I haven't written much about my rock, my strong foundation
that's only 'cos he'd curse me to all hell, perhaps damnation
and chuck a down-here-under male's embarrassed hissy fit
if he was made aware that I've writ even this small bit

so please don't go and tell him I'm confessing here my love
for him, the second, gifted me to be my right hand glove
when number one departed and all order went amiss
and pain would not allow relief with band-aid or with kiss

we're given, if we notice, a reward for soul's sour lessons

luxurious aromas mingle
in tall mahagony rooms
cognac snifters clink
and twinkle
in the glint of chandeliers

as for me,
I'm tipsy
leaning cooly in a corner
twisted in irony
bored
and condescending

then I see her
and I'm suddenly intrigued

womaness aglow
latticed in spicey red heels
playing it haute and haughty
deeply lost in a reverie of hopefulness

and I want to hold her
enfold her
gently
in my arms

that, or either
slap her out of it

river curdled with ice
her bending dark naked trunks
laced with mists
rising from her trees
where she eats the banks
with her hunger of spring

washs snow from cemetary hill
down civil war brickwork
lane copper roof gathering
halls and slate sheen snow
sliding slow
mists climbing like the river
valley dreams
the clouds that slept too long
and linger on

over a town of ironwork
that twists like nettles
on steaming factories

What paper and pen I use
Does not matter,

What diction I use and style I write in
Does not matter,

Whether or not my words are ever written
Does not matter,

For ink will eventually dry,
And paper will burn,
Even words are eventually forgotten,
It is true,
No matter what you say of legends and thinkers,
The words of those who sought immortality,
Will eventually fade,

And what matters most in verse
I will never understand,

And I shall continue not to write
But to feel,

you are way too intelligent to be
amidst Neopoets
who spread like autumn leaves
collecting the rays of suns
in summer poems
and catch the lovely chilly breeze
and
admire the sunset
far in the distant horizon
across the blue wavy seas
and
admire themselves in superficial garb
being the illustrious poets of yore
who love to be read as none ever was before
and
get singled out like me
as you once did ...

did she tremble as the stag horns burst through
icy, untouchable
pointing judgments of
the poet as housemaid
the laureate academic
collecting a pulitzer for his first dead wife's work
His best friend and true wife stood seven years
before ground sleeping pills and a gas oven
ate the air, the daughter too.....mouth open lips purple blue
did you get him back? He married a year later
Assia the Lilith of this tale.

I wonder

if in afterlife are you in tornado caterwaul with Sylvia

the departure
unexpected

a solitary witness who
owned only three summers
unperturbed
said, ‘Nana's gone to sleep
and won't wake up’

then
displaying childhood's acceptance of
all things new
spoke nothing more of it

until, at the wake
in the deceased’s sunny kitchen
was heard to
whisper to
her siblings and cousins

Where world powers clash
the heart of insomniacs
overcome by dreams

Peace was never in the plan
even with the simple clans

For who can find peace
when both thoughts and battles rage
among hearth and kin ?

Mostly we learn from parents
what is it the child learns then?

No one lights their way
in this world darkened by storms
unknown right from wrong

Fear with hate insidious
learned from lightning strikes long past

Floaters

By RW

Brief lightning

Halogen flash of feeling

too soon gone

not even an odor lingering

just moments made less savory

by rapid passage

Now I see spots

and the darkness is no longer comfortable

 Before you
I was blind
I crawled and cried
as a child

my thoughts
were mere doubts,
inner shouts
that howled
and ground my awe

until when
you intruded
and diluted
my heart
in the world
of words' art
and in you.