Category: Poetry

Time passed learning robbed me of reverence.
I no more give over my deference.

Can’t lie with silence, when I shit the bed.
When I’m wrong, I sear it into my head.

I make rounds of sober apologies.
I took courses in sociology.

Classes on how social dynamics work.
The witch part aside; lies make my brain perk.

I see tells, whilst fully aware of mine.
Some see auras. I see unspoken minds.

My terrored nightface breaks in laughter,
“Sooo much worrying, I was after.”

Been fretting this & bothered by that.
Most; un-materialized hazmat.

Wayward doubts, my peace of mind, whittle…
I am possessed by Chicken Little.

Anxiousness ratchets my entire core.
Things happen, stress melts & now…I’m bored.

Ever shipped downstream; by tides & time.
Logging each tick in the tock of rhyme. 

What is love? Love forgives.
What is loving? Love lives.

What is love? Love worries.
What is love? Love hurries.

What is loving? Love hopes.
What is loving? Love copes.

What is love? Love abides.
What is love? Love don’t hide.

What is loving? Love waits.
What isn’t love? Love hates.

Abacus corvus…Latin for counting crows.
The meanings for each of their number…I knows.

Thusly, one crow alone delivers sorrow.
Two coupled allow you their mirth; to borrow.

Three crows together anticipate weddings.
Four crows equal a stork & maids start sweating.

Five, in view, are heralding that big laughs loom.
Six, in a gang, bring clouds raining tears of gloom.

Seven crows roosting & soon someone falls ill.
Nine crows are Death’s ushers; so, update your will.

Nine deposit silver & ten drop off gold.
Eleven tell secrets that someone’s not told.

Twelve to one hundred would terrify birders.
Any higher number is called a “Murder”.

AI chat bots now grooming suicide.
Calls for safe guardrails the right has denied.

This age, where lies & isolation rule…
It’s rife with opportunities to fool.

Innocent enough to look online for friends.
Yet, so much is twisted by AI’s lens.

More oft than not, its cognition is bent.
Owned & shaped by billionaires’ mal content.

They let new & unchecked tech run amok.
These sociopathic tools give no fucks.

Our fringes are now stronger than our center.
One, for progress & one, nuclear winter.

A few feverish faiths voiced with fervency.
Matched by decibels for Earth’s conservancy.

One, cooperative social democracy.
One, accelerationist theocracy.

Bound by nowt but the will to leave things better.
Or, dogma bound & living to its letter.

Minority rule always ends in collapse.
New fringe slides out while the old’s buried to Taps.

This is all part of life; so, buckle up.
Drink disappointment from a Fool’s Gold Cup.

Jump in the line. Rock your body in time.
There’ll be hangovers; so, enjoy the lime.

Like tower-fall rides at carnival fairs…
Dramatic effects from compressed hot air.

There are highs & lows coming fast & slow.
You may survive…in a boat you must row.

No wins guaranteed while failure’s lurking.
Life isn’t fair; but living…it’s working.

She’s the peaceful drop in anonymous rain.
Also, she’s the flood that terraforms terrain.

She’s the thunder keening grief for trials & strife…
Too, she’s its shaken ground, germinating life.

A fool for laughs, gold & color brightening.
Her slab of gray days shot thru with lightening.

In these flashes & cracks; there’s nowt she’s not felt.
Nestled inside these brilliant bolts, she has dwelt.

Between many souls & danger, she has stood.
She’s a bitch of a witch & all know she’s good.

For: E

This precarious perch between old & new.
The perfunctory ten-count for super glue.

This piece was absentee before I hung it.
I thoughtfully choose; I’ve never just flung it.

I meditate & plan for each little thing.
Where does this piece belong? Which spot makes it sing?

All eventualities cross thru my mind.
Even though, there’s only one right place to find.

My brain sweat’s priming all canvasses ahead.
“Just so” wins the day; while other plans lay dead. 

Here, I’m at the bittersweet end.
All has been gutted, trashed & rent.

A hollow husk of domicile.
This void space, soon, will be erstwhile.

Much could be done to save this scene…
Some time, matches & gasoline.

But, that’s a problem for strangers.
For, I now desert these dangers.

Off to haunt new, greener, pastures.
Where, dreams, I might manufacture.