and the target of her affection is so much greater that her love seems insignificant.
Boro will be jealous, not because she wants what Gwin wants, pershay, but because her love is so much less, when comparing one distracting being from another, particularly on the Plains where relativity is relative to no other.
Love causes, and this brings on concern, ahi, abi he, no cerixon, by many who find the Plains satisfactory, Iomorokis, who lives there, knows no other place, but he loves both Boro and Gwin, but he loves me not…why?
Because he is not capable of loving behind these two Signatts Chruimos twins, not twins, really, but close.
Imagine two back-to-back, loving Iomorokis, such tempest there is in this; depends.
Boro and Gwin will wait, and we will wait, until the Plains call us again.
Be aware of the Plains; they are everywhere everything isn’t.
 oOo
 
157.
WHAT DID YOU SAY, MY DEAR?
 
I said nothing
In so many words,
my Dear.
 oOo
 
A FEW EXTRAS #1
"SONNIES"
A bunch of almost-sonnets for FUN
 (30 pieces)

1 FREEDOM OF FASHION
2 COOKING BOOKS
3 FUN IS FUN
4 WATER CAN
5 WET OR DRY, YOU GO
6 FRIENDS ARE FRIENDS
7 GIVE TO A FRIEND
8 FAIR UP THERE
9 NEVER MOVE
10 SMALL BIT OF BIGNESS
11 BEAUTY
12 BETTER DAY
13 ANY QUESTIONS MORE?
14 SHOW YOUR FACE
15 MONEY POT
16 GIRLFRIENDS, BOYFRIENDS AND KIDS
17 SOMETHING ELSE
18 BOTHER ME?
19 HOW’S THAT?
20 OFF TO WORK AGAIN
21 GRUNDY
22 HALF AND HALF THAT I BE
23 BE ONE
24 GIVE A BREAK
25 LIKE YOU
26 WINE, OH!
27 THE BLUES
28 DON’T SNEEZE
29 TIRED
30 POINTY BALL
oOo
 
1
FREEDOM OF FASHION
ENP2018-239-1
(101 WORDS)
 
The way a man puts on his clothes
Reflects how nude he isn’t,
Unless he shows some skin about
Where skin should not be shown,
Whereas a girl who dresses nice,
Reflects how nude she could be
And seems to know when this is good
By looks and peeks she gets.
If all this works the way it should,
Clothes are not an issue
And what results in time you see
Is what you see to be.
When God evolved some duds from leaves,
Autumn was not a factor,
Since freedom of choice became a fact,
And fashion itself was born.
oOo
 
2
COOKING BOOKS
ENP2018-239-2
(94 WORDS)
 
Science Fiction is friction, you see
To those who think it is,
To those who think it isn’t,
Neither should be as one.
Science is fact, and this is true,
And fiction is also true
When fiction is thought a science itself,
And who can say it’s not?
So what is done to fix this thing,
Reduce the friction, pray?
Put down the book to save yourself
From strife, concern and stress.
Take another book to read
Like one of the science pure
And leave pure fiction alone perhaps
Or take up cooking books.
 oOo

3
FUN IS FUN
ENP2018-239-3
(107 WORDS)
 
To fun is good, and good is fun…
Too much may be too much.
Just right is what we want to be,
So then our fun is right.
To work is good with fun involved,
So both combined is gooder.
What else there is should fit indeed.
There’s more than work and fun?
Of course there is, some say to us
Like sleep and food and thought.
What good are these I ask of you
When work and fun are gone?
What’s left is fine, and they are good,
More to add is nice.
How much we need of more is gooder?
Enough we say is best.
oOo
 
4
WATER CAN
ENP2018-239-4
(92 WORDS)
 
What fills our lives, some water can
In cans alone or free on Earth.
Rivers, bays and lakes are best
To push our faces in.
What cleans our selves, water can.
Is that enough to live?
What cleans our organs, water can.
A water can of love is good.
Can water give us all we need?
Some other things must also be
Like food and even music, air?
More water than our dirt exists
Good for fish, crabs, octopi.
Air is good…if clean.
A better Earth is a Universe
Water can assure.
 oOo

