Stop it!
Why are
You do-
ing this?
Denying
Your Nat-
ure—you
Question
Your voice.
This Art
Is not
For you.
You must
make it
Work for
Others.
Without
Consumption
These are
Just words.
Without
Criticism
These are
Not poems.
Divinations
Of an un-
Kind Spirit
Isolation
When you
Get perspective
From above
And can see
Yourself
On the astral
Plane. Comp-
rehension be-
gins again
When you
Return to
What is
Real and
Whole to
You. It’s
Harder than
It sounds!
These heavy feet
Burdened by ghosts
Of my grandfathers
Reminding history
Like wispy shackles
Dragging stowaways
On my ankles
Through my forest trek.
As walking in
Their steps of old
Ice cold conditions
Better gear for me
But me and my
Cold feet must carry
The miles of quiet.
My youngest son
Reminds me that
The 10 miles I
Journeyed were but
One day of 10
Miles for months
For the souls
Who took upon
The Oregon Trail.
I’ll keep my Coffee
Hot and my
Thoughts pastoral
And I will sleep
On my memory-foam
Mattress!
Fushia on pale blue-green
Umbra to sage, or better yet
— cactus-colored…
The green of the desert floor
Giving way to disease and decay.
A brilliant burning out with one
valiant effort
The bright colors of its
luscious burgundy flower’s
fruit flaring away
like a New Mexico sunset.
Is there a place
In your mind
Where you can run?
A happy place
Of belonging
— the sound of a song
It’s warm here
This perfect moment
I can hear it carry
My heart
Into a nostalgia
A moment of sharing
Yet when I’m here
Its presence leaves
My soul longing
Melancholy surrender
To the past
Give way to New Dawning’s
The music keeps
Me
Turn the page!
A place is just a place
Until it is your home
And when you are leaving
All your memories come along
But a place is just a place
When its people are not near
And in this place your place is missed
By those who hold you dear
But a place still holds your place
When you are far from here
It waits to welcome back
Sojourners who can hear
The calling of that place
And those who keep it warm
With memories of communion
Who await with open arms
Southernly winter Sun
Rises slow, casting
Angular shadows sideways
To the north
Cold morning fires burn
A smoky film releasing
Over the city, creeping
Down the valley
As the day progresses
Mountain’s depth revealing
Ridges and crevaces opening
To the warmth
Cold slice of Watermelon
Circles are always complete
even if they are bent, shaken
or twisted.
They remain connected even
as gravity pulls at them
and warps them.
No matter how this world spins
and bends and twists us; together,
You and I remain circular.
My head, it splits
Like waves on
The barren shore
Bubbling oxygenation
As the brack
Settles into sand
And air escapes
Once again, gurgling
Out of the semi-solid surface.
My inspiration
Captured in bubbles
For brief moments — real!
In the end, a burst
Of emptiness, vapid dreams
Hollow constructions
Radiating energy but
Alas — empty…
These words, all that remain
Of the membrane of H2O
Clinging together desperately,
Delicately capturing a
Breath of life and then
Exuberantly
Exhaling it to the world.
Captive for one moment
Before being shared with
Every living thing.
The poem, the word of being.
1)
Free Speech
1st right.
Obligation
To complain.
No obligation
To be civil.
Yet, one
Does not
Have
FREE SPEECH
Unless one has
A complaint.
So, to say
That which
You complain
About has
NO PLACE
in America
Is to say
That you
Will have
Nothing
To say
Without it.
2)
Abridge —
To cut
Short,
Deprive of
Your right
To complain.
Censorship;
Now an open
Capacity
To circulate
Lies. No one
Stopping
The UnTruths.
Weaponized
Propaganda
Aimed to
Invigorate
Hate.
The end of
Civility.
Civic
Discourse
Denied. Silos
Of voice
Contained.