If you only knew the thoughts
Swimming through my head
In underwater bubbles in a brain
Floating around inside my head

I am inside and outside these thoughts,
Like fish jumping in a pond, they come
Suddenly, in and out of their environment.
Oh, if you only knew the thoughts

You might be amazed at my aquarium.

Just as those in days of old
These too shall fall.
The people said, "Let us build
A tower day by day, hour by hour.
And it will glow, and all will glower
Bringing us magnificence and glory!"
Where is that fabled tower?
Is it not gone, stone by stone?
Just as those in days of old
These too shall fall.

The foolish say, "It is far better
To make friends with the beast
Than to be eaten by it."

They never realize until it's too late
That the beast will eat them anyway.
In the end, they were kept alive

As food to devour in lean times.
Lean times come to all beasts
Because they consume everything, until

They must turn to the fool in reserve.

You are a papercut,
An irritant in this life.
A sting to the tongue
When licking envelopes.
Insane like the crowd
Shouting, "Do it, do it!"
To the one on the ledge.
Your only goal, it seems
To be a harm to others,
Of which you succeed
Often and repeatedly.
Somehow, it makes you
Feel like a superior man.
But only shines a mirror
To your inferior interior.

I have limits
For I am only human,
Imperfect in body
And with a feeble mind.
I reach for the stars
Anyway.

Some poems are like naughty children
Who have grown into their young adulthood.
They simply drop their clothes, a quick reveal.
Other poems are like the dancer of the 7 veils
Who peels layer after layer in the slow reveal.
A poem is like a beloved child, good or bad.

Some are happy, some are sad.
All are born from those who parent them.
Indeed, they are the fruit of our mental lions.
They carry our mental DNA 'til our dying day
And hopefully well beyond.

Claim them, love them, nurture them, train them,
Good or bad, naughty or nice, boring or full of spice.
There are no ******* poems for you; they all belong.
Each to its progenitor, each for its parent will long.
Boldly claim each one of them as your own.
For they are all our children.

Some poems are like naughty children
Who have grown into their young adulthood.
They simply drop their clothes, a quick reveal.
Other poems are like the dancer of the 7 veils
Who peels layer after layer in the slow reveal.
A poem is like a beloved child, good or bad.

Yes, I would come
And take it away with me.
But I know that you need it
To live and feel and breathe.
So, I'll leave it for now
As long as you remain
Next to me.

The heart of the matter?
The heart matters,
The heart of matter.
Plays on words, these.
Yes, I call your name,
Remain, remain, remain!
For your heart matters.

I would come
And take it away with me.
But I know that you need it
To live and feel and breathe.
So, I'll leave it for now
As long as you remain
Next to me.

The walls of this ragged world
Are too thin, and I, with ear hear,
Listening through the thin plaster,
Do not like what I am hearing.
Someone, please call a repairman.

Every day
Is special
When you
Love.

When the sun begins its rise
And as it moves into view
Rising higher in the heavens,
It grows in its spectacular glow
And it sprinkles golden dust
On everything it touches.
It is a magical period in time,
This golden hour, which belongs
To the sun and its glorious rise
And is then gifted to us.

We are
As ancient forests
Petrified through time
Flesh traded for minerals
Minerals turned into stone
We stand firm with no life
Isolated in our inability
To reach one another
We stand together
Yet alone hardhearted

Time does not shape her,
For she holds it like threads in her hands,
Weaving moments, stitching hours,
Gathering days, weeks, months, years
Into centuries to be rolled out like fabric.

She makes her cloaks from the substance
Of time and wears ancient stardust in her hair.
She is old and she is new; time does not shape her.
Never allow it to shape you, folding you
Like some worn-out garment to be discarded.

While it is in your hands to do so, you shape time.

A mantra-

You are the wind in the willows and the reeds.
"I am the wind in the willow and the reeds."
You can bend and move with this power.
"I bend and move with this power."