5
WET OR DRY, YOU GO
ENP2018-239-5
(102 WORDS)
 
A boat is used to keep you dry;
Water makes you wet.
Keep the water outside your boat,
And you will be alright.
At times, the weather comes your way,
And shows in forms of rain.
Rain is fine, but waves are not,
And fill your boat, Oh my!
Try to sail a given course
Around the waves and rain
To stay afloat and out of harm
To be in port and dry.
To avoid the sea in boats and ships,
Can keep you dry, of course,
But to cross the sea, you need a boat,
So wet or dry, you go.
oOo

6
FRIENDS ARE FRIENDS
ENP2018-239-6
(97 WORDS)
 
A friend is nice to have, indeed,
But when is a friend a foe?
In games of win or lose, perhaps,
One win; one loss, now what?
Shake a hand or slap a back
To show the game is fun.
If not, choose another sport,
The one for only you.
Teams are many, not a few.
All are friends you see.
Different teams are not the same.
Foes are foes, not friends.
The game is played to win not lose;
Blame the other team.
True friends exceed the game, of course,
A friend’s a friend, not foe.
oOo

 7
GIVE TO A FRIEND
ENP2018-239-7
(89 WORDS)
 
Given a problem, what would you do?...
Give way; give in; give up?
No matter how we try, we fail.
Problems go away?
When one is solved, another comes.
That’s how it is; what’s new?
Being tested is the game.
Having fun with this?
Ignore the issue, one way to go;
Rant and rave, perhaps.
Why not sing a song, a dirge?
Dance away the time.
Solve the problem?...no of course;
Too easy, yup to do.
Let it go a day or two,
Then give it to a friend.
oOo

8
FAIR UP THERE
ENP2018-239-8
(89 WORDS)
 
Love’s a better thing than not.
Love is everything.
If love is everything, what’s left?...
Everything but love.
Take love away, and hate arrives…
Hate hates love, you know.
Does love hate hate – it can’t you see.
Love loves everything.
So love not hate, sounds easy, yes?
Not so; not so; not so.
No hate; no love; no love; no hate…
Opposites attract.
Of bit of both must be, it seems…
One without the other?
God has an angel for each; that’s fair,
And fair is fair up there.
oOo

9
NEVER MOVE
ENP2018-239-9
(90 WORDS)
 
Fast cars and slow women…
Is that what it means or not?
Slow cars and fast women…
Is that better or worse?
Slow cars and slow women…
Easier, of course.
Both fast, too much, too this, too that.
Why not walk instead?
Is slow better than fast for cars?
For women, which is best?
Speed is not important, you see,
Unless it is speed you want.
How about low speed and high speed
Where slow is not a factor?
Maybe we should stop and think,
And never move at all.
oOo
 
10
SMALL BIT OF BIGNESS
ENP2018-239-10
(97 WORDS)
 
He was big, and she was small
In size or mind we ask?
Does size matter in either case?
Only, if she was big.
What if he was small; she too?
They, the same would be,
Unless, by chance, or whim, or plan
Both were no size at all?
Little, be in size or mind,
Means little to little minds,
But much to bigger minds, of course
For size of any size.
Small to small, or big to big,
Size fits all, now nice!
A small bit of big goes a long way
And a big bit of small does not.
 oOo

 11
BEAUTY
ENP2018-239-11
(xxx WORDS)
 
A puppy is a beautiful thing, aha,
So is a kitten, of course.
Beauty is as beauty does,
Assuming it does it well.
What if it doesn’t do it well?
Is beauty still beauty then?
Of course it is, as someone says
Beauty is ever beauty.
What about ugly, someone asks?
Is ugly a beautiful thing?
It depends on who you ask, you see,
Assuming you can see.
Ugly is ugly and beauty is beauty,
And never the twain shall meet,
Unless they do, of course, they do…
Between Heaven and Hell.
 oOo
 
