Category: Poetry

Nothing they do is done without exuberance.
Happy or sad they don’t get caught in ruminance.

It’s all full steam ahead for laughing or crying.
They know not of horizons & nought of dying.

They’re always here in the now; the sun or the gale.
They stand in either, eyes wide with laughter or wail.

They do not know any quit until felled by sand.
They both hurt & they heal with the same blameless hand.

Years will temper their freedom; but I hope not much.
May they not forget play to be serious & such. 

For E & B

Religion’s a man-made thing…like guns & guard rails.
A co-opting of reason that no one assails.

While there is room for both miracles & science;
Genuflecting for ether’s a sad alliance.

Tell the wind your hopes, while crying into the void?
Praying for rain while rivers & lakes you avoid?

Show up on Sunday to absolve Saturday night.
When one could just sleep in & make it all alright.

Be angry at reality & pester priests.
Me & the heathens will be harvesting feasts.

What’s now left of the broken that we can suture?
What can be sewn into a less monstrous future?

Keep the stitching clean & hope it leaves no scar line;
Lest we all look like descendants of Frankenstein.

Some wounds can’t be helped & require amputation.
Swap out spare parts at the recycling station.

Salves, tinctures & ointments made from herbs & water.
Keep a close eye so healing bonds do not falter.

Little earthquakes will break us all over again.
Each time we patch & darn from what’s left of what’s been.  

Now we step opposite winters.
Jumping shades, even its splinters.

Out of pools, standing in puddles.
Skimpy shadows, cloistered huddles.

Turning our uncooked sides to sun.
Sweaty musk, now, the cost of fun.

Water, water & health, health, health. Chased AC is our commonwealth.

Wring out your clothes & carry on.
Savor summer before it’s gone.

“What is in a name?”, the great man said.
Yet, even pronouns now pull ahead.

Though, to our own selves we must be true;
Now we must also be seen by you.

Push back’s required to fuel progress.
Firm lines in sand so we don’t regress.

Drag them kicking & screaming from caves.
Though, once in the light, few rant & rave.

Every new frontline is time’s back end.
Yet we keep cheering for change’s wind.

I have a light, hidden inside, I try not to let out.
Sometimes, it escapes me & it entrances those about.

No bushel is bulletproof; I can’t always be en guard.
Though, I am content to be my very own humble bard.

I write my verse & place it here; so that is has a home.
A library of only me saved in digital tome. 

On occasion, patrons stumble in marveling at my work.
Poring over my haystacked words long felled by my pitchfork

They seek my silver needles scattered thru my golden bales.
They soon forget, & so do I, these transcendental tales.

I was only twelve & he only ten.
That is when the static started within.

I was fourteen & they were mostly men.
That is when the noise became loud again.

Seventeen; he tried forcing himself in.
Here, the hollows commence howling their din.

I’m twenty one; he put drugs in my gin.
It bade the tortured acoustics begin.

Twenty nine, dosed & filmed in basement den.
Memory blank; so a scream coloured it in.

Thirty one, worn & diagnosed with sin.
I know I’ve lived because life broke me in.

Where do the intuitives go at the ending of this world?
Who could withstand the “I told you so’s” behind their eyes unfurled?

We felt this coming; some kept quiet counsel & some spoke up.
Many were misdirected; concerned with ripples in a cup.

We’ve studied, we’ve augured & we have warned & we have waited.
We saw the nigh end & with destiny didn’t conflate it.

As the temperatures rose in the peoples & the environs.
A knowing hush muffled every sound but the klaxon sirens.

Those, who had not seen the patterns, looked up slack-jawed at the skies.
The intuitives, then, bowed their heads; they’d not told any lies.

Life is cheap for some, but patients are expensive.
The calculus of care truly is offensive.

Algorithms set to keep us shy of dying.
Only if it’s fed…by consuming & buying.

Several things come standard in hospital rooms.
Needed only for accounting’s abacus looms.

It’s the worst food in town…& it never runs out.
Too bad that insurance is a patient’s sole clout.

Healthcare’s an abattoir for slowly bled money.
If not for that cold sweat, this would’ve been funny.

Not everything is trauma.
Just ask the Dali Llama.

If life’s better fair than real…
 Take the illusory deal.

I think of bees; drinking tea.
Honey made-no thought of me.

What shakes your daily rigor?
What steals your vim & vigor?

Not every hurt is a harm.
We can’t only learn from charm.

Our best vintage is our own.
Time’s finest work…tumbled stone.

Look like water…yet be rock.
Damaged Beauty, leave the flock.