Category: Poetry

There is always hope…I hope.
So, there is always pain mundane.

In the fullness of time, all prevail.
Unless, of course, they fail.

All weaves wear thin & fade their dies.
In time, even truths & lies.

A loom’s product both flatters & chides.
These clothes do hide our hides.

Our hopes & pains wont always fit;
Change is constant, change is it.

Sisters lost & sisters gained.
Brothers gone & brothers pained.

Children spent & parents paid.
Parents visit children laid.

Mothers broken & mothers healed.
Fathers fighting sword & shield.

Uncles, Aunts & cousins left.
Leaving leaves them all bereft.

Family downs & family ups.
These, empty & fill our cups. 

When is it; that you were last humbled?
What hearts must you admit you fumbled?

How cold are you, when others need warm?
Are you safe harbor within a storm?

Do you help others glide aloft?
Are you so hard, that you’ve nothing soft?

Do you review your interactions?
Do you lend aid to outside factions?

Just how often do you say sorry?
Is life, to you, one cruel safari?

Do not fret, for I’ll have writ it down.
I’ll have transcribed my entire crown.

Pay your homage to my cagey wisp.
Remember well my voice & my lisp.

You’ll crack open my books when I’m gone.
There you finally see that I shone.

I never lied, only embellished.
The humor pulled from doom, I relished.

The words I will leave are my tribute.
They will mean the same out loud or mute.

We will leave a legacy of growth.
For, we are the sum of every oath.

Always forward even when setback.
Glad for what we have…not what we lack.

Though, now, it may be open season.
Hunted peoples must cling to reason.

Yes harried hounded & surrounded.
Hold on to hope when you’re confounded.

It’s not time for ye old surrender.
It’s time to shine our pride & splendor.

Some people sweat & some people bet…Let me explain myself.
Those who worry plan in a hurry…& chancers chase the wealth.

A tongue can wag in any direction; better that you act.
Yet action can still damage, if with thin air you’ve made your pact.

I can but only hope & work towards my destination.
So, I must guess & eyeball fate’s unknowable gestation.

Then, & again, I could just coast inevitability…
To stranger tides of futility & sure senility. 
 
In truth, there is but one thing to do & that is carry on.
Though never dare even think of uttering, “I should calm down”.

It’s really “better or worse” to which we’ve committed?
For, I no longer want to dance with the dim witted.

So, yeah…I guess this is it & this is who we are?
I suppose it turns out we haven’t come all that far?

Nope…We didn’t solve racism, sexism & such.
Again…we’ve regressed & leaned into the strongman crutch.

It’s really all or nothing with new aged puritans.
Your paper doll’s sharp edge proves blood hasn’t kissed your hands.

People are convinced that Musky wealth will trickle down.
That they’re just temporarily bereft of king’s crown.

We’re so competitive, that we’ll race to the bottom.
We’ll crash bigger & better than Rome did…or Sodom.

They’re rutting in darkness & praying to light.
These idiocracies we currently fight.

It started with Morning in America.
Now, refined into despotic gothica.

This suicide pact of the religious right?
It has shown that our “Shining Hill” ain’t so bright.

Much afeared, the rules of their imagined friends.
Too concerned with conceived theoretic ends.

We’re looking ahead whilst they hang on old plights.
Truth’s tension is why our reality bites.

Make it fluid; make it flight.
Let it pass without a fight.

Make the days run by like rain.
Make each month a bullet train.

Make the years a foggy dream.
Let us slide unhurt thru steam.

Dull the pain & make this swift.
Four years hence; you dig my drift?

For, then’s a chance to save us all.
Will we forget, again, that fall?

I weep for myself, my people, my friend.
I grieve what was & is no more again.

My inner child’s asking questions right now.
I don’t have answers; no “who, what, why, how?”.

All we have is the next slippery step.
The road’s slick & unsure…but on we schlep.

Blind, we gallop towards burning stables.
No finery safe whilst flipping tables.

A slouching beast takes residence on high.
Surely, we’ve guardrails to hold the end nigh?