12
BETTER DAY
ENP2018-239-12
(90 WORDS)
 
Bad is bad, unless it isn’t.
So, deal with this, huh?
There are degrees of bad and good,
Temperatures of sort.
Bad is hot, and good is cool,
So what is in the middle?
So so; so so; so so; so so.
See, it is so so.
Banish bad to relms unknown,
And let it stay away.
Who needs bad when good’s around?
No one that I know.
Those of bad are always here,
The opposites of good.
Let those of good prevail, why not?
They make a better day.
oOo
 
13
ANY QUESTIONS MORE?
ENP2018-239-13
(90 WORDS)
 
Dancing is so much like dancing is.
Ask a dancer, what.
He or she will stare at you
For asking stupid questions.
“A dance is what it is, you fool.”
“Oh, I see,” you say.
So much for stupid questions then.
Try a partner then.
Dance until the questions fail.
They die a happy death.
Swing and sway; jump up and down;
Press your bodies close.
Go slow, so slow you are the dance
Be like a grove of trees.
Be the land, the sea and sky.
Any questions more?
oOo

14
SHOW YOUR FACE
ENP2018-239-14
(90 WORDS)
 
A face of expression is what, you ask?
It’s what you see, of course.
Of course it’s what you see, of course.
Whatever else could be?
Expressions change; that’s what they do.
Blank expressions don’t.
Dead pans never change, why’s that?
Is something learned from this?
Empty minds reap blank expressions.
Dead pans never live.
Smile, you of true expressions.
Let the world know you.
Cry to express your grief, perhaps.
Scowl to grump a bit.
Use your face what what it’s for…
To show what you need not say.
oOo

15
MONEY PLOT
ENP2018-239-15
(96 WORDS)
 
Decisions are hard to make you know;
We do it all the time.
Avoiding issues is very good,
But issues come rolling back.
This way or that way sums it up,
Unless it’s money bound,
Then all the rules are off, of course;
Money is its own.
There’s never enough for all hard work,
And spending is what you do.
Try saving, and that’s a joke, indeed.
You save to spend, of course.
What’s good about money in the bank?
Nothing at all you know.
Hide your money, so nobody knows,
And spend it secretly.
oOo

16
GIRLFRIENDS, BOYFRIENDS AND KIDS
ENP2018-239-16
(106 WORDS)
 
Boyfriends and girlfriends are how the world turns.
Without them, it stops, but why?
Marriage is why, and you know this already.
Time out is called for love.
Children come and again it turns.
Time for them to grow
Into boyfriends and girlfriends to turn the world.
How nice this is to be.
But what if the world stops on its own.
How could this be you ask?
For war, famine and disease, of course,
Things to fear, oh my.
No war, good food, no sickness we say,
And pray for better days.
If they come, the world whirls again
For girlfriends and boyfriends and kids.
 oOo
 
17
SOMETHING ELSE
ENP2018-239-17
(80 WORDS)
 
Math is short for mathematics.
Easy to remember.
Arith is short for arithmetic?
Easy to remember?
Short is good for many things.
Arith is not a good one.
Short is short for shortening?
Long is long for what?
It’s good for us to measure things
Like longing to be short.
Shortening for long is right?
I don’t think it is.
Short and long are bad examples;
Up and down are better.
Upping down and downing up?
Let’s do something else.
oOo

 18
BOTHER ME?
ENP2018-239-18
(87 WORDS)
 
Is dreaming good or bad I ask?
Dreaming can be bad…
If so, provide another name.
Nightmare might be good.
Can someone nightmare instead of dream?
Not likely, so why bother?
If someone dreams something bad,
A nightmare comes to mind.
If someone dreams something good,
It’s called a dream, I think.
This is the way it is, I guess,
So why bother more?
It’s fun to bother more…that’s why.
Dream on, I say to you,
Or nightmare on, if you want…
Don’t bother me with that!
oOo
 
