If My Love Has Gone Away To Write Poetry

I Laugh Therefore I Am Poetry

What am I going to do
if my love has gone away

Who will let me cry silly
until we laugh together
because it is ridiculous
that we’d not see
how perfect our
comedy of errors is.

I laugh
therefore I am, and
we were hysterically happy

because we were funny
when we remembered how
we caught each other in a fall

Don’t be gone
Be my joy
Be my love

Don’t be dead:
I command it, because
there is one joke
I haven’t yet told you

What am I going to do
if my love has gone away
without laughing

You Don’t Love Me Anymore

Never Have I Been Loved

Only I know
you don’t love me anymore

And I am a convenience
a generous lie

Yes, you think
you know me
like a body knows a heart

But it’s not the beats
not the syncopation, no
you have never loved my song

A song to touch you
a song to love you, and
I always thought
you loved me because
you loved my lullaby, but

it’s not only sleep I crave;
I want you to know my story,
and I would hear yours,
if you’d be honest.

Only I know
you don’t love me
just because I’m me

I know for sure
you don’t love me anymore.

I Will Not Thank a Sunny Day (2019) [edit 2022]

I Will Not Thank a Sunny Day
(2019) [edit 2022]

Traveling frayed
I’d have thanked a sunny day
if rain had not fallen, and

I’d have praised an ancient sun
if bop rain had not plopped,

a rain dance not done,
the omen drops

and then if rain had not brought
what ought to be hallucinations —
a vision of a bird on a porch — then I’d have
praised a sunny empty day, but rain

seemed like siren music, and
I knew I had to take an exit ramp,
had to visit the porch of her ranch.

In praise of rain, and reigning shelter
Anastasia cared for me,
and for a sick bird there
still wet, still breathing, so

I’d have thanked a sunny day
not coming to love
the chirps and songs of you
in the reigning beauty of rain.


    A funny thing happened in a search for old poems maybe worth saving for a new book. I found an old barren poem (Nightmares) that’s in one of my books and I wondered if it was worth repeating. There was a short blog discussion about it which brought up an interesting subject. But before that here is the little trivial thing:

Dearest precious child with nightmares,
I have a white-light love to envelop you.

Let me reach you nocturnally,
so you can feel my dreams for you
to fly your joy across the heavens
eternally my lovely cherub, because
this night I am here at your bed and blanket.

I tell you: you are strong against monsters,
just because I know you’ll hold onto my love,
and blue eyes, my sacred child,
take my sword of love and
fight every dragon, please, dearest.

    Well, so, that was nothing. As I was saying…
    I remember a long time ago, reading about the Senoi tribe in Malaysia and how the whole tribe discussed their dreams and it was considered very important. It was a fad for awhile and then seemed to disappear. I never quite got into it, but I remember remarking that it’s a shame that when children in our culture have nightmares we just dismiss it by saying, “it’s only a a dream; don’t worry about etc.” And we have no solutions to offer them.
    So anyway, I decided to do a search for the Senoi and dreams and found an interesting article by G. William Domhoff:
Senoi Dream Theory: Myth, Scientific Method, and the Dreamwork Movement
G. William Domhoff
March, 2003

Domhoff, G. W. (2003). Senoi Dream Theory: Myth, Scientific Method, and the Dreamwork Movement. Retrieved November 11, 2021 from the World Wide Web: http://dreamresearch.net/Library/senoi.html

[Revision: Stewart’s version is mythology — The Senoi didn’t actually do any of this dream work. Whether the dream techniques work or not is a different question. But the Senoi didn’t actually do any of this. Wow, a whole movement based on false anthropological data. Well I suppose you can have wrong data right theory. I suppose it’s like calling something “animal magnetism” even though it has nothing to do with “magnetism.” But the actual attraction does exist.]

“For the Senoi, life is a veritable dream clinic. The concern with dreams begins at the break of day. ‘The Senoi parent inquires of his child’s dream at breakfast, praises the child for having the dream, and discusses the significance of it,’ reports Stewart. ‘He asks about past incidences and tells the child how to change his behavior and attitude in future dreams. He also recommends certain social activities or gestures which the dream makes necessary or advisable.'[8]”
[8. Stewart, “Mental Hygiene and World Peace,” p. 396: K. R. Stewart, “Mental Hygiene and World Peace,” Mental Hygiene 38 (1954):387-407]
P.S. Ut oh, there is a dark side: a difficult life with fear, thunderstorms,hookworms, tigers, bogeymen, and spirits… (see chapter two)

‘Ove You

There don’t seem to be good synonyms for “love” in English and it’s been diluted. “I love ice cream and you too,” doesn’t really work. Single words for “romantic love,” or “empathic love,” or “hot passionate love,” infatuation, etc. are not to be found. No word for “I want the best for you… what makes you happy makes me happy etc.” Is it a canard that Eskimos have 200 words for snow, and the French 200 for duck? Well, a little hyperbole, but the word must be somewhere between the brain and the private parts, and certainly doesn’t seem located in the heart though it is a long-lasting and pervasive metaphor. After all, fear is “heart felt” too but it’s not the approved metaphor.

[** Warning: spell-check will blow up.]

Coin a Word for Me

Once a gem,
the word’s been scrubbed
like a pejorative stone
in a teary creek, an
old river gone shallow

Oh let us coin, my lucidove,
our ever word, because
we’ve a tender ‘ove of us effusive
an edgyove, a ludelove
a kissove missive:
folded paper plane that soars

but gems can be dreamed of again.

