Author: lbstowe

Raise you children…

raise your children to revolt.

A new beginning…

not the same old status quo.

teach them to be free…so that they will know joy

teach them to stand…so they won’t fall for any decoy

teach them to walk…so they can find their way

teach them to run…as their moral compasses say.

Be or help them find a North Star

Show them how to create dreams

Convince them that our promise runs far

Fill them with excitement for a world of possibilities bursting at the seams.

What is worth…The length and breadth of a woman or man?

What can we do to prove our worths within this flitting lifespan?

Worth is defined all around us…usually attached to retail.

But is worth money or something inside? I think buying your worth is a fail.

We’re all of us in some way addicted to Money…our current god of worth.

But more of us are seeing another validity…one from inside us brought forth.

It’s born of experience & has no connection to Money. It’s built through your life on a loom.

It’s how you reacted to illness & poverty & your fate. How far do you sink in the gloom?

Do you bob back up & ride life’s waves or sink into inky darkness?

Do you fill accounts with binary money, hiding it with finesse?

Are you poor & angry or poor and smiling… kind or spoiling for a fight?

When going through hell do you weep & wail or move onward though your soul’s night.

If you rise up from being knocked down & pennilessly reach the crest…

Does living a good life without skill or wealth make you worth less?

I crashed a ball where the dead were dancing Dressed to the nines & looking fancy.
I recognized some faces here & there.
Though, most were of much stranger fare.
Masquerade was the theme of the fete.
Monsters in masks…I felt like bait.
But no one heeded me hugging the wall.
For finally the Debutant entered the ball.
The guest was shining calcareous white.
Shrouded in shimmering celestial midnight.
I let go of the wall & dropped jaw at the sight.
Headed for the door for I’d seen Man’s Plight.
Safe outside I craned to see a party’s crescendo, ignorant of me.
I guess you’re nothing to Debutant Death until Debutant Death comes for thee.

Social, Living Democracy is the only answer for Us & Our Living Earth.

As more & more wake up to themselves as a member du monde entier,

World leaders will follow the evolutional suit. Though they are known to be late risers.

Their scheming dreams constantly heated to to pitched & fevered fires.

The paper by which our contract is made is living & amended within an inch of its life.

Should we abort it & start anew. Or, keep amending away til it’s right?

Either would work for me as long as Life, Speech & Love are free.

You can take your beared arms & shove ’em up your ass…for me.

The living Earth feels quite the same… amended within an inch of its life.

It’s time to get out of these quagmires of Color & end all this racial strife.

For, we are all People with Cultures to share… every Soul just making its way evolving.

So, if we could all foster forward change… Mother Earth just might keep revolving.

How fucking Great is to have things to be proud, hopeful, excited about.

To clearly see the wheel has finally rolled through the muck & is turning out.

To be blinded by an abundance of light you’d forgotten but day warmed skin makes it so.

I know now I made it through & the wheel’s on the upshot & will be a while…so?

I don’t think I’ll make it through the next turn down so I’ll soak up each second I have.

I think I must enjoy every minute left of my life even though they may have been halved.

Death will come regardless of the fight I put up…as Death comes for us all.

So between now & then, even though I’m not going to win, I will try my best to have a ball.

My Gods & Goddesses of Spring.
What an enormously beautiful thing.

Ostara awakes the cold earth.
In the fecund soil she gives birth.

The Green Man is playful young Jack of the Green.
Thank Firmament for the giggling petals of Spring.

Persephone has crossed the Styx & the world comes back to life. This goddess really suffers much with Hades during Fall & Winter’s strife.

Thor drops rain & thunder in earnest in Spring he has a duty to his wife. For he may water and shake open the seeds but his wife Sif & mother Freya gives them life.

Spring is blood, rebirth, renewal & life on too brief a timeline. But such is life, the seasons & even Springtime.

It happens occasionally; not often for too long.

My perception shifts & the world seems wrong.

It swirls around me & swaddles me in doubt.

My light gets dim & then my levees wash out.

I immediately drown in my insecure muck…

Abandoned by Hope & Forgotten by Luck.

So, now, it’s time to make lemonade again.

Lucky, I’ve committed the recipe within.

A soul is not to be trifled with; being so much more than its frail body’s life.

How else would we overcome so much in the short beats we call our lives?

The force that pushes us in for the kiss is the same one we use when we lie.

It’s the source of random belly laughs & the source of all the tears we cry.

The courses that never ran smooth start their flow from lovelorn souls.

The strength we call on not to scream as our selves are cruelly raked o’er the coals.

Our soul is in & all around us. In the dark you can feel it tingling all about you in the quiet

A soul is not to be trifled with for it is much more than the carcass that abides it.

Waiting and watching for the storm clouds gather to in the soul; a friction between heart & mind.
As the friction builds the potential energy, electric edginess runs up & down your spine.

The mind’s sky becoming pregnant in appearance & heavy with pressure.
Hues of magic hint themselves at the edges of sight ready to open a fissure.

Sheet lightning flashes across her swollen belly…a rhyme here, a phrase there.
Concepts, themes & ideas come to life alongside couplets & stanzas like snowflakes in air.

Bolts of lightening flash between the mind & heart piercing both for bloody ink spilt in a frenzy on the page.
This is the curse of poets as payment for magic on the page & a key to each poet’s cage.

I stand on sand that shifts below me.

I sit on chairs with legs who are wobbly.

I live in uncertainty.

I live without agency.

If I’m tired I sleep

If I’m inspired I write.

Claims on my time aren’t steep.

A nurse to keep me upright.

A visitor comes weekly to mark my life.

The only element I’ve known is strife.

Only special doctors lay claim to my time.

And only a couple of friends that chime.

Uncertainty defines my thoughtful days;

No wonder I look forward to my nights.