Steam from an engine is rising
masking a frothy dark umber.
Cream colored foam hangs upon it.
Crusting and dripping it changes.
Muscle in movement formations
shaping on cold winter mornings.
Exercise done, I untack him.

I can think of no subject more mundane than my job. Parse this sucker please.

Above the road
caught in a gust of wind
a butterfly.

A gold front came through in the dark
and sprinkled poplar leaves behind
autumn's first mild fleeting lark
the next one will not be so kind

But on this day beneath warm sun
there's yellow scattered all around
along the road and old creek run
high in the trees and on the ground

Fall pasture's gilt with bitter weed
a carpet fringed with emerald grass
'ere long the blooms will turn to seed
when the first frost comes to pass

Let the fire in our loins tell the story
when you were the half of me that
came undone and left me for oblivion.
Let us come and go in the splendor
we once dissolved into cube-like sugar
on our horse-like tongues. Let orange
blossoms tumble into fruit while we watch
in wonder, time-lapsed candle-light flickering
slow hands and quickening spirits.

United, let our flame ascend, unknotted of our
mortal coil, breathing deep
the deepening hours.

i.

Arvind the Advaitin, who sometimes
writes poetry, writes a post about his
300K a-year-friend
who lives on acreage in California, probably
somewhere on the coast, maybe even the Bay;
he says his friend's gardener looks sickly on $25
(an hour? a day?). I ask why
he mentions it, and then send him a
picture of river-front property in Kolkata,
shanty-style.

You have seen poverty, right?
I wondered.

Begat from the loins of the damned
wrathful Sire from a nebulous and sinful grave.
Daughter of a virgin womb,
ravaged upon the funeral pyre.
Progeny of neither man nor beast.

Child of extraordinary power ,
Lithe an athlete and fighter
On the cruel streets of London town.
Dragged up and rejected ,no mercy found
A vagabond .

I'm actually not too sure
whether she was an, "old soul",
or I was an immature one.

The complete, bottom line was,
that we were both, "ageless"
while we were, together.

I was exactly twenty years, her senior,
but, that didn't really seem to matter.
We were merely, "happy" we were together.

There was this one thing, though
and, I didn't really ever factor it in;
but, whether or not...we always got along didn't matter;

Mind your pints, and quarts...my friend
last one up, pays the bill;

I guess I'll need a "wingman"
to procure a date against her will.

Let's party, hearty...and let it all hang out
then, we'll let the good-times, roll;

there are mini-tacos after the game
and afterwards, we all may leave to go bowl.

We will synchronize our watches
and like always, let the "best" man win;

we'll get there early for the good seats
and officially let the games begin.

THE BRICK sonnet
The Wee Elf wants this mundane, "LIke a Brick".
My heart sinks, should I give my muse a rest?
Can mundane still be novel? That's some trick.
It's not just words in poems that may get stressed.
Although I'm slow, I'll try to write them down-
Those lines that flow unbidden from my gob,
I'll try to get them bouncing, metric, sound
If really good give up my daytime job.
Here in my hand I hold two common bricks,
Their purpose, to be part of someone's home.

Melancholy are my mood swings
concerning events from my past,

I've been thinking about past scenes
and things I thought wouldn't last.

Everything still stays with me
and, regrets do have their place;

but, I never thought I'd see
them laughing right in my face!

So, I keep on rocking
in this old chair of mine,

remembering all that has happened
sipping on life's sweet-berry wine.

I don't recall having much of a choice
with all these things I regret,