Category: Poetry

He died for our sins…& it’s not who you think.
He lived his entire life out there on the brink.

Existing at the edge of society.
Each interaction rife with anxiety.

He lived in his work where he always felt safe.
Yet at his work, elitists, would coldly chafe.

He was ever fighting for some shade of sane.
Still, he worked thru mania, both wax & wane.

He enshrined the normal with unmatched ardor.
Asylums? Hardships? Just made him look harder.

He had ginger hair & pale blue, spritely, eyes.
He left after painting his black & blue skies.

From an inhumane life; humanity forged.
On his art, to this day, has a wide world gorged.

Too little, too late for poor Vincent’s disease.
A century plus hence, mad brilliance still pleas.

Yeah, keep it moving Sisyphus & hang on just a tic Prometheus!
You’ll not run out of rocks or livers & your morals are superfluous.

Right & wrong are already there to know, if you’d slow your roll & listen.
If you weren’t taught to spot the two, then make self-governing your mission.

Open up wide your brain-pan for a couple specialists to root around.
They can plumb the depths of your despair & refill it with health, pound for pound.

We have come so far, us humans, & hope we can stick around for a while.
So, let’s not let the godly burn it down; by tossing us onto the pile.

We’ve split the atom & shot deep space…now every god’s a useless cuss.
We no longer need fantastical explanations to enlighten us.

Gods have hindered human progress for, oh, let’s say far too long?
Holding peoples hostage with the threat of end-times all gone wrong.

Open shop in any land; but faiths should always come correct.
Follow the myths you want; as long as no lives or homes are wrecked.

Within & without borders, as the diaspora will fall…
Respect each people’s boundaries, as is best when melting all.

If peace can be found face to face, it’s plural is also true.
Don’t tread where you’re not welcome & the same respect is paid you.

In the end, it’s up to all to fine-tune our moral compass.
Golden rules & talking tools will discourage future rumpus.

Our tongues are like aces; you’ve got to know when to hold them.
But, if you never let them wag, connection you condemn.

If you’re happy on your own, you’ll find silence is golden.
Yet, as chance to bind arrives, your voice you should embolden.

Rare, are your opportunities; when, cloistered is your life.
Still, even priests found time to land a husband or a wife.

Try to keep a weather eye; but enjoy your company.
Then, you’re fine just where you are; but prepared for what may be.

Celibate by circumstance…though, I could put one over.
Lend to me a good luck charm…got a four leaf clover?

Can you come in & help me label my crazy?
See, it’s not that I can’t or that I am lazy.

Please, I don’t know all the words to write what they are.
Other people write loony with feather & tar.

But me, I’d prefer to not always feel sticky.
Being self-aware is indeed a bit tricky.

Even world travelers don’t know every port.
So, to process it all; I must file, I must sort.

For this work, I will need a second opinion.
Determined to rule over my daft dominion.

Our body is a garden that needs tending.
We host Flora & Fauna without ending.

Do you disagree? Well, go on. I dare you.
This is common knowledge & it’s old, not new.

Our biome’s are aswarm, both inside & out.
We’re just building blocks & micro-life’s our grout.

Check-in with your skin & hair…& your plumbing.
What can you nurture to keep it all humming?

Suffer the creatures tilling soil in your flesh…
Each new generation from crevices’ crèche.

Witches on bicycles by the drove, thru every neighborhood they rove.
Thru holiday thrills & chills we’ve strove, fueled by our sugary candy trove.

Masked covens weave swiftly down your road, seeking chances to lighten their load.
First, tricks waiting for the slightest goad; then, out come all the treats…à la mode.

One corner has skeletons dancing, the opposite zombies advancing.
Wind thru trees, hanging ghosts a-dancing & costumed children candy-chancing.

Night moves in & holiday gets dark; magic tension in the air so stark.
Eve tricks the shadows to stretch their mark; even twilight is having a lark.

Children crash to sleep from sugar highs & dream of their family’s disguise.
Older aged kids mayn’t be so wise; watchful for hells that will never rise. 

Shame is a demon passed down by parents; those who’ve not vanquished their own.
We are what we’re taught, for better or worse; we reflect the things we’re shown.

The formative code we’re all saddled with is a thing we can’t rewrite.
We can correct it & we can reject it, but can’t erase the blight.

Find the parcel where you keep your dark & open it up to the sun.
Excavating the coal in your soul is the only way you’ll have won.

Talking cures & self-expression are effective for exorcism.
Filter the rank waters we’ve been soaked in thru a positive prism.

Better is good & best is better; that’s really all that we can do.
Identifying the roots with shame’s rot, thus treating the whole of you.

What a privilege to watch the natural world die in an ecstasy of color.
Spared long cold sleep are the evergreen & holly king; his crown & poison collar.

I’m mindful of the beautied grace in a tree’s leaf-death; flitting whimsically to ground.
On windswept days of whistling cool, the ombré snow of leaves is magic; without sound.

Unlike its counterpart, blooming spring, fall will come & go in a precious instance.
The season is an anti-spring, only growing drowsier at cold’s insistence.

I’ll breath it in, while the air is temperate, mindful of the temporary present.
 I’m reminded, when all is bare, life will return by the august feathered pheasant.

Yes, the busy squirrels, a telling name, are proof that winter’s about survival.
Prepare & watch! For autumn’s death puts on a show like the coming spring’s revival.

This is all me, as verse allows, I’ve felt everything I’ve writ.
This I choose to filter my whole in the brevity of wit.

I am diligently present for words; what they mean & why.
Interpretation always has room & tone just cannot lie.

Cognates, calques & Janus words often nurture our confusion.
I learn how a word was built & rebuild them by conclusion.

Curiosity, must then be, parent to innovation.
Born of whimsy & clever clogs, clip-clops alliteration.

So this is me, the wordy nerd, who will tell you everything.
Words have weight & life needs ballast; so my phrasing’s made to wring.