Love Inheres a Romance True (Revised)

Love Inheres a Romance True (Revised)

    Love Inheres a Romance True

Leora has the light to be a day
to be of warmth, of wisdom
illuminating in humor’s dance
a candid banter to laugh
to play at night lightly

But she’s a brilliant explorer
who’ll leave for a leaf

Once she might have
stayed the day, the night

In Leora’s magic once
I felt a deft embrace
of luscious touch, and
then in light she left, but

Her love inheres the day:
the wind and the birds
tweak her sayings for
philosophy nested away

Yet her love inheres the day:
she is warmth and
her light is the delight that
inheres my laugh when

remembering her yet
on unforgiving nights

How the winds are calm in frights
and the birds do die if
the sun won’t rise inherently

Per Vestirsi Per La Battaglia

Per Vestirsi Per La Battaglia

La battaglia è persa e
Non ho salvato nessuno.
Se n’è andata con
niente da mettere
e niente da dire
quando l’ho mandata via.

Lei stessa ha detto che è una guerra vuota
e nessuno di noi
verrà salvato alla fine

Come fai a sapere se
il sole splenderà
quando la notte è buia
e la splendida luce cara
quella è lei ne è andata per sempre

Fa così freddo da solo per me
essere nudi nella notte
interrotto da bombe

Perché vestirsi per la morte
quando il sangue perso è caldo

Come posso sanguinare bene
quando lei non mi ama più
e non c’è salvataggio. Onore?

Non penso che sorgerà il sole
e non ho vestiti eccetto per
l’abbigliamento dei ricordi di lei
più belli di lei che erano
To Dress For Battle

The battle is lost and
I haven’t saved anyone.
She left with
nothing to wear
and nothing to say
when I sent her away.

She said it was an empty war
and none of us
will be saved in the end

How do you know if
the sun will shine
when the night is dark
and the splendid dear light
that is she is gone forever

It’s so cold for me alone
to be naked in the night
interrupted by bombs

Why dress for death
when the lost blood is hot

How can I bleed well
when she no longer loves me
and there is no rescue. Honor?

I don’t think the sun will rise
and I have no clothes except for
the clothing of her memories
more beautiful than she was

Il Tocco al Cuore

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

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

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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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

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?

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
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
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

meditates upon
sad weekends
awaiting inspiration

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

The snow is melting
and she is

Without a light bulb
or a rice cooker

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Wilted Dreams

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,

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
hold your ghostly fire

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

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White Boa

White Boa

Poet Laureate of the Primitive Planets

The mirror spoke to her,
telling the Royal Highness
she was ugly to her people

“Beauty must end
for me to be loved,”
bemoaned the Queen , adding,
“No lamps shall be lit,
until I am the fairest of them all.

Snow White, the beautiful bitch
praised in song by the rabble,
I shall have destroyed by apples
of doom, of looming darkness.

For this I stamp my feet
to dizzy tizzy schemes:
poison ivy arise, I command,
march in tea bags from hags,
brew my hatred finely
until the stirring whirling
minions slither out, and now

magic vision crystal ball
show me success,” she said,
but she saw different.

In the Night Inn
the Royal boa constrictor,
wearing the Queen’s feather boa
tied on its body in a bow, digesting
a mouse d’orange, cursed them all,
casually flicking its tongue in vogue
at the unsuspecting mâitre d’ hôtel

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