Il Tocco al Cuore

Poet Laureate of the Primitive Planets

Vedo il punto della tua scherma;
toccami e sarò la tua sottile spada da pazzo
perché principalmente stai toccando:
vieni qui piccola
e abbracciami forte,
e non ci sederemo sul recinto,

quindi tesoro,
metti il ​​tuo cuore
con grazia nella danza
per il colpo d’amore
——–
The Touch to the Heart

I see the point of your fencing;
touch me and I’ll be your thin crazy sword
because mainly you’re touching:
come here baby
and hug me tight,
and we will not sit on the fence,

so honey,
put your heart
gracefully in the dance
for the stroke of love

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Ode to an Olive

Poet Laureate of the Primitive Planets

Apostolis missed
his dearly departed wife.
Only the olive grove was a comfort now.

Ferocious are the winds of fate

Not so many years ago,
Apostolis and his wife cried
for a young Mother they never met, and
wept that day in sorrow and joy, wished
she could have seen the olives grow

Her babies were left
under an olive tree, abandoned
in the dawn that day when
the mother’s joy never rose
in the blackness of her shame

Ferocious are the winds of fate,
odd weather like a ferret at the door

Rumors told Apostolis
who the father was. But
ne’er a word to confront him
though he saw that weasel
at a fair once.

The babies grew, and
walked in the shade, had
silly escapades, laughed at
pressing matters
under the olive trees.

Apostolis told them
babies come from
olive trees

Odd weather is fate
like a weasel…

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Elaborate Loquacious Verbosity in Cacophony Like Noise in a Crowd

Poet Laureate of the Primitive Planets

Sentences, gracefully elaborated, embellished
with the sounds of glorious triumph, played

with cacophonous instruments of
drunken loquacious musicians strung out
on their heart strings,

birds and cats
playing around with joyful noise who are mine,

these sentences gracefully making every trill
a wave to glory, oceanic, are not runaways,
being ensconced in dreams, and

pray tell, if I may continue,
the words of the angels
are infinite and concise like
love that sings forever charming and
as elaborate as is a sentence to joy,

many times re-phrased, re-claused
like a Santa Clause whose mythology endures
way beyond his run away sleigh, bells of grace
reverberating with every sentence pronounced
by judges and supplicants
gracefully joined in symphony, in
sympathy, in empathy, and joined on every path
to any pathy even daffy, because
the complex can be simply wonderful
like you all who indulge
the marathon run into oblivion
with a…

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Giraffe

Poet Laureate of the Primitive Planets

There is a giraffe who reads my words for me
stands up tall because she loves me like a high leaf

She has a reading every Friday at the club
and they love her because she is so beautiful
and she is so slim and long necked, yes!

She is so cool when
she reaches high
and reaches low

She has no stage fright and
her heart beats true always for me;
I think she can throb for me
without a worry about her heart
except if she would think I would not kiss her neck, but

I would and would all over
and even take her hand for
an innocent walk in the woods

just because I want to
share the moon with her
and do a silly howl or
a lullaby for a Friday night
when she comes home with me
high on applause but
waiting for me…

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Bhutan College Girl Returns Home to the Farm

Poet Laureate of the Primitive Planets

The leaves of the potato are wise:
they send the sugar below ground
for a tuber of love,
somewhat starchy in demeanor
but as wise as an aging parent

She is an educated farmer
knows the smell of the city,
has read many books

But the land of her parents
must not lie fallow

She will milk it
for the love of the land
and for her parents, because

fine pigs for the market will
bring home the bacon kindly
while crunchy carrots will say

books can wait, but
Mother can not

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Where Do Dragons Hunt In Bhutan?

Poet Laureate of the Primitive Planets

Cold and loneliness
are in the room,
snow outside
with paw prints

All light bulbs unscrewed,
neither love nor
the electric bill
can not be seen
in television’s flicker light

The electric heater is off,
snowflakes lugubrious
paw prints gone

In television’s flicker light
she sees valleys
rice fields, swamp
jungle,
sees a tiger lunge
watches deer in dense leaves,
seizes a moment to
witness a Himalayan climb
peeks at peaks;
all these
she has seen
on TV

Now she wants
an automated
computerized
rice cooker

With a better job
beyond Thimpu,
perhaps she
can get this and more —
see a movie about dragons who
watch soap operas and speak Hindi

she
meditates upon
sad weekends
awaiting inspiration

Walking in the snow
she goes to work
to work on herself
inside

The snow is melting
and she is
warming
inside

Without a light bulb
or a rice cooker
she…

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Wilted Dreams

Poet Laureate of the Primitive Planets

Hating roses is
a passion fate,
a habit like
throwing out
chocolate without cherries

You were a healer
nursed the saved
rose above the battle
fire for awhile,
soothed the singed,
cauterized

I look for the
squiggle code on the chocolate:
it tells me which to save
which pure chocolate must go

For good luck
I gave you a rose
and a promise
for hot chocolate

Roses are red
I’ve heard, but
haven’t seen them
anymore;
hold your ghostly fire

I wrap all red cherries
in chocolate squiggles
never to giggle again,
to love roses wilted

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