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Body Dementia

surrounded by ambitious sorts
I sip my coffee in my shorts
and fight the urge to grab a rake
or trim some grass or pound a stake
summer morning is the place
to set a chair in a shady space
to dive into the inactive chore
of icing tea and not much more
I’m busy in an abstract way
only so many heartbeats in a day
I must balance the universe
putting the passive in front first
and claim my place inside the Tao
it may get done but not for now

To Get To This Day Was Easy

Summer shade and five point flowers
all began with April showers
The hummer flight paths of July
two thousand miles he had to fly

The trees grow tall and shake with leaf
that in March was beyond belief
August tomatoes fat in the sun
were seeds before Lent had begun

Far beyond the cicada whine
the snow whistled through the same pine
And by mere chance the floating seed
picks nature’s locks, of which its keyed

While trapped inside of winters dark
remember somewhere is the spark
Of mystery bound to accept
and keep the only promise kept

Free Will by Alice Meynell

Alice Meynell
NPG 2221,Alice Meynell (nÈe Thompson),by John Singer Sargent

Free Will
by Alice Meynell

Dear are some hidden things
   My soul has sealed in silence; past delights;
Hope unconfessed; desires with hampered wings,
   Remembered in the nights.

But my best treasures are
   Ignoble, undelightful, abject, cold;
Yet O! profounder hoards oracular
   No reliquaries hold.

There lie my trespasses,
   Abjured but not disowned. I’ll not accuse
Determinism, nor, as the Master* says,
   Charge even “the poor Deuce.”

Under my hand they lie,
   My very own, my proved iniquities;
And though the glory of my life go by
   I hold and garner these.

How else, how otherwhere,
   How otherwise, shall I discern and grope
For lowliness? How hate, how love, how dare
   How weep, how hope?

My dick poem rejected again and again so here goes

A Dick Poem

It leads and I march, I’m sorry to say
This procreant urge that has commanded my days
I’ve reproduced twice so please go away
But a stubborn libido is bound here to stay

My thoughts are under constant restraint
For it is what it is and it is what it ain’t
And Augustine was rarely a saint
Until he repented without any complaint

So to my best days a clear “adios”
For all men from ditch diggers to high Pharaohs
Can’t help but follow where ever it goes
A simple case of anatomy, I must suppose