Take in the energy that the sun generates
As it infuses all things with power from its Creator.
"My Creator gives me the strength for all things."

It will be your wings to rise above and fly,
In these evil times with evil deeds.
"Let this spirit be my wings to rise and fly above
These evil times and evil deeds."

Your mind is clear in your healing purpose.
You become strong in spirit to endure all things.
"Amen."

When a hummingbird flies
Its wings sing in flight,
Chattering as it moves,
Briefly settles, day or night.
They are tiny miracles.

When a hummingbird dies
Because its bones are so light
They disintegrate in a short time.
They truly are ephemeral things,
Brief beings on fluttering wings.

Words are powerful,
Kaboom!  Like a bomb
Going off.
Writers matter.
We the people.
Books change hearts,
(Those that are reachable)
Minds, lives, the zeitgeist,
And the future.  
That’s why,
Big men with tiny minds,
Have sleepless nights.
Authoritarians
Fear advocates & writers.

How does renewal often begin?
With deconstructing.

I can't stop the feeling.
I'm breathing it in.
I'm mending already.

And I am ready to begin
Again.

How many times did the one requesting your secrecy
Fail to keep the "secrecy" you bound them to?

How many times have you been betrayed
By the one whom you would never have betrayed?

How many times was your innocence torn apart
By the one who should have protected it?

Should your loyalty not be measured by loyalty?
Be careful what you promise and then owe or vow.

Some promises are made to be broken.
Some promises need to be broken.

Do not judge love by its length.
How long is a piece of string?
Love is not a piece of string.
It is a spool of thread that goes on
Unwinding throughout all eternity.
It is untangling, all encircling for those
Fortunate enough to be entangled by it.

Oooo, oooo, the wind has a sudden voice
Ice crystals like trinkets hanging in the trees ******
As the stiff wind blows and mourns, we mourn

Banks of snow are built, torn down, rebuilt
The howl is haunting as it cries in distress, and we cry
New snow atop hard-pack crunches beneath bare feet

We have walked the soles off our moccasined feet,
No water can quench our thirst, for no water is given
We have dried up, blown away, like the husks of corn

Oooo, oooo, the wind has a sudden voice, we do not

Believe me, I was once vibrant and young,
Strong but lithe and slight of frame, and pretty.
Filled with love of life and with hope,
I felt nothing could match my strength,
And throughout much of my life, few things did.
There was this whole world that was for the taking!

I strove with gusto to grasp much knowledge.
And flitted like a butterfly amongst it at my will.
Trees and fields were my currency, and
I felt rich in nature, which surrounded me.
It was what I valued, wealth spent judiciously.

I renewed and burned through storehouses of energy.
I wrapped myself in cloaks of green, wore flowers
Like talismans, encircled charms about the head and neck.
And I walked carpets of wildflowers as my path.
Nature, treasured, is imprinted on my soul to this day.
It is where I long to be, here and now, aging.

To my beloved family, I ask, only this request:
When life is done, sprinkle me among the pecan orchards,
Which was my first school, filled with many teachers, where
I, in studious quietude, spent my formative years. Remember
What shapes a person carries a person forward in life, yet,
Time, which we cannot alter, has its way with us, after all.

It is often true that you
Must sink to the bottom
Before you can rise upward.
Swim!

How brief, this life, oft filled with pain
That those more worthy should die,
More worthy than me.  

And I live still.
"Hasta luego," until later, dear friend
And until the day we meet again.

My love, I know, I know sweet love,
You used alcohol and drugs to stop the war in your head.
It never did stop raging within, as you raged without.  

The Viet Cong didn't get a bullet into you.
But the ****** was cheap and to a combat soldier, sweet.
So, I guess, they killed you slowly, softly.

You had been handsome, gregarious, and brilliant even.
I would help you clean yourself up, put you back together
Only to have you load that "gentle bullet" and fire it into your arms.

Stopping things in your head means eventually becoming brain-dead.
I saw the beautiful, intelligent man that you were become stupid.
Killed by that slow-moving, gentle bullet.

