Author: lbstowe

“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.

I was only twelve & he only ten.
That is when the static started within.

I was fourteen & they were mostly men.
That is when the noise became loud again.

Seventeen; he tried forcing himself in.
Here, the hollows commence howling their din.

I’m twenty one; he put drugs in my gin.
It bade the tortured acoustics begin.

Twenty nine, dosed & filmed in basement den.
Memory blank; so a scream coloured it in.

Thirty one, worn & diagnosed with sin.
I know I’ve lived because life broke me in.

Where do the intuitives go at the ending of this world?
Who could withstand the “I told you so’s” behind their eyes unfurled?

We felt this coming; some kept quiet counsel & some spoke up.
Many were misdirected; concerned with ripples in a cup.

We’ve studied, we’ve augured & we have warned & we have waited.
We saw the nigh end & with destiny didn’t conflate it.

As the temperatures rose in the peoples & the environs.
A knowing hush muffled every sound but the klaxon sirens.

Those, who had not seen the patterns, looked up slack-jawed at the skies.
The intuitives, then, bowed their heads; they’d not told any lies.

Life is cheap for some, but patients are expensive.
The calculus of care truly is offensive.

Algorithms set to keep us shy of dying.
Only if it’s fed…by consuming & buying.

Several things come standard in hospital rooms.
Needed only for accounting’s abacus looms.

It’s the worst food in town…& it never runs out.
Too bad that insurance is a patient’s sole clout.

Healthcare’s an abattoir for slowly bled money.
If not for that cold sweat, this would’ve been funny.

Not everything is trauma.
Just ask the Dali Llama.

If life’s better fair than real…
 Take the illusory deal.

I think of bees; drinking tea.
Honey made-no thought of me.

What shakes your daily rigor?
What steals your vim & vigor?

Not every hurt is a harm.
We can’t only learn from charm.

Our best vintage is our own.
Time’s finest work…tumbled stone.

Look like water…yet be rock.
Damaged Beauty, leave the flock.

Fathers, this one’s hard for me, had real bad luck before.
I know of just one good one; but, fuck, there must be more.

Teach honesty & kindness…& empathy for all.
Model compassion for them…& catch them when they fall.

Make them proud of difference & in their efforts made.
Cast safe shadows for them; until they leave your shade.

Nudge them toward their own paths; to choose what’s right for them.
Open up your heart & they will fill it to the brim.

Parents are not perfect; yet they only need to try.
Expel old poison precepts & be there when they cry.

Be constant of character & do not shy from light.
One day you’ll be memory…so, make sure that it’s bright.

For

P

Fuck-ups will find god before finding a mirror.
They’ll seek absolution; rather than see clearer.

They need receptacles outside them for blame.
For, there’s no room inside them with all of that shame.

Their pride’s just skin deep & their heartbeats are shallow
The garden in their minds…infertile & fallow.

When first one falters, one learns; no big deal.
The moniker settles when the cycles’s a wheel.

Eventually every circle is broken.
Better to listen; than leave lessons unspoken.

Two days of the week I’m Marylyn Monroe.
One for up,one for down, one for gettin’ low.

I need to manage unpredictable days.
It keeps the rest locked in predictable ways.

There’s want & there’s need; but only one’s vital.
I need routine & it’s rigid recital.

I thrive on the structure & live in the deed.
It’s when there’s no work that my track goes to seed.

So, though I resent this, my infrequent dose.
I’m glad of the steadiness that it evokes.

I dreamt of bloody protest last night…wasn’t sweet.
Clashing divided sides rioting in the street.

Action writhed everywhere but in those who did fall.
Victims later lined up; each with red & white pall.

Slain humans lying around; like so much litter.
Evidence of parades gone by; trash & glitter.

Our safe spaces only safe until they are not.
Violent madmen triggered by the pride we’ve got.

It was only a nightmare & now it’s faded.
Hopeful the joys ahead, by fears, aren’t shaded.