🚀 go-pugleaf

On Saturday, 13 August 2022 at 09:32:15 UTC-4, blackpo...@aol.com wrote:
> On Saturday, August 13, 2022 at 9:17:15 AM UTC-4, Edward Rochester Esq. wrote: 
> > On Saturday, August 13, 2022 at 8:06:15 AM UTC-4, ME wrote: 
> > > On Friday, 12 August 2022 at 07:12:57 UTC-4, blackpo...@aol.com wrote: 
> > > > On Thursday, August 11, 2022 at 8:00:55 PM UTC-4, Edward Rochester Esq. wrote: 
> > > > > On Thursday, August 11, 2022 at 3:16:02 PM UTC-4, michaelmalef...@gmail.com wrote: 
> > > > > > EXTREMES 
> > > > > > 
> > > > > > The Summer sunlight burns my shoulders raw 
> > > > > > Streets sizzle in the blaze of August heat, 
> > > > > > Each passing breeze a blast from heaven's forge; 
> > > > > > While ocean breakers roll in to disgorge 
> > > > > > Their cache of scattered shells before my feet, 
> > > > > > Pink pebbles, seaweed, kelp, crustacean claw. 
> > > > > > 
> > > > > > The sunburnt sand scorches my toes and sole 
> > > > > > Tans them as tough as cowhide's leathern grain, 
> > > > > > My form grows heavy while my head grows light; 
> > > > > > But Summer's end already is in sight 
> > > > > > And I would rather that the heat remain 
> > > > > > Than face the pain that rides on Winter's wing… 
> > > > > > 
> > > > > > For Summer's scalds can't rival Winter's sting 
> > > > > > When heat is culled from blackened lumps of coal. 
> > > > > > 
> > > > > > -- Michael Pendragon 
> > > > > > 
> > > > > > **** 
> > > > > 
> > > > > A Slow Dance to Sunrise 
> > > > > 
> > > > > My eyes remain opened once again 
> > > > > studying a ceiling crack running fast 
> > > > > toward a deceitful curtain, 
> > > > > a curtain that does little to hide, 
> > > > > but frames a voyeuristic moon. 
> > > > > I squeeze my eyes shut 
> > > > > trying to end its midnight stare 
> > > > > as a down-filled pillow slowly becomes 
> > > > > more an accomplice, 
> > > > > to my insomnia. 
> > > > > 
> > > > > I remember, with scattered thoughts, 
> > > > > past sleigh rides, 
> > > > > carrot nosed snowmen 
> > > > > and an almost caught spring trout, 
> > > > > as friends laughed 
> > > > > at my ineptitude with 
> > > > > a fishing pole… 
> > > > > until that slow walk to supper, 
> > > > > with the sun setting on another 
> > > > > failed try. 
> > > > > 
> > > > > I have learned to sing 
> > > > > with owls over the years, 
> > > > > play violin with cricket 
> > > > > orchestras, their nocturnal life, 
> > > > > being mine 
> > > > > all while remembering 
> > > > > I forgot once again 
> > > > > to call those I promised to-- 
> > > > > they sleep tonight, 
> > > > > quiet sandman dreams, 
> > > > > as I watch minutes 
> > > > > become hours, 
> > > > > with that moon 
> > > > > slowly turning back 
> > > > > into a sun 
> > > > > and with all of that, 
> > > > > always the thought of time 
> > > > > shrinking in the rear-view 
> > > > > mirror. 
> > > > ------------------------------------------------------------ 
> > > > 
> > > > 
> > > > Ghost Bar 
> > > > 
> > > > The keyboard ivory is now a soft yellow, 
> > > > nicotine stained from too many exhales 
> > > > drifting out between love songs 
> > > > and sweat. 
> > > > 
> > > > A worn-out suit and dull shoes 
> > > > once hit the pedals, 
> > > > no longer a smooth toe-tap 
> > > > where lyrics rang out their pain 
> > > > and in that smoky darkness, 
> > > > heads nodded, keeping company 
> > > > with misery and now, the walls retain 
> > > > refrains from the ravished throats 
> > > > of a whiskey bleached cry 
> > > > calling out to past ghosts 
> > > > 
> > > > The Beats sat in the back 
> > > > clouded in smoke and smiles, 
> > > > an impromptu meet with stories 
> > > > of upheaval and sexual conquest 
> > > > begging the liver withstands 
> > > > the hammer blows of brown whiskey 
> > > > reminiscing of road travels 
> > > > and howl's at the moon 
> > > > until it all went quiet, 
> > > > the revolution now hidden inside 
> > > > hard cover and stains as death offers 
> > > > best sellers and broken little boys 
> > > > and Dylan continues to look out at the faces 
> > > > all weathered from the storm, all waiting 
> > > > for the final knock. 
> > > > 
> > > > Edward Rochester Esq. 
> > ----------------------------------------------------------- 
> > 
> > When the Days are Done 
> > 
> > They’re going to miss me, right? 
> > those birds and trees, planes and bees, 
> > isle five where the cookies were chosen, the pickles 
> > and peanut butter, the crossing guard, 
> > the mimosa, bare or full, the barking dog 
> > or ancient stars, a moon’s glimmer on canals 
> > filled with crawling crabs, the peaks never climbed, 
> > the ocean bottom never walked, the ice cream stand, 
> > good humor man, alligators and crocodiles, 
> > scrub pine and boardwalk stretching the sand dunes. 
> > 
> > They’re going to miss me, right? 
> > garbage men and lawn men and mail men, snowmen 
> > roses, dandelions, violets, posies, tulips, 
> > the IRS, town hall, tall steeples, polished shoes, 
> > dirty work boots, mismatched socks, toothbrush, 
> > hair product, suntan lotion, the Chevy, the van, 
> > the walls, replaced roof, the frying pan, mayonnaise, 
> > poetry, paint, photo, sculpture, songs, 
> > BBQ sauce, beer and scotch, family and friends. 
> > 
> > They’re going to miss me, right, 
> > or has it all been for nothing? 
> > 
> > I know I’m going to miss them. 
> > 
> > Edward Rochester Esq.
> ------------------------------------------------------------------------- 
> 
> 
> Congratulations 
> 
> So, we arrive 
> possibly from the womb 
> of an imperfect mother 
> or perhaps the seed 
> of a drunken father 
> but unlike a new colt 
> we stagger, 
> held up by harness 
> or perhaps the hands 
> of a drunken father 
> as wheels carry us 
> down broken sidewalks 
> until the walk begins, 
> expression, the tears and smiles 
> start to fill imperfect babies 
> until, set free, 
> the ride becomes all yours. 
> 
> The observation 
> of an imperfect world 
> is settled with the perfect sunset 
> or the perfect world 
> becomes the needle 
> and slow nod-- 
> perhaps the black and whites 
> of Weegee shows the anguish, 
> the wheat of Van Gogh, the beauty 
> as seen through an imperfect mind. 
> 
> Percentages are tabulated, 
> the perfect voice disintegrates 
> into slur, the farmers till 
> as the stew cooks, those beams 
> inside the barn looks strong enough 
> to hold the weight 
> until the dinner bell distracts 
> as the headlines tell all 
> of the perfect hideaway for two 
> in Cancun. 
> 
> Is it all carved out before the walk? 
> 
> Me, I got lucky, imperfect as I am 
> my Wallenda walk got me to the other side 
> just about scar-free. 
> 
> Edward Rochester Esq.