But it was not merciful.
It was not gentle.
Was it, my love?

(I borrowed part of a concept from Nolan Bucsis.)

You are not here.
You have never been where I am now,
Old age.

I told you:
"You are killing yourself.  Don't you understand?"
You did.

I told you
That I could not watch you **** yourself, slowly.
You did.

And now,
You have been gone for some forty years
From our bed.

You lived on
Still slowly taking the numerous poisons
That would end you.

They did
So, by design, I suppose.
You have been gone for almost twenty years.

You are not here.
I still am.
And yet, you keep perpetually leaving me.

Reality should soon set in, I warn you.
We are coming into that time of the year,
When temperatures rise and energy is too costly
As wages go down and prices climb higher.

Yes, we have failed ourselves and one another.
You will see those hungry faces looking for a crust.
While you are grateful for a roof and a bed
Hunger will continue to spread even to you.

As the insurance they paid into is cut off
The elderly will swelter and die in the heat.
As others look on, unable to sustain themselves
Or save precious others.

My mind: Go from here!
And do not grace my door again,
Nor walk across this floor.

Yes, old habits die so hard
And often these leave you
Screaming for more.

But I am no longer addicted to you.

The sky was filled
With the most
Beautiful shades of gray

We don't often
Think of gray
As being beautiful

There is a depth
To this color
And much nuance

There are many
Shades of gray
There is gray

With a pink tinge
Gray like charcoal
And icy gray

Dusty-rose is but
Rose with gray
What gray is should be

Black and white, after all

In a forest, I hugged a tree
And this tree spoke to me.
It said I have branches above
And I have branches beneath.
I have leaves for photosynthesis,
Just look at my wondrous work.
I take in carbon to release oxygen,
I allow you to be able to breathe,
As I take sunlight into my leaves.
Take off your shoes.
Feel this life with your feet,
The process continues below.
Beneath your very feet
A highway for travel exists.
My roots, pushing through
The soil in hairy branches
Spreading out in all directions.
With chemical trails, they speak
To tell bacteria to wake up!
My sweet treat takes up, then
Share with our microbe friends.
Dear human, I want you to know
The phyla inside me and inside you
Are four and exactly the same.
Together we can feed all life.

We shelter in place with our shadows
With eyes darting back and forth in fear,
Wondering what might come creeping near.
Thoughts haunt us in every place and every space.

Painful detritus blocks the doorway of release.
We can only wander from room to room in grief.
Trapped within an encumbered mind, we find
Blacked-out portals of foil-covered windows, all!

Our fears only serve to make us each feel small.
But we are not small, not at all.  We can win the race
If we allow Grace to shovel a path through the mess,
And Hope grasps our hand and leads us out.

This is why it is said: We all need Hope.

“If only I had wings like a dove!
I would fly away and reside in safety.” Ps. 55:6
Yet, you see my struggles, hear my prayers,
For your mercies never end.

Like the stone that sank into Goliath’s head
Became the turning point of the battle
In the safety of your power, I reside,
For your mercies never end.

And even if my own father
and mother abandon me,
You, yourself, will take me in. Ps. 27:10
For your mercies never end.

Outside my window
Dark wings go flitting by
Like a shadowy great hand
I sit looking out, and inside I cry
A darkness is growing in this land
From the evil of men

Conmen see a greedy need in you
Make you feel it’ll be fulfilled
But they’ll take your diamond
Traded for a big chunk of glass
Leaving you feeling you got a deal
If you need a better medicine
He fills your bottle with snake oil
And for just a million down
He’ll sale you Brooklyn Bride

The next round is rolling up
As everything goes down

You look like you lost a $10
But only found $1

Trust me, you will bleed
Green and blood

He will never be bled to death
But you certainly will

Scums in a cesspool
Cling to lumps flushed down the drain
All releasing stink

Unmoored from reality
You never intended to listen
Idiots piled into your tiny boat
Set adrift in a vessel but
Was never meant to float

One rules above the doomed
Chaos kings and queens all fools
These thought they co-ruled
All paper tigers wadded waste
Who thought they could drive

As these blackout-drunks steer

Time traveling is possible, a river said.