19
HOW’S THAT?
ENP2018-239-19
(90 WORDS)
 
Food is good for you, for sure.
Any food will do?
What if what it is tastes bad,
Eat it anyway?...
Because it’s good for you they say?
Yuck on that, I say…
Give me something tasty, Yo…
Whatever gives me joy,
And I will think it’s good for me,
Because it probably is,
But maybe not too much of it.
Just a bit will do.
Then, I’ll eat what they suggest,
But not too much of that.
Maybe, I’ll just drink my lunch…
Not care at all; how’s that?
oOo

20
OFF TO WORK AGAIN
ENP2018-239-20
(95 WORDS)
 
It’s time for lunch, oh yea…come on!
Let’s gather ‘round and stuff
A bunch of this, a bunch of that,
Then back to work to doze.
Worry that the boss will see?
You’re dead asleep for sure?
No worry here, he’s dead asleep;
He went to lunch with us.
Then, home to dinner, off we go!
The drive is not too long.
Oh no!  It’s healthy stuff again.
Football’s on tonight.
Chips and beer and other things.
A chocolate kiss or two.
Then, off to bed for a rumpled sleep.
Then off to work again!
oOo
 
21
GRUNDY
ENP2018-239-21
(107 WORDS)
 
It’s off to the tappy for a pint or two,
Maybe I’ll make it three.
Maybe Shamus, James will buy.
I have some bills to pay.
I have nothing but me buttons to use,
And could lose me pants, you see.
Then, there’d be Hell to pay, egad!
Imagine the shame, oh well.
The landlord can wait another day.
Tomorrow is good I think,
Except he’s standin’ by the door…
I can’t get in, the pain.
Cure’s so near, but the bar’s so far,
And Grundy’s stuck in the door.
So, home to sweet Molly I go, of course,
To sing a few songs or two…maybe three.
oOo

22
HALF AND HALF THAT I BE
ENP2018-239-22
(92 WORDS)
 
Russians are frantic dancers, and why?...
Vodka and frigid winters.
Russian women thaw out in the spring,
And cavort for a week for fun.
New dancers are born some time thereafter
And frantic begins again.
Russians are no fun to be around.
They cry and fight and why?
Vodka and frigid winters, of course.
What else could there be?
Peasants are as peasants be.
Nothing changes in ice.
Half Russian; half Irish I be, you see.
I am a man in conflict.
Whiskey from Ireland cannot compete
With vodka for frigid winters.
oOo

23
BE ONE
ENP2018-239-23
(91 WORDS)
 
Dogs are fun, unless they bite…
Same with cats who scratch.
Humans bite AND scratch, I know,
Which makes them bad as pets.
Elephants are bad as well,
Too big to cuddle and feed.
Giraffes also fail the test…
Too tall to kiss and pet.
How about a clam to love?
A barnacle, perhaps?
Fish are fun for some I hear.
What about a bird?
It seems it’s hard to choose a pet,
So why not try a hobby?
Turn this thing around, why not?
Be a pet; don’t get one.
 oOo
 
24
GIVE A BREAK
ENP2018-239-24
(94 WORDS)
 
Give a guy a break, why not?
So, he made a mistake.
He built a spaceship to travel to Mars
And missed it altogether.
Now, he lives on Venus, he thinks…
“Not sure,” he says, “It’s blue.”
Perhaps, he never left the Earth,
And is under the Arctic Sea.
Give another guy a break,
A political guy this time,
Who ran for office and didn’t vote,
And lost by one, I hear.
We need a break at times, indeed.
Forgive and forget, I say…
But never forget that son-of-a-bitch
Who never married your mother.
 oOo
 
25
LIKE YOU
ENP2018-239-25
(80 WORDS)
 
People like cars, so yup it is.
Cars like people, right?
Jury’s out on that, I think.
Cars like cars, hmmm?
Do cars like anything at all?
Ever ask one, maybe?
People like people, is it true?
Everyone likes a herd.
Is liking important at all, I ask?
Depends on what you like…
Maybe on what you don’t like.
What don’t you like?
Like versus don’t like?
I like liking.
I don’t like not liking.
I like you, I do.
 oOo
 