In the journeyove dream
I awoke happy, enveloped in you
under’ove covers

Enraptured in the blankets
of home
with you
of you

Our embrace is
the brightness
of us
with us

We are
the morning together
together lovidove

An awakening
is here to be
for real
at home

peaceful passion
satisfaction day

not dreaming
but being

in the lightness
of us
with us

we are warm
being the morning sun,
like banners waving
playfully above
the river of ‘ove

extremely rippling,
our streaming
child to the river

Ripples of the day
we stream
like banners waving
playfully above
a gentle brook
child to the stream

The child’s babble
joyful enough
to be a gurgle
in a float-along morning

We splash along
by immersion
and the kiss of the day
better than a dream,
my lucidove

Retrospective (7) edit (Version 2)

The word “swallow” in English is interesting. It can be a fast-flying small bird with a forked tail or a different word meaning to force food from the mouth into the stomach. The bird is from Old English swealwe, but the other is from OE swelgan. Somehow in Modern English they both wound up being spelled and pronounced the same. The second one also has five metaphorical meanings. You can swallow ideas and other intangibles.

Swallow Me (2)

Oh say,
drink my magic potion
to hum an “Ode to Joy”
dear, yes
hum Beethoven
hum Dusty

if you could only hum me
when my voice is like a swallow,
I would follow you
in every flight
and even folly

You please me;
you see me, and
we are ecstasy, darling

I swallow daring
to awake, and
take to wing
my praises:

I love you, and hover
on every phrase you sing

Hum me dearly like an ode
to tickled-feathered fickles

I can sing
for every day
I know that you are with me

Kiss me like you miss me
and I will always follow

I know you,
you show me, I
can be our song, then

Swallow me forever, so
I will be your lover

I love you,

Please be
in my song, ’cause

I have always hummed you
even in my every daydream.

I love you,

a rainbow symphony.

See Homonym, Will Travel

An Old See-Sea Saw

I have a theory.

Writing you while
missing you here
has been a love lemma,
a homonym dilemma:

I want to tell you
a homonym joke
but it’s in the telling

Y’see can’t write it —
just sounds fishy and
sounds like “c”

But, just mind sailing
on an ocean of love, um

I’m on a “c”-food diet

C note a telling thing
losing voice, joking that
I’m on a “c”-food diet

everything I see I eat
except seafood, Y not

sail home
do tell


This is a composite or combination of reject poems from 2019 from various alter-egos. I think it has good enough transitions to work. Maybe? I don’t know. I’ve been talking to myself and for now we think so. One of the many was called “Counter” I think, but it’s interesting that there are many “counters”: one who counts, encounter, counter-intuitive, countertop etc. Hmm, encounter from Latin roots of “in front of” sort of hides where the idea of calculating or counting comes from. Where you can see something, you can count it, or meeting it can lead to a confrontation or fight.


Counter-intuitive that
I would search for souls

if I am alive to
be the mockingbird, he

who counts the day as nightmare
to search for souls to count
to search for songs to sing

Am I one or none
the counter

or do I have a chance
to learn my own song to

make it possible that
you will see me fly to
see how my eyes shine
when your love is staring
when your look changes

but it is needed that
we need a lot of things to eat
like the food of love and

I’m hungry for you:
I want a chance
to respond with
more than a
comfortable touch, and
let us soak up more because

you are invited to attend a formal dinner so
wear your public face but
come naked

When the Herd Hears

Special sauce:
lettuce pray
hors d’oeuvres

Ye who graze with the herd
hear ye the spirit of Isaiah’s child,
for by grazing, a word is not heard
and the lettuce has gone trampled

Come ye believers; onward
to the green grass of love
where even the lamb
dwells well with the wolf:

Lo, his touch is gentle
like kid gloves of compassion
and the lion kindly laughs.

Marks and Angles

An old word on a path of a thousand miles
begins with a single faux pas
said Laozi of the Dao De Jing

More than a two-step to completion
of propaganda and subversion —
it takes a bat and a virus to conquer.

Peace on the road
was to be woven
in friendships for
fair weather, a shrewd
bounty before fool’s storms,

in malice from unforeseen red feuds,
Jane’s tale was to fail in bans soon.

The Wuhan plague
brought chaos, and

when all the local stores failed
the aristocrats pro temp bought them
and Jane’s requiem began to play

Jane had gone batty
over the Summer:

older daughter home,
younger daughter beaten
dead by the gangs, and

she had been annoyed by
the constant chants on the speakers
of the Chinese language lessons
needed to earn guanxi like “1984”.

She had thought
fall would be better:
the eldest jumped for joy
when she was accepted
to a tuition-free school
as good as Harvard, a
part of the Red Ivy League, funded by
the Confucius Friendship Society

Pandora’s box
had bats in it for Jane.

Her decline was sealed
the day the grocery store
checked her credit score:
The princeling who owned it
refused to serve her because
she didn’t have enough caution
in social credits for conformity:
a black mark for twice not
wearing a red mask and
not passing her basic
Chinese language test.

All the stores had been
taken over by the princelings
after the coup d’etat, so
Jane had to walk far away
for an Amerigo Supermarket.

Walking was a complicated fate:
she had to hang with
the ‘hood committee
to negotiate with the gangs
just for a safe passage.
(The citizen’s police
had no guns anymore)

Sitting at the window
she had a heart attack
when protestors
burned the Constitution
in a surise red fire
by the dawn’s early light

Proudly, great progress
was hailed without bullets
on the conveyance belt
and roadway to hell.