Category: Poetry

She’s the peaceful drop in anonymous rain.
Also, she’s the flood that terraforms terrain.

She’s the thunder keening grief for trials & strife…
Too, she’s its shaken ground, germinating life.

A fool for laughs, gold & color brightening.
Her slab of gray days shot thru with lightening.

In these flashes & cracks; there’s nowt she’s not felt.
Nestled inside these brilliant bolts, she has dwelt.

Between many souls & danger, she has stood.
She’s a bitch of a witch & all know she’s good.

For: E

This precarious perch between old & new.
The perfunctory ten-count for super glue.

This piece was absentee before I hung it.
I thoughtfully choose; I’ve never just flung it.

I meditate & plan for each little thing.
Where does this piece belong? Which spot makes it sing?

All eventualities cross thru my mind.
Even though, there’s only one right place to find.

My brain sweat’s priming all canvasses ahead.
“Just so” wins the day; while other plans lay dead. 

Here, I’m at the bittersweet end.
All has been gutted, trashed & rent.

A hollow husk of domicile.
This void space, soon, will be erstwhile.

Much could be done to save this scene…
Some time, matches & gasoline.

But, that’s a problem for strangers.
For, I now desert these dangers.

Off to haunt new, greener, pastures.
Where, dreams, I might manufacture.

Time to dismantle my bed & my nest.
This groove where I rest & plot my next best.

The place where I sweated & puked out sludge.
The spot where pain, sleep & death would not budge.

Once demolished, I can make an escape;
Build a new nest with a livelier shape.

Still, the perfect perch to plot ambitions…
Larger spaces & loftier missions.

For, this bed, oftentimes, felt like a trap.
The new one; life’s springboard & more…perhaps.

Magick to me is pre-forgiveness…
Without a book or thru man’s business.

That there is a rare ability.
To view the ends; before all else see.

To know bad weather’s headed your way…
You must survive night to get new days.

So, blame is shed in survival’s name.
Can’t litigate each foul; during games.

Thus, down the road we’ll look at the tape…
Name which verdicts you should not escape.

By hook or by crook; we’ll make it right.
By pre-forgiving…or clearing blight.

Lip service given & lip service received.
Gushing tearful promises meant to deceive.

I wonder what they’ll do when they know they’re got.
I wonder if the lesson is learned…or not.

Is there more dishonor on the horizon?
Or, is this our turning point; have we wizened?

Me? I’m forgiving…until I’ve no fucks left.
Then, dams break loose & all’s taken in one heft.

I can move past; whether with or without you.
All would rather see healing than much ado.

Peace & Hope seem quaint ideals today…
Since dark themes captured our state of play.

Censorship, oppression & attacks on aid.
Fast moves towards autocracy already made.

The first steps were taken in the dead of night.
Healthcare, late night satire & some civil rights.

Won’t abandon free speech in favor of guns…
Without regard for ending up on the run.

As pendulums swing, this one’s out of control.
Enforcing new middles will damage the whole.

I don’t want to die; nor does anyone else.
Yet, all are burned & buried neath soft green felts.

We strut, we fret, we grow dim & we go out.
We dream & we hope; all, while riddled with doubt.

Our star daily plays out our lives on the run.
Dim dawn, bright days; then, shadowed dusk ends the fun.

Reverse river rocks; we start smooth & grow rough.
It’s how we survive an existence so tough.

Could have more in common with fiery skies…
Night’s death would be easy, if chased with sunrise.

Humble has descended many times on me.
Learning from each wipeout a new way to be.

I hope humble visits me all of my life.
My pride & ego checked by each self-made strife.

The trick’s dropping the assumption that I’m right.
Accepting I see less than moonless midnights.

That’s just when humility lends me vision.
Admit & apologize…heal division.

Humility’s growth forgives my deepest dearth…
The freshly meek know truth provides fertile earth.

When school’s over you are no more their teachers.
Just reference & patronage…not preachers.

Take heart! For, by reference, you’ll have ingress.
Minus their exposition, lectures weigh less.

The startup info you 10,000 fold pecked;
That’s where memory meets instinct to protect.

See, your voice is theirs & also, vice versa.
Even short inactions feel like inertia.

Credit, in the moment, may not be given.
Be glad they mind any lessons you’ve driven.