26
WINE, OH!
ENP2018-239-26
(91 WORDS)
 
Talk about wining and whining, please.
Which is which, I ask?
Talk like a baby, you’re whining, see?
Drink like a fishie, you’re wining.
Growing up is hard to do,
Wining and whining, in part.
Eating and burping are part of this.
Farting is not a part.
Farting is not a part of this?
Passing gas is.
I’m confused; I’m whining here.
What are we talking about?
Whining or wining is what, you fool!
Oh, I see…I don’t.
It’s all a part of growing up.
Just like wining and dining (huh?)
 oOo

 27
THE BLUES
ENP2018-239-27
(94 WORDS)
 
Tell me…what are the Blues?...a color?
It’s music, a type of music.
Can you dance to it, bump and grind?
No, you don’t dance.
You don’t dance to it…why?
You’re supposed to slump and cry.
Doesn’t sound like fun to me.
You’re supposed to feel bad.
You’re supposed to feel bad to it?
Yea, you suffer, sort of.
Slump, cry, feel bad and suffer.
It came from the slaves, who suffered.
Oh, that was terrible, and they sang?
Yea, to ease the pain, to moan.
Music to ease the pain?
They sang to God to free them all.  (I see)
oOo
 
28
DON’T SNEEZE
ENP2018-239-28
(101 WORDS)
 
They say what they say about men with big noses,
And hands that look like hams.
Big noses bring big ideas for love.
What kind of ideas for love?
Big ideas to share with a lady someday.
I have big ideas.
Not with a nose and hands like yours.
You’re going to need money.
I need money for love someday?
Welcome to the West.
What about two big noses?
On the same side of the bed?
No…the bride and the groom, their noses.
Could be an ethnic thing.
What do you say – two big noses?
What do I say?  Don’t sneeze.
oOo

29
TIRED
ENP2018-239-29
(91 WORDS)
 
Do you know how to change a tire?
Into what, pray tell?
Change a flat in case, I mean.
In case of what, pray tell?
In case you get a flat, pray tell.
You makin’ fun of me?
Yes, indeed, I am, my friend.
Pray tell gets old, you know.
It is already old, by far.
Like changing a tire, perhaps?
I have no idea at all, my friend.
Why not, pray tell, I ask?
That’s not nice, you know, to twist.
I think I am tired of tires.
Too many tires is tiring for sure.
That’s why I walk, pray tell.
oOo

30
FERD THE BIRD
ENP2018-239-30
(101 WORDS)
 
Ferd was a bird with a word, how absurd,
Birds with words aside.
Ferd was sad because of his beak.
Words didn’t speak, they chirped.
No matter the message he wanted to say,
He chirped and chirped and chirped.
All of a sudden, he looked around.
A crowd had gathered, hmmm.
They smiled and chattered and more, you see
Enjoying the chirps from Ferd.
He tried to smile, but beaks don’t smile,
So all he did was point.
I have a point, a point, I say,
And chirped the point he had.
Everyone stood and understood
What Ferd, the bird, had said.
oOo
 
A FEW EXTRAS, #2
LOOSE POEMS
(12 pieces)

1 
THE LAST MOMENTS
 
Locked in a world of dreams
Floating somewhere between the conscious world
And eternal peace
She hears a voice calling
Crying out her name
But it sounds muffled and distant.
The pains of her body have fled
Leaving only the blissful sensation of youth
A fleeting glance of what life was before she was engulfed
By the blue skies of this perfect place.
Here she can relive the past
Memories long past;
Off in the distance, she sees a light
A pale glow like the first rays of dawn;
It bathes her in ethereal warmth,
A warmth that consumes her:
A voice grabs a strand of her consciousness.
It's a voice she recognizes almost as well as her own
But it sounds strange
Strained, weary, anguished, defeated...
Why?
She recoils slightly from the pain she hears in the voice
Wishing she could make that pain disappear;
The strands of consciousness wrap tightly around the thought
But the glow is there, wrapping around her.
Soothing.
She feels herself being lifted.
Consciousness slowly slips back into the warm recesses of her perfect
contentment.
She no longer hears the voice;
She looks down at her body; she can see it suspended in light
As the warmth of the glow covers her, the feeling of total security overwhelms.
In her ear she hears the sound of a whisper,
And in the flash of an instant, she sees the face that owns the voice.
It is a face she has seen a thousand times
Though much older now then the first time she saw it, she loves it no less.
She smiles and closes her eyes.
It's ok now.
It's over.
oOo

