Category: Poetry

Chattel married woman who could not choose;
Whether her husband or son she would lose.

Shocked, you might be, at this real Sophie’s Choice.
Though, sadly, this woman had sold her voice.

Sold it for the shield of an angry man.
Towards Stockholm Syndrome she happily ran.

Then came their progeny; first of three.
The first they got was a precocious me.

Twelve years hence; fighting to get away loose.
Half mad from isolation & abuse.

I had seen before; she’d never decide.
Wouldn’t be me; so I tried suicide.

That drew in the eyes of social workers.
Perfect result for parenting shirkers.

Not there to resent & cheaper to boot?!…
That’s why this seed grows away from that root.

Life can be transitory, at best.
When I die, I would request one guest.

I’d like the best friend who stuck around…
Never let me drive her out of town.

My whole flower garden left to seed.
Save this medicinal superweed.

The flowers she sets intoxicate.
All while being beauty delicate.

My twig of family will be there.
The ones that I chose, who did not scare.

Never my lover; my life’s best friend.
My favourite person…at the end.

For: J

Do you not think that your old time religion’s…
A little over the top; just a smidgeon?

I mean, line up stories from bibles & myths…
Could you parse which ones came from a story-smith?

Nope. You can’t; & that should really be enough.
More than needed for fervor’s shine to get scuffed.

With the allure gone & hypnosis broken…
Can you not yet see god’s a moral token.

Sermons for masses & masses for hiding.
Fact check the fables with which you are siding.

Stuck in deep thought most of time; I’m miles away.
Unaware of my own body, much less the date.

Couldn’t say what was had for dinner yesterday.
What do these trivialities mean anyway?

This is my true work, what matters above all else.
In its face, all of life’s importance simply melts.

I write every day because I have zero choice.
I would combust, if I had no vent for my voice.

Most times, the best we can do is just bear witness…
Bear it for the world at large & human fitness.

Our cozy instinct is to be Goldilocks.
When, instead, we maybe need a few hard knocks.

Grit in the gears to etch personality.
Ballast between effect & causality.

Erase vacant eyes that know nothing of strife.
Depth & substance draw from experienced life.

Once it’s not just accepted; but understood…
Each life that’s known bad, learns to relish its good.

I believe that all are capable of choice.
Speaking gives permission to each suppressed voice.

Most make peace with what they’ve got.
Happy sleepwalking robots.

Shake the branches; collect loose.
Appraise lots for their best use.

Some swing up, out & away.
Brand new treehouse everyday.

Some shed need of trees at all.
Lost to chasing waterfalls.

Some roost at canopy’s crest.
High up, where, vantage is best.

I have lived an unprecedented life.
True, I also had all the standard strife.

But in each life the novel must occur.
Sensation & thought in original blur.

Shaped by a phrase as much as broken bone.
Flushed with blood screaming, “don’t leave me alone.”

Cold sweats fall again & it’s, “Take me home.”
Then, are the days of my walkabout roam.

Each path walked, stage danced & age lived made me.
Most that I wanted, somehow, came to be.

Just swung by a farm to see some bullshit.
They were all out…true, not one little bit.

There were none from cows & none from the bulls.
Every pat that fell was without fail pulled.

Swiftly, packaged shiny & shipped away.
Free overnight everywhere, every day.

Opened & digitized onto our screens.
Rated for all grownups & surly teens.

They think that we’re fools & we’ll eat it all.
Still…Voting Booths shouldn’t smell like bathroom stalls.

Here are my terms of resentment.
Nope. Wrong movie…not endearment.

More than asked for…I was a gift.
No child should think they caused a rift.

Yet, rend I did…a fucking crater.
Satire memoir published later.

Few zombie tortures play in these…
Incessant rhyming diaries.

Voice survived & thrived; I got out.
Though, rarely safe & plagued with doubt.

Anger will trigger me til death.
Fits…now, they’re mentioned under breath.

Only closure I could know would be handcuffs.
On my weak willed mother & father so tough.

What charges would I lay upon them direct?
Isolation, abuse, criminal neglect.

Why still call it out after all of these years?
To mark where blame lies for a mind found in fears.

Childhood spent in angst for the next sucker-slap.
The only safe place was my grandmother’s lap.

Still, I know a little something of resolve.
The Way Out is Thru; that’s just how we evolve.