Alternately titled: 111th leap year since 1582
the year Pope Gregory XIII world leader
(i.e. essentially paterfamilias among
Roman Catholic flock)
timely maneuvered around calendrical rock
and hard space implementing
viable system tracking years ad hoc
out of sync and lock
step by one day
with astronomical calendar,

I found a button on the sidewalk.

Fallen from the sleeve of a
lacy blouse
worn by a lonely woman,

popped off the collar of a
stiff cotton shirt
from a hurried gentleman?

Once, maybe, donned by
a poet,
a father,
a chemist,
a grieving widow,
a homeless wanderer.

Unnoticed and left behind by
someone heading somewhere
without their button.

I pulled a purple ribbon through it
and hung it on a nearby branch,
simple, ornate, and endlessly, endlessly
circular.

There's something special about
Being loved
By a poet

They notice the little things

The way your hair
Curls around your ears
Like the waves of the ocean
Rolling over itself

How your fingers
Wrap around the steering wheel
The same way they wrap around mine

How your eyes
Shine in the sunlight
Like fire and ice colliding

And the best part is
They write it all down
And share it with the world
Making your presence and beauty
Your life and love
Everlasting

Fore score minus xv orbitz ago
from being centenarian
strong contractions forced me
to pass thru cervix,
buck naked bare lady,
I ranked as only grandson sharing
same surname as Aaron,
(mine paternal grandfather)
me the sole heir –
foreshortened to Sol Aire

Today I feel Human.
And I know I am always human,
But now I notice it.
In the ways my legs ache
With each bend of my knee.
The way my heart sits heavy in my chest
Like a diving ring in a pool
Not going down, just sitting there.
The way my mind races,
And my bones ache for the cold,
Even though I don’t like it anyways.

I show her the poem
with the noisy words
building to a crescendo.

My scribbled paean, foolishly trying
to say these things to her
better than they’ve been said
by others, in ink on paper.

“Maybe I should tone all of this down some?”, I propose.

She smiles and says, “I like the clamor just the way it is.”

Taking station on a crystal dais
of many levels, see them.
These men these over lords
as they stand in judgement,
knowing their every word an uncut gem.

Meting out retribution
for each crime of passion,
to wear a heart on their sleeve
as if it were a statement of fashion.

Case not yet heard for trial,
Specifics have been leaking...
Lawyers calling for mistrial
running from door to door sneaking.

Scottish dream

Hey now ho! my giant ginger!
ruddy hair, with eyes of blue
you have grown, so quick to manhood
and endured a trial or two

To walk in life, as none before.
Let the wind now carry you.
You will search the whole world over
for that heart inside of you?

In time of need let your good deeds
bless and strengthen you
and you’ll always feel a hand lad
there upon your shoulder too

If this moment were a movie
I'd be out in the pouring rain
On my knees, looking up
Tears mixing with the grain

Someone would tell me that
I can never, ever stop trying
I'd nod and dry my tears,
Say my dreams aren't dying

If this moment were a movie
It would be the desperate act
It would be the moment I learn
A rather life-changing fact

But it's not a cinematic universe
I'm not projected on a screen
I'm not the character there
Every second of every scene

I have a little book, it's blue,
In fairly good condition.
Published 1863,
The 34th Edition.

This pocket book of which I speak
Cost one and ninepence new.
A goodly sum in days of old
Could buy much bread and brew.

I try to learn much as I can
With exercises plenty,
Till page 73 my brain implodes
With recapitulatories many.

Etymology and Syntax
Plus six kinds of moods,
Indicative, Subjunctive,
Potential is there too.