Category: Poetry

Our kids only roam when it has soured at home.
They avoid the suffocating, tension-frothed, foam.

The plights of adults blind them from their own value.
Questions can’t be answered while grown-ups ignore you.

Curiosity, maybe, never killed a cat.
Then, questions want answers & they lead where they’re at.

Do you know the product of lives of obstruction?
Pressure needs venting; build-up causes eruption.

Therefore, voices raised in question should make us yield.
Would you rather your kids seek responses afield?

Jumping, tinkling, whirling jester.
Let not dark moods set & fester.

Distract the throngs with shiny treats.
Coliseum patrons’ reddest meats.

Kings prepare your entertainment.
You’d no idea they’d stiff payment.

While you vomit in those gutters…
Royal Head divinely utters.

“That was fun, let’s do it again!”
“Distract the mob & rob poor men.”

“Hey there, handsome. Do you come here often?”
A pickup line that makes hard things soften.

“Hey, you look familiar. What is your name?”
Superfluous opens reveal the game.

“What are you doing in a place like this?”
Apparently hunting for frogs to kiss.

“It’s from that man at the end of the bar.”
Could’ve asked himself; it’s not like it’s far.

“Is this seat taken? Thanks. Hi, I’m blank.”
Now that’s an approach that could save me a wank.

Panning these cloudy skies for lightening.
They’re Impossible, bright & frightening.

Rain & sand flow from rocker-box under.
The shine left on my screen; loud as thunder.

I pick out the nuggets & lock them up.
I separate glitter from cup to cup.

What’s leftover is sand iridescent…
For tiny hands in the poorest crescent.

It’s never a gold rush I chase to mine.
Just impregnated clouds with lights divine.

It’s right there on screen; so, it must be true.
Unless…the pixels are lying to you.

How does one know when they have been deceived?
Are there signs & stages like when one’s grieved?

Skeptics we need; but a matter routine?
No more, just data; lies too on my screen.

It says we’re safe & have nothing to fear.
Though, a look outside says that’s not true here.

Vision won’t lie; but information does.
Clap eyes on truth before claiming what was.

I agree, “Life is a Highway”; it has some fits & starts.
Most spent on autopilot, cruise control & mending parts.

Occasionally, you’ll find yourself sat by a spent heap.
Your eager thumb will kiss the wind & at first chance you’ll leap.

Taught to shrink from strangers, you overcome your natural urge.
Just hoping past hope, the carriage slowing plays not a dirge.

You plaster on an eager smile; though, a mite too fragile.
Then, don mildest manners; keeping conversation agile.

After squealing brakes, a sigh blows against your waving hand.
The last few dodgy miles brought you back to asphalted land.

Somewhere, something eldritch slouches this way.
You know its name; but are afraid to say.

Though, fear must be damned; for, you still must see.
What went round came round; it’s waiting for thee.

Held breath, for silence, breaks safe with a sigh.
The horror’s thrown off; but still lingers by.

You’re shallowly panting; waiting to go.
You shoot for safety; but already know.

The air itself holds a chemical clue.
You did your best; but about to be slew.

Remember your wings & take to the sky.
It’s such a relief we can sometimes fly.

What did I say to make them turn that way?
Did I mention too often I was gay?

What’d I say to make them hide away so?
Was I too honest, too fast or too slow?

What was the sign & did I just not see?
Was there a way that I could have studied?

Wait, why is me the offender just here?
Why do I have to carry SO much queer?

Did you ask yourself why you shut down me?
There’s protest all right; too much…& it’s thee.

Men are paltry things limited by a junior vowel.
Nurturing’s an act of change on par with disavowal.

Feed the thing inside of you that frightens those in power.
Answer all its questions; set it free from dungeon’s tower.

Being erudite does not require universities.
Nothing teaches us near as well as our adversities.

So, save me not from grist of days; or anything that shapes.
Give unto me the harder life; that carves & smooths & scrapes.

I won’t know what I will be when the final day slots in.
Yet, til then, I’ll’ve won it all…taking it on the chin. 

Humans are no longer gaining ground.
The crash will hurt; whether rocks or down.

Tech will outpace us before you know.
Outstripped by data; our eyes screen snow.

Some species may outlive & learn us…
While tech throws humans in the furnace. 

Maybe they’ll do better when we’re gone.
Maybe, for A.I., they’ll not be pawns.

Then again we may have some sand left.
Time to stop biological theft.