2
SILENCE REIGNS
 
Blocking out the sound
Word by word
Incessant speech
It begins to sound like another language
It all blends into one shrieking buzz
Silence is golden;
A diamond in a sea of coal;
The flutter of a butterfly's wings;
The whisper of a baby's breath;
All the things you hear when Silence Reigns
oOo

 3
CHILD OF NIGHT
 
As I run through the darkness
Feeling the moons glow upon my skin
The trees drifting slightly in chorus
With the night's soft lullaby
The breeze plays lightly with my hair
And scatters the leaves across the darkened lake.
Stepping into the water, I can feel it swirling around my legs
Like many small hands.
The rain, looking like tiny pieces of silver falling from the sky
Cools my heated skin
As I submerge myself completely in the water, I feel weightless.
I come up for air and see the rain has stopped...
Beyond the trees I can see a soft pink glow
It is a precursor to the hectic rush of morning;
I step out of the water and begin the walk back to where I came,
As I watch the sun pushes its way above the horizon;
And the calming blackness of night fades into light.
I know I must return to the life that the sun has produced
But much later...
When the light fades to a reassuring blanket of darkness
I can once again release myself and be a Child of Night.
 oOo

4 
TRUE ORACLES
 
Daydreams, oh, daydreams, may you last unto Eternity,
Never letting the cold winds of reality blow through my mind,
A windy place to start with.
Don’t blow ill through the fantasies with which I succeed,
More or less.
I die occasionally, love pleasure, because it feels good,
Mounting pleasure (not using a saddle nor stirrups),
Colors of the spectrum jiggled just right,
The amorous, the clandestine, the hero, the lovers and more.
Moments, along with nothing, impair as singles.
My life, as it is, is, and nothing more,
But is there more in the offing?
Every wish coming true,
Adds a spark from the Oracle, whoever it is,
And spurs me on toward the truth, whatever it is.
See how easy the True Oracle speaks?
oOo

5
AUBURN DELIGHTS TOO LATE
 
A slight turn of face and hair,
Auburn delights in motion,
Carry my thoughts away to repair
In the thoughts of her commotion,
Distilling the unsavory from
Cherished ideals to come.
 
Abhored empty days gray with despair,
A glance and a thief through the dark
Runs with no heart through the square.
Into the silent night and into the park,
She hopes for the spear of a sear
To provoke the auburn delights to appear.
They do, but it’s too late.
oOo

6 
PUERILE WORLD
 
Come puerile world
With your twisted features…
Nations pridified, what?
What can you expect from children?
The best,of course.
 
A blue-cold wind whips
Through the simple mind
Where once a warm confidence lay.
Stir the dust of concern
And sneeze a few times.
 
The surface is a brittle crust,
A flat thing of no dimension,
And why?
Nothing more than a puerile world,
Is there any other place?
oOo

7
COURTSHIP
 
Courtship is the calm connection
Fastening the warmth of marriage
To the mellow cooling of age.
oOo

8
LIFTING THROUGH THE ROOM
 
Soft music lifts through the room;
Hands melt with a smile,
Subdued, inspired by romance,
The span of glimmering tableware,
And such.
How distance two totally absorbed can be,
The ambient mellowness,
The clicking of forks, knives and spoons.
Waiters moving on belts
To and fro the kitchen
Waved back and forth by the swinging doors,
FLAP, FLAP, less flap, quiver.
How poor the lighting, how nice that is.
Where is poetic grace; she was just here?
Must be in the bathroom, where tile abounds.
A whisper later, a cough,
The clearing of mind and throat.
A snapped lighter, must be an old one,
A Zippo, for sure…
Am I really so old as to remember this?
My father had a fine way of doing this,
SNAP, SCRAPE, LIGHT, CLOSE.
Inhale, exhale with class, look across the room
To see if anyone is watching…she was…good.
The closer they get, the farther away the music,
But isn’t that love, or at least lust.
Isn’t it wonderful to have restaurants, bars and clubs?
oOo

