“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.

In the style of Marc Morais

Become a boulder for
Those who need a place to lean
Between solitude and stress
A tide for the jagged shore
For those who feel unmoored
And no longer want to be moored

Mighty strength to meager strength
Wrap your strength around mine
Become all things to all things
Then in this act, you will find
Two become mightier than one
And many hands make lighter lives

My strength in you, yours in mine

Buttoned into wrinkles
Of time and mind

Like a melody
On a tin whistle

A lingering sense
Of otherworldliness

Hardwired for folktales
Oral traditions filled

With mythical traditions
And practical wisdom

Time, like a whistled tune
Blown and gone, remains

Amidst haunting,
Faint memories

And your green isle

Pretty lips on a pretty boy
But those pretty lips will
Never bring me any joy

Because his lips belong
To his pretty boy-toy
And it rankles me ‘cause

He used to be mine

(This poem is not autobiographical.  It is about someone I used to know.)

Like a stone in my shoe

I cannot help but think of you
Leaving me sore and bruised.
Then when I feel I might forget
It is there with painful intent yet.

And I am unable to shift it or to lift it.
Although I have loved with no regret
That painful stone continues on
And Memory never leaves me alone.

In the end, though, it should be Friend
For my comfort comes from the stone
Because you lie cold in the ground.
No longer able to come home.

Serene, float among green growth,
Buds desire to open, join the flotilla.
Gentle one, you are like the waterlily
Which grow across the surface,
The still surface of my pond.

I am the sun setting in spectacular glory.
You are the warm Gulf waters caressing
As you wash along my ragged shoreline
Lovingly lapping late into a humid evening.

I hear the soft whooshing, smell the brine,
Watch the shorebirds returning home,
Hear the earnest, varied calls and cries,
As they with singular intent soon disappear.

How dear you all are to me.

There will be birds
Flying through my dreams
Diving like ballerinas
Dancing on bright wings
There will be birds seen

As they cross the sky's path
From one place to the next pass
To carry secretly away the past
And lead to the future's next
Birds will be there,

To always fly me free

I see your beautiful mouth as you edge forward.
Your lips open, almost caressing the mic
And then honey pours out.

Your lyrics curl around those sitting here
Like smoke from a lone cigarette in a tray
And bind us all together.

Eyes close with tender inflection
Dragging us into his pain, again and again.
The music ends and his pain is gone

But will resurface the next time he sings.

I smell the damp earth.
The scent rises into my nostrils.
Under this pine rain drips down
Dimpling the ground all about me.

Some distant bird flutters up
Making a whirring, whistling sound.
It echoes across the field of thoughts,
Brings me back to my reality.

That truth is sharp and pain-filled.
It stealthily digs under your skin.
You are gone, but life continues.
Tell me it does.  Your answer, "Life,

It is in the scent of earth,
The whirring of the distant bird,
The dimpling of raindrops on soil.
And in each molecule of the universe."

You invaded minds
Like a brain-worm
Munched your way
Until all is in decay

He is like a cannibal
Who consumes the strongman
Because he thinks it will make him strong

Alternate version:
Mania Munch
He is like a zombie cannibal
Who consumes the strongman
Because he thinks it will make him strong
And then wears the skin, because
He believes he can embody its strength
He drinks from the skulls of his many victims
As he consumes their life's blood
And cares not a modicum, nor understand
Other people's fears, feelings, or lives, for
He is incapable of actual feeling or love
All he can do is feed his many manias
You must have a heart to be human

My heart holds no reason
Other than this love
Eros fills my senses
Agape guides my way

No reasoning with my heart
Though I talk to it
Love for you remains
Mania, mania, mania

My heart needs no other reason
My love is a golden apple
Ripe for the bite
That your lips might

O, that your sweet lips might

Mountain crocus'
Reach purple arms
Towards the sky
Spring twinkles
In their yellow eyes

They walked into the booth
“Pulled the lever,” pull out their gun
Then shoot themselves in the foot

And hobble away.

Now these days, as they slap themselves
Upside the head it is heard them say,
"I could have had a V8!"

Now is the time to
"Break glass in case of emergency"
Anybody got a hammer?

Evil is a light sleeper
Hate is a light sleeper
Prejudice is a light sleeper

Bedfellows who keep one eye open
Rouse at the slightest vibration
Of their wicked spiderweb

Pink bald skin shines through
A few plastered strands of hair.
That is just the back view, there.

O, this silly, psychotic old man
With the reigns of power
Held tightly in tiny wrinkled hands!

Make no mistake you need to quake
Because all this crap is very real,
Pretty much it’s a done deal.

Straight up it's a ******-land.
We’re living in a reality show
And in reality, we all know.

As he listens on a private call,
Step-by-step instructions from
"How To - The Manual," y'all.

"Say my name, say my name,"
I heard it on the radio,
Saw it in a commercial,
Screamed it
In the dark hours of my night
Where I screamed yours.

The sky is gray, today
Imprinted on its face
Marks like ancient text
That when read says
Behind this veil is hope

I have so many snapshots of life in my old brain.
Some truly amazing things reside there. I wish
I could hook up to a printer and press "print."
Sadly, when I die, they die.  So, it goes with all of us.

You broke my heart.
I searched for clover blooms
from which to weave chains
and crowns for the both of us.
But you with your urban sensibilities
Kept the lawn mowed too often.  You,
Hobby-like in your