Author: lbstowe

Today is New Year’s Eve, to me.
That’s all that a birthday need be.

This is a day for counting years.
It’s a day to address time’s fears.

A day for one to look behind.
It’s future’s door, don’t greet it blind.

So, I’m my own Janus this day.
Live now, while mind’s eye looks each way.

I make a plan against age to fend.
Then, auld lang syne’s just checking in.

It is hollow help; because it’s inaction.
It might help the beseecher…by a fraction.

To me, it is hiding from work to be done.
It’s a cry to heaven, when the gig’s square one.

It’s passive action; abdicating your will.
It’s falling to your knees when the chore’s uphill.

It’s making your problem somebody else’s.
You’re betting with nothing…& zero welches.

There’s beauty & horror in all living things.
There’s plenty to do on the ground without wings.

Just for today, the patriots do seem it.
Yet, celebration’s not their only remit.

A couple months yon is a citizen’s day.
A day we trade fireworks for having a say.

Our civil duty for the flag of freedom;
To keep old liberty from mausoleum.

We’ve cut it close in my living memory;
Just out of reach of a within enemy.

We have our stars & stripes, some of which mean blood.
It’s down to that booth to hold back fascist flood.

Taking simple minds & warping them to evil.
Twisted facts skewing towards general upheaval.

We know the different fonts for sale & for flavor.
We all smell the bullshit they expect us to savor.

Adverts double down on the stupid & the useless.
We’re just warm bodies & the rights we have are toothless.

So, why do they keep flogging bad deals & bad info?
Are they really counting on dupes; lured by a window?

One ledger line by line, they must see us ducking out.
We spend & vote on our own steam…that’s common man’s clout.

Nothing they do is done without exuberance.
Happy or sad they don’t get caught in ruminance.

It’s all full steam ahead for laughing or crying.
They know not of horizons & nought of dying.

They’re always here in the now; the sun or the gale.
They stand in either, eyes wide with laughter or wail.

They do not know any quit until felled by sand.
They both hurt & they heal with the same blameless hand.

Years will temper their freedom; but I hope not much.
May they not forget play to be serious & such. 

For E & B

Religion’s a man-made thing…like guns & guard rails.
A co-opting of reason that no one assails.

While there is room for both miracles & science;
Genuflecting for ether’s a sad alliance.

Tell the wind your hopes, while crying into the void?
Praying for rain while rivers & lakes you avoid?

Show up on Sunday to absolve Saturday night.
When one could just sleep in & make it all alright.

Be angry at reality & pester priests.
Me & the heathens will be harvesting feasts.

What’s now left of the broken that we can suture?
What can be sewn into a less monstrous future?

Keep the stitching clean & hope it leaves no scar line;
Lest we all look like descendants of Frankenstein.

Some wounds can’t be helped & require amputation.
Swap out spare parts at the recycling station.

Salves, tinctures & ointments made from herbs & water.
Keep a close eye so healing bonds do not falter.

Little earthquakes will break us all over again.
Each time we patch & darn from what’s left of what’s been.  

Now we step opposite winters.
Jumping shades, even its splinters.

Out of pools, standing in puddles.
Skimpy shadows, cloistered huddles.

Turning our uncooked sides to sun.
Sweaty musk, now, the cost of fun.

Water, water & health, health, health. Chased AC is our commonwealth.

Wring out your clothes & carry on.
Savor summer before it’s gone.

“What is in a name?”, the great man said.
Yet, even pronouns now pull ahead.

Though, to our own selves we must be true;
Now we must also be seen by you.

Push back’s required to fuel progress.
Firm lines in sand so we don’t regress.

Drag them kicking & screaming from caves.
Though, once in the light, few rant & rave.

Every new frontline is time’s back end.
Yet we keep cheering for change’s wind.

I have a light, hidden inside, I try not to let out.
Sometimes, it escapes me & it entrances those about.

No bushel is bulletproof; I can’t always be en guard.
Though, I am content to be my very own humble bard.

I write my verse & place it here; so that is has a home.
A library of only me saved in digital tome. 

On occasion, patrons stumble in marveling at my work.
Poring over my haystacked words long felled by my pitchfork

They seek my silver needles scattered thru my golden bales.
They soon forget, & so do I, these transcendental tales.