Author: lbstowe

Sadly, rebellion, now, is kindness.
Clear away fogs & cure their blindness.

Perform small miracles every day.
Random acts of mischievous play.

Serve the looks that they would never dare.
Give to them each brand new sparkling cares.

Push the envelope & clean up spills.
Be the soulful nourishment that fills.

Look at the people that others can’t.
Each act of service a seed we plant.

She said I was “bona fide”.
You know lady never lied.

She said I was, “one of us”.
No more need for feeling “plus”.

Just a core family member…
With a sock in December.

Wait while edicts trickle down.
Spread throughout our fertile ground.

Love & hope’s blooms are tender.
Time overgrows pretenders.

Hope that chilly hearts will melt.
Why?…When we know Love’s been dealt.

Most of my life has been played to a modal tune.
A lovely little song nailed down by misfortune.

It flits along with a confidence unfounded.
Trips, or falls, or slips do not long keep me grounded.

Soon, I am off like a shot; whistling all the way.
Still, jaunty bouncing…no heed to obstacles laid.

Possessed by a folksy pluck from…I know not where.
Floats me from life’s whirlpools & sweetens fetid air.

Chin up clunking thru it all…each third step, a slip.
I just laugh at life’s bullies. Then, I write my quips.

Much of life is ticking a box.
Greetings, steering & turning locks.

Ritual defines every move.
Dance around tasks with nowt to prove.

Days broken down to fifteens & halves.
Every route now a beaten path.

Pacing tracks in the deepest shag.
How will you climb out of that crag?

Try changing course once in a while.
Run from a life lived single file.

Sacred mounds of magic dirt.
Holy water, just a squirt.

Seeds of sorrow, seeds of guilt.
Look at what belief has built.

Groves of pain & trees of crime.
Growing orchards over time.

Blooms & fruits to pick when ripe.
Trauma’s kids next down the pike.

Hope they heal what wounds they see…
Sort the rest in therapy.

The good old days are now.
It makes the mind go “WOW”.

Those who pine for the past…
Are the ones who place last.

Those who see the future…
In its birth might feature.

Yet, those who pine for now…
Are blessed with higher brow.

Now’s seekers know the score.
Now is always worth more.

We’re so much more than fabulous.
Reductive rude & fatuous.

Some of us are really boring.
Can’t say “fabulous” when snoring.

Some of our number hard to spot.
Some are “haves” & some are “have-nots”.

Many are poor & some are rich.
The most fabulous don’t care which.

Glitter spangled rainbows in piles…
Forget Fabulous; I’ll take Wiles.

Rolling eyes & turning away…
I see this every fucking day.

You project all your faults on me.
Because, mirrors, you cannot see.

You diagnose & prescribe solves.
Never asked if I want resolve.

Sometimes you have to sit in sad.
Work thru it so it leaves no bad.

Yet, you’d see all fall in one line.
Still unaware; that forks have tines.

My greatest lovers have been art & words.
I’ve migrated between the two like birds.

In turbulent times they bolstered my soul.
My loneliest times were absent their role.

They rush in harder & longer each time.
I get them down…while the getting is prime.

Here so much now, I must send them away…
Unplugging my cord for several days.

Still, rarely a day without planted seed.
I am lucky in these two loves, indeed.

Good girls gone bad & librarians with game.
Leave women alone…just stop being so lame.

They are half of the human population…
Yet, women are suppressed in many nations.

Even our shining hill hasn’t been equal.
For not just women; but so many people.

How does a margin swallow half of the page?
Where is our anger. Also, where is our rage?

They, soon, would revolt & all else would lay slain…
If men were so blessed by creation & pain.