Partners In Fiction (How We Met)

Back then, I was a day trader.
At night, I drove a cab. On a wet November night,
there she stood on the corner of 58th and Park.
With a wave of her hand she brought me to a halt,
and hurriedly I reversed, that the cabbie behind me,
not steal my fare.

She was tall and blond as a broom, and entered the cab
with her nose in the air. "Where to?" said I.
Said she, "118th and Third Avenue, La Marketa."
Anyone familiar with East Harlem, knows that La Marketa,
is a squalid market under the trestles of the trains
running from Grand Central Station to the suburbs.

Why would a dame like this be headed for Spanish Harlem?
Maybe drugs. Through the mirror, I saw her cross her legs,
The slit in her gown exposed a thunderous thigh,
beyond which no gentleman should wanna look further.
A long brimmed hat, slightly slanted, sat ruffed on her head.
"You're dripping wet," says I.
"I beg your pardon," says she.


To be continued

No Problem, No Worry

Black and gold stripped bandanna
tied to the nape of her fragrant neck
over her hair's frizzly forest,
portly her majesty is my Sapphire,
who has more adventures she could tell
than poems I could ever write of her and hers,
of times when riding city buses was by reserve
the sitting arrangement from white to back,
and veranda privileges was for mint julep sippers,
and fountain waters were white and black to the very last bloody drop.

Black and gold stripped bandanna tied to a bun in a bow.
My fingers tips know their textures. My soul has heard their sing.
From Sapphire's ear of perfect seashell shape an earring swings,
a massive ring to mock earth's orbit --- orbit of witch
hang ball and chain that sways to the stop and go
of the New Orleans transit authority.
Between ball and chain shine 48 silver stars.
Add 2 more to mark the sites of those who would exploit
my Sapphire, but neither understood nor fully possessed her;
uneasy their wait in these uneasy times.

Rocking chair times, unpredictably asteroid

Where Else?

In the clickety clack of rails and tracks
through entrails
to the upper reaches of Manhattan
east to the Bronx,
into the languid sunsets of Queens
to the other end of Brighton Beach...

Where else but on a New York Subway
will you find a Watusi
sitting alongside a throw-back Etruscan,
next to a Sikh
shoulder to shoulder with an Israelite
of Talmud locks and flowing beard.

Ever since, I arrived from Bremenhaven,
I've spent my life exploring faces.
Never found one, I did not find intriguing.
Same goes for the ladies --- never found one,
who could not be a goddess for the night,
if treated special nice by me ---

the Prince of Clubs.

Sounds familiar, poet?

Pebbles, pebbles

Control erosion
The garden hears and hires me
We together work

Poetry Police

You adore Zarathustra,
fine, say no more.
You fancy Dolly Parton,
go visit Dolly Park.
You wanna commit suicide,
do it by yourself.

Let us remind you,
this is a Poetry Forum,
not for the debating astrophysics,
sex, or stock market ups and downs.
Let's keep it honest.
Let's not play with loaded dice.

Cherokee Revenge

Like snows ago,
winter's fragmented crystal sank to bottom brooks,
the watery crypts of seasons long but short of memories.

And now from glacial blue, the sky rains pollen down on me
in blizzard gales of ancient dames, who snap their bonnet heads
and greening arms to spring salute.

Who are these Appalachian witches?
They are as follows: Sycamore, Birch and Elm,
Cottonwood, Dogwood Flowering,

Hawthorn, Hemlock, Hickory,
Oak and Holly. I'd recite the 250 woods of them
but for my suffering sinus and sorry matter

blowing hard from out my snozzle nozzle

Two 4 Three

Hold center in the poem.
Let it surround you like a forest refuge.
Let it, also, the open field in which to stretch.
Its singing springs will soothe your nerves.
In its denseness, you will know security.

Recite its verses in first light.
At night, the poem will cradle you.
It is the 13 Promises given David,
in Psalm 23 --- David and me,
and G. makes 3.