Category: Poetry

There is magick in these, my fingers.
They are charged with power that lingers.

It’s true; that witches try to do nowt.
They perch & pan out to see about.

I could cast curses…but never do.
For, ill intent will lead back to you.

Most of the craft, for me, is watching…
For outliers & pattern botching.

I see the holes others think are hid.
Seen aim in eyes, since I was a kid.

My greatest powers are rarely used.
Most is solving & shepherding fused.

If I cast, I do it for others…
Only friends, mothers, sisters, brothers.

Taxes, tariffs & pieces of pie…
Thesaurus used to cover theft’s lie.

Streamline, budget, makers & takers…
Truth’s needle hid in wordy acres.

Bloat, fraud & privacy’s invasion…
Surveillance’s long-form equation.

Them, you people, others & just us…
Words to place folks in back of the bus.

Allies, community, together…
These, the clap-backs of thunderous weather.

Clothes do not make the man; only make him handsome.
“Throwing something on” makes him sloppy & random.

Still, what truly matters can be found underneath.
I speak of character…not what is in his sheath.

Many make inexplicably confident punts.
Ignorant of mirrors; where they’d find they are cunts.

Just a few times have men disarmed my defenses.
In truth, those were about coming to my senses.

Self-respect & esteem are an absolute must.
If you can’t communicate, you will eat my dust.

Bad breath, greasy hair, ripe & overly hairy…
You ain’t walking in thru my out door, Raspberry.

Do not help if I can win.
Do not help my struggling din.

I must fight my own way out.
Must succeed without self-doubt.

I would not’ve squared off blind.
I stepped up to bat resigned.

This is my own fight; not yours.
Kindly leave & close the doors.

Go & fret imagined grief.
You’ll not be this beef’s thief.

Sometimes I worry I write for my shrink.
Diagramming all but the kitchen sink.

Or maybe, all this is therapeutic too.
Maybe, this is how I sort out what to do.

Possibly, this could, my subconscious, settle.
Possibly getting it down steels my mettle.

Who knows if any of it counts in the end?
Whether you were the good or bad among men.

In danger of sounding simplistically trite…
Both creating & talking have seen me right. 

Love is blind, dizzy & belligerent…
Moves accidental & deliberate.

Love’s wheels & its guard-rails slathered in grease.
It’s never patient for the break’s release.

Love shoots thru a heart & riddles a soul…
True Love is welcoming of a black hole.

Epochs & Eons forever are stretched.
Disorienting pitch that makes us retch.

Reality & feels smeared together.
Love, unlike space, has plenty of weather.

Do I understand, or not?
Did I give life every shot?

Did I show up every day?
Did I help keep dark at bay?

Did I try to fix mistakes?
Did I give more than I take?

Did I share novel thoughts?
Did I know my strengths & faults?

Did I charge myself to grow?
I’d like to be in the know. 

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.