Category: Poetry

Today is lazy poet’s day.
Because today ends in day.

Last night was the same holiday.
Funnily so…so was Monday.

Maybe it’s lazy poet’s week.
No way, that would be very weak.

Still, points for showing up today.
As, everyday, I make my way.

Almost there with minimal snark.
Now, here we are…my finish mark.

The only thing some have in common is loves.
The mere transitive power of turtledoves.

All I know about you, is that you love true.
How else could you love another, as I do.

So, you, are granted a measure of my soul.
For, you love someone who is part of my whole.

They have earned their love beyond just bonded blood.
They stuck around with sandbags in every flood.

Yet, you are brand new with your grit untested.
Probationary love keeps hearts arrested.

So, you just hang in there, kid, you’re doing great!
These years…in their passing; will see us relate.

Sometimes, I would hide in green; grown into the wall.
Sometimes; I would become clear; hid in waterfall.

Often, I would slink away; without notice…gone.
Often, I would skive off work; open ended dawn.

Erstwhile, I have opened hearts…thoughts of self-divine.
Erstwhile, I have rubbed you wrong; two bottles of wine.

Today, I have written words; This…& one again.
Today, I have sung you songs; only sung to men.

Maybe, I will find my way…far down horizon.
Maybe, I find luck this day; create my own Zion.

We’ll try to remember their names…
Those about to start dying.
We’ll endeavor to douse the flames…
With the sweat & tears flying.

Clock set gainst the hour of death…
Well aware of what time is left.
Tick in time along with my breath…
Ticks & breaths leave me bereft.

Absent all that would heal a break…
Dressed in the night’s vacancy.
Engulfed by night & quick to quake…
Absent light our vagrancy.

Unknown folks fall across the globe…
Safety nets blink out at once.
Kids orphaned by a xenophobe…
Far-Right, Wing-nut Christian cunts.

We fight back, get loud & get past…
These draconian attacks.
We march, we vote & we change…
While watching each other’s backs.

From Funkytown to Joan of arc.
Funk soul brothers & funky art.

Funky spirits all haunting me.
Funky Brewster & Sunny D.

The funk of forty thousand years.
Funk & Wagnalls of yesteryears.

George Clinton & Parlaiment Funk.
Funky feeling crevices gunk.

All the hits worth keeping around.
Let’s all head down to funky town. 

Thinking on love in my twenties; knowing none deserved me.
You’re not worth the works I’ve beaten down on pages to see.

You’re not up to snuff when it comes to handling a heart.
Certainly you are subpar-nowhere near the bullseye dart.

You never could cut the mustard when faced with tenderness.
Nor with holding space or listening; with any expertness.

How many times did I show up to sword-fights with flowers.
Head hung, slunk away wishing for love potions & powders.

Now, I look back & plainly see your interest uncouth.
You’ve not earned a thing from me; but you did deserve the truth.

Cankered conditioning of conmmonman clout.
The dubious dictates that only drum doubt.

Straw men & red-herrings seen most everywhere.
Columbia’s fired stake…witch-finders will dare.

If we forget Auschwitz they’ll build it again.
There are no good nations, currently, our friend.

Where do we go when Promise slips under pall?
No one will wave us safely behind their wall.

Once a beacon of hope from Liberty’s torch.
Now a shotgun at dark patrolling her porch.

Held together by the vacant solidarity of dreams.
All the nonsense of a drunken mind; excited, bursting seams.

Rather die trying outside, than killing each other in here.
Our silo’s locked; reams of data & video, all unclear.

Like one Scrooge McDuck & his swimmable oubliette of coin.
My backstroke’s the same in the treasures from trash that I purloin.

Grip of fever, pen in hand; I take note of cold sweat visions.
Fever broke & left my page suspended in indecision.

Well, do I share my nonsense works…ones I barely understand?
Yes…outliers & B-sides lend substance to my one man band.

So much for showing any shred of grace.
I worry, I pace with wet salty face.

The mugs that I wear have recently cracked.
There’s too many lies & too little fact.

Crackle glazed & fire-burned porcelain masks.
Known modes of hiding aren’t up to these tasks.

So, grind to powder fired & shattered earth.
Then, add humis, water & seeds to birth.

Dinner plate dahlias in early bird blue.
Big blooming delft dishes as compost’s glue.

For: J

Rapid circumstance has left me agile.
Spinning plates are both agile & fragile.

We are pivoting life in ruin’s wake.
We sort the pieces when our faces break.

Grout & glued together with time & tears.
Fueled by our refusal to live in fear.

Quick, I steer thru what circumstances be.
Minding all the while my delicacy.

Yes, I could shatter at every hurdle.
Yet, fragile flowers are still quite fertile.