If it’s too good to be true
is it true,
a young man, nearly
a boy, really,
who astounds in
twenty-first century space
with jewels as words that are
louder than blame
and as magnificent
as First Love?
Who is he,
who writes in a third language
he met on a beach as a child?
He is doubtless connected
to those who spoke
before him
in the flowers of language,
messages of possibility,
all the while surrounded
in a world
swallowed by toxins.
If Art is a lie that tells the truth,
then he is a great liar,
a magician who spins wheels
before fortunate spectators.
Regardless,
Beauty is proffered by the arthritic
hand.
Ron Kozloff 
J.M., You are everything I said you were and More -much more! Believe me, I am not a gusher. Few times in my life (I”m 71, and I”m well-read) have I encountered such powerful verse. I think my poem was pretty good, as well. R.
This is so sweet, Ron. I must make an appreciation post with the exurgent compositions people have written in my wake; though, curiously, I’ve had more poems about me than poems about my poems, which I find strange.
Thank you, really. I’m sorry it took me long to see it, I’ve been really juggling lately.