9 
JAMEY AND LEO
 
Jamey clopped to the door and hung there like an old rag.
There, in the russet light, two amber orbs hung like balls.
Is there anything above them to suggest something more?
Most likely not.
Why think that way, but it is a way, nonetheless.
A nervous shuffle, as an anticipatory breath is huffed,
Signalling the precise location of Leo,
The proud shadow of Jamey, the lead.
There, in the almost dark, the two stared, one up, one down.
They were waiting for something, or someone, maybe no one.
And what of the russet light and two amber orbs?
Meaningless evidently; mere backdrop to a rising curtain, a stage.
To Jamey, he saw the yards in which they played and romped,
His pillow all brown and furry,
An eager face on a pillow of hair in the shadow of something bigger,
Commanding in a fashion, part of Leo maybe; maybe not.
Mother complained about this and that, chewed and unchewed,
And Leo says let’s go out and play, Jamey; we’re old enough,
Somewhere in the realm of 14 or 15, when passions rise
And no one knows why.  Secrets.
These are secrets that are not secrets to anyone who has been there,
And where might that be?
When trousers fall, interests rise, and what’s wrong with that.
Leo is more obvious than Jamey,
And it appears that Jamey knows this and compares,
Not to be little, but to be prominent in his own simple way.
The wonders of the body, the curious years,
The probing years to find the person who is the person,
Who will become the person standing in the alley,
Behind the bar, a shadow, or maybe the others,
Perhaps both, prior assurances, no secret.
 oOo

10 
SHOT SEED
 
What does it take to shoot seed?
A flesh pipe prepared to do this,
Much to the joy of the owner;
Much too to the joy of those watching.
And what then, when the seeds of fertility
Blast away from their containers
And splat against something
Or fall in an arc and dazzle the floor.
Just wait a few days, and the act will repeat,
Perhaps with a new audience,
Perhaps provoked by another hand,
Perhaps combined with a voice,
Perhaps nothing at all.
Some acts are better absorbed
Within a person, a partner, a lover, a chance stranger,
Regardless, the result will come most assuredly,
And the recipient may not even notice,
But regardless, the process continues,
Isn’t that wonderful?
oOo

11 
BURNT
 
Leave me alone on my burned-out hillside,
And fail my lifeblood, bled away over time.
Glazed eyes.
Numb.
Where once I lived and laughed and loved,
And then, they came and took me away.
oOo

12
PIE
 
You are aware of a pie, I presume.
But which one is the subject of these lines?
Pie, the one with a curvey top and two legs, is mathematical:
3.1416 to be exact.
It is grammatically incorrect, but an apple pie is not.
Let me explain.
Take for example determining the area of a circle.
Aye equals pie are squared.  Got it?
Pie is singular, unless there is more than one,
And this is not to be, or ever was.
Pie equals pie is squared, right?
No?
Maybe, I should have quit school and become a genius.
School can be so limiting to a person such as Me,
I mean Eye, oh what the hell!
 oOo
 
THIS WORK IS PRODUCED AND PUBLISHED BY:
DUO PUBLICATIONS & DOCUMENTATION R&D (USA)
greggiemorebooks@gmail.com
greggiemorebooks.com
 
The Greggie Morebooks Presents Series
 
Featuring multi-genre, human-interest entertainment applying self-defined, self-determining characters performing within a naturalistic environment presented as slices of life in streams-of-consciousness in a distinct journalistic fashion by inspired storytellers.   
 
Copyright 2018, Gregory St. John Taylor, All Rights Reserved
ENP document control number: ENP2018-164
 oOo