Category: Poetry

Believing

I know that Hope & Faith can exist within me I just don’t know in who or what.

A spark took hold in Christendom & filled a reservoir of Hope & Faith

That was drained from me by elders of Christian hate.

Three sparks took hold in India & Tibet. They burned brightly in my hungry imagination.

As much as I read to feed the spark, I never found a mentor with means for my instruction.

A spark came to me in tarot. One burst into existence from runes.

My own cerebration and secular science leanings binarily turned down my swoon.

Another spark came to me in blood, dirt & sea water.

My shaman made much room for superstition doubt & fear. So, inevitably I falter.

I have Doubt & Hope…I’m afraid I’ve lost my Faith…oh, definitely my Religions

No, I hold no strand of belief in Hell, the Devil & his Demons.

Now I’m in ‘religious recovery’ tending a garden & more peace the Bible never gave me.

There’re prayers I know that I recite to quell doubt & feel safety.

I know that Hope & Faith can exist within me I just don’t know in who or what.

Though, believing the facts & listening to experts is a pretty damn good start.

– Sleep with Hope

I sleep with hope around my neck.

I sleep with hope; just a small fleck.

I sleep with hope hung on chain with clasp.

I sleep with hope as it’s always within grasp.

I sleep with hope in a trinket filled with scent as a reminder.

It works & I have never given myself any gift that came close to kinder.

The Codicil

A laden coffin bloomed for me & I knew total peace.

So, I want it written my wishes for when I finally am deceased.

Bury me in linen wrappings no box or basket will suit better than Earth for me.

If you burn me, muddy me up in a drip-castle to be washed away by the sea.

Once you’ve planted me in family ground give me a gravestone and a seat.

Let it etch the usual details but end it with “I am listening…have a seat.”

Bring blooming bulbs for my rectangle & plant one for each time you see me.

Bulbs with blooms for all seasons will naturally light the way for me.

A laden coffin bloomed for me and I knew total peace.

Not Necessarily

Unnecessarily clever;
A go to response for whatever.
Defensive disease that never says please…
Using dry wit as a lever.

Unnecessarily heady;
Confounding retort at the ready.
Won’t draw blanks & cannot say thanks…
Never deferent & stoically steady.

Unnecessarily cruel;
With aloof & unflappable cool.
A slap in the face with no innate grace…
Self-appointed exception to rule.

Unnecessarily chiding;
A soul like a bottle of lightning.
Clearly you care if your brain’d just dare…
To stop giving your heart such a hiding.

Unnecessarily weighed;
Pointlessly frozen-afraid.
Destiny’s fast when purpose beats past.
Life isn’t just lived…it’s made.

A Promise to My Garden

A Promise to My Garden

I will appreciate at a distance & dare’n’t cut off the magic of your first & last blooms.

& of all the joy you bring me this season between blooms of first & last 

I swear to vase only halves of each bunch…so the bees will have food & your future blooms will multiply fast.

9cb63aaa-ac9a-4d9d-a99c-252d69051f9f

Willful Fearful Justice Blind

 

Willful Fearful Justice Blind

I’m afraid to know how many gay men & women are raped in prison as a reward for smoking a little pot.

A semblance of human dignity implied in Justice’s high held chin…still, what about the blind, the deaf, the disabled, the queer, the lot.

Another bit of knowledge I fear to know while struggling to follow her herstory, her duty, the interpretations of her plot.

Our “Justice” can no longer be blind when generations of shades of brown are lost & by a formula & boxed to rot.

Though Justice wasn’t born blind she was made so by the tying of a knot.

At courthouses from L.A to Alabama we see her statue clear as day while her scales blow in the political wind…unbalanced, they teeter & tot.

We The People are aware that blindfolds can be removed letting her finally see that her scales have been stripped of their counter-weight.

The counter coins were snatched by an epidemic I’ve heard my brother dare name…wealth addiction & it’s sad that those sickest-those junkies- call shots that we don’t belay.

They fear our realization of power, that we’ll take away their candy…They fear us writing our coin in code so accountability can finally be handy.

But We Are the Poeple, not subjects & serfs & the old paper that rules us is actually ours to enforce.

Not by militia or violence or war but by the “Power Invested” in Everyone’s Voice.

The Solitudinairian Candidate

The Solitudinarian Candidate 

Solitudinarian is currently my way but it’s not been solely by choice;

I can survive it without going mad because I’m kind to my own damned voice.

I enjoy my own company more than most but there are many people I like;

If only they’d stop to sit down with me, my solitudinarian ways could take a short hike.

Though we all need somebody, remember to look Big & Inward…everyone should tend their own gardens;

Some time to our Self…just a little each day & I’ll sing you all my pardons.

Though, nobody’s stopping ’cause the world’s disarrayed and our perspectives right along with it;

It doesn’t exist unless you like it & share it & follow no patter the pulpit.

From a world where ideas were indeed our cure for the ills that befall common men;

To Facebook, & Twitter & Instagram’s “Cheese!” where our soured minds Made SHIT Great…Again!

We spread corrupt data like a fiery disease because of who’s posting instead of the post…reading isn’t efficient with our spans;

That’s exactly what corpos wanted from us/from the jump…working the industrial lines of their data/their plans.

We buy data & time & bandwidth for our connection to freedom of hopefully, possibly, heard voices;

Because the whole world is lonely & when the internet came it gave us a chance to say our names & immortalize our choices.

Nowadays, we spin fool’s gold into pixels laundering our pain into hope, wishes & dreams;

So the whites come out whiter & the colors come out brighter on our screens, our posts & our memes.

The Corpos don’t care about our zodiac sign or what we get from a survey for “Find your Spirit Animal”;

Though, they love that you took it to collate the data & get a fair shot on your rPhone’s great camera.

I’m not preaching at y’all…I’m just telling the truth & callin’ ‘em like I see ‘em;

I’m holding a mirror & what’s there is just there & I’m caught in this churn right there with ya.

The Deccenial Census is taken each day as soon as we start to shake off sleep’s sands;

For what’s the first thing we do about that vexing sound in the morn but reach for that phone with both hands?

The remedy appears to me as an evolution of the soul where we’re open to connect but newly inoculated from corpo confections;

Though that evolution takes a minute or a millennium to occur so I remain a solitudinarian to reduce my risk of further infection.

1486543395602