Traces of lives left behind in multitudes,
Bones and jewels beneath the mud,
Bent and buried blades, buttons, cufflinks,
Pipes, and dress pins upon dress pins.

The backdrop of so much history
As the Thames flows on through the
Land and hearts of Londoners.
A witness to thousands of years.

Each tide reveals historic artifacts
On the changing foreshore.
An unwritten record of discovery.
It is the city's longest archeological site.

Modern mudlarks find the clues to its use
Across the city, across the ages of time,
As a transport artery, a connection to the gods,
A source of sustenance, or a place for dumping.

Mudlarks of the mid-19th century were
“Compelled from utter destitution to seek
For the means of appeasing their hunger
In the mud of the river.”

Today mudlarking is a hobby, relaxing, fun,
But generations of the young to the old sought
Lumps of coal, rope, bones, iron, or copper
– anything that could be sold.

Time, the river, and its people are survivors.

I ate tears for food
Love comes at a price
For some a little, for some great

I ate tears off porcelain plates
Had I known the price up front
I would choose to starve

I keep you here in this big box.
You are aged and brittle around the edges.

The white album is now yellow,
A Jim Morrison poster is tattered.

Love beads with a peace symbol tarnished,
My Jimi Hendrix in psychedelic paint faded.

You all carried my teenage angst,
Now in this box I carry you.

Go celebrate today
For you won’t be able tomorrow,
Nor will you feel like it.

The golden age has turned orange.
What you thought was gold
Has proven to be faux.

(My great-grandmother lost most of her family on the forced march, which came to be called the Trail of Tears.  Indigenous people were moved off the land they had been on for thousands of years, no doubt.  This poem is for them.)

Dancing Rabbit dips one paw
Into clear creek waters. Pink nose wiggle,
A shake of the head to ready thoughts.
Leaps into the unknown histories of a people
Who knew these lands long before blue eyes.

Echo, I cry out
Echo, my words bounce back
Echo, a controlled narrative

In this vast echo chamber
I cry out the words I want to hear.
Then I no longer hear the truths

Which causes me to fear.

The facts become a strange thing
As truth has flown on fragile wings
And all sound reason with it.

What could extinguish
The last glowing coal of love
Whose embers still faintly cling
To that flaming life it once had.

And who would deny it life?
I cannot, and so I shelter it
From rain, through storms,
With gentle breaths, I keep it

Forever burning in my heart.

Inspired by a comment on Sabrina Benaim  

When you realize
What you didn't know,
You are well and truly
On your own.

You fight alone.

Self-awareness is
A lucid torment of
The cruelest part of anxiety,
Mental unrest.

Can we just skip ahead
To the crying
To the heartbreak
To the part where
You say you're leaving
Then I can begin
To live again

And, I did

-In the style of Solange Loe-Sack-Sioe, aka Shell

The purest love is often silent.
It speaks volumes without words.
In silent words throughout the day,
It prays.

April 2,
It snowed in Minnesota
The poor who were cold
Are caught in the trap
Their help is long gone
The programs cut
Why?  To help the rich,
Of course.

Stand
On the shoulders of the giants
So that you might see
The places we are going,
The places we have been.
Stand to be seen.

Stand,
So that you can see
The future you,
The future me
Looking into the past
Standing in the future.

Standing
You realize that giants stood
Upon the shoulders of giants
And all walked with purpose
So that we all could climb up.

Don't let that be for nothing.

Poem of hate,
Poems of hope.
Poem of love,
Poems of none.
Poets understand.

Some poems grab you,
Some by the throat
Others by "the hope."
Which one do you write?
Both?

Poem of hate,
Poems of hope.
Poem of love,
Poems of none.
Poets get 'cha.