Category: Poetry

You’d prefer a feed on the inside of your glasses.
Yet, I still find charm in the flowers & the grasses.

I know, it’s hard to hold space for the actual world.
Especially when, each day, its horrors are unfurled.

Though, beneath the strife of men, the natural world breathes.
Exhaling despite of how our hate & drama seethes.

After all, pan out & we are no more than a glitch.
We’re just brief byproducts of evolution’s scratched itch.

So, doom scroll or engage in life…whatever your wills.
But, lives lived are the way to square the fact that life kills. 

Let’s hear it for the Mothers!
Both blood…& fated others.

Always offering their care.
Ones who give & ones who share.

We count on them to remind…
Who in mirrors we should find.

Wherever they are is home.
No matter how far we roam.

They nurture our better parts.
They’re how every story starts.

For

E + H

Tears are the ecstasy of the soul.
They are the emptying of a hole.

Tears are the lance of a spirit’s boil.
They’re the hot bath for empathy’s toil.

You can’t heal til you’ve shed some ocean.
The only physical emotion.

Those moist sacrifices of the heart.
Your evolution is what they chart.

There’s a reason tears come from your eyes…
So they’ll wash away rose tinted lies.

For

J

I see schools of stingrays behind my eyes.
The Milky Way Galaxy’s starlit skies.

A biolumined river flowing up.
A universe of thunder in a cup.

One million lightening heads each time I squint.
All blackest jet & the children of flint. 


Fuzzy as snow on a vintage T.V.
A flash of light thru lids…something to see!

Science murders magic; it’s no less right.
Photons & phosphenes reacting to light.

I exist in a state of underestimation.
In thinking & ability…even libation.

Always one bad choice from ending up in the E.R.
There’s no running or dancing & no driving a car.

Every meal is medicine; rarely welcome fun.
I even have to watch the temp; hiding from the sun.

I don’t mind the regimen that buttresses my health.
I don’t fret lack of agency; I prefer the stealth.

Yet I think, when all is well, that I would like a mate.
Someone to excite my heart & quietly relate.

It’s easier sometimes to talk to ghosts.
Say, “Hi”, to minds who’ve discarded their hosts.

Simpler, often, than a fight for the mic.
Neater than jostling for each turn alike.

They rarely talk; preferring sage silence.
Acknowledge only, no volume violence.

Their answers are in your mind already.
Recall their voice when their hearts beat steady.

Just say, “hello” when they enter your brains.
Nourish your friendships on probable planes.

Traitors are often subjective things.
It matters in whose way their mud flings.

From their perspective, they’re the last line.
Maybe one side holds their toil divine.

Another side casts them fabric’s tear.
Some, on t-shirts, their visages wear.

The sanest place is always middles;
Bridge to extremes & burning fiddles.

Time is alone in clarity seen.
Heroes & rebels rarely split clean.

Up first, the worst; in most every sense…
An orphan of fate rides in on pretense.

Then second, I reckon, on red horse rides…
Bully & fighter; the line between sides.

The third, I’ve heard, enters selling meat pies…
Weighing his profits; whilst swatting at flies.

The fourth, called forth, needs no introduction…
On his pale pony swinging destruction.

At last, & fast, comes the end’s sweet relief…
These old mythic stories beggar belief.

Eventually, by rote, we live thru each day.
We know the rhythm, the beat & every play.

Two or three costume changes; twixt work, life & sleep.
We scant recall yesterday…tomorrow will keep.

Interruptions are welcome, or not; they still come.
Their aspect dependent on the day’s beating drum.

We rise & we fall in the course of life’s songs.
A single life, tallied fully, has rights & wrongs.

It’s a kindness we mostly exist in the now.
Past & future, ever seen, would break us somehow.

The bottom is not the best to defend.
Both gravity & weight toward there bend.

The harried can only go so far down.
Heat may rise; but in a well you will drown.

Revolts rarely topple without more loss.
Yet, with nothing left, they can’t give a toss.

The apathetic top forgets this fact.
That the poor can only afford to act.

Another truth lost in the wars of men…
You lose the bottom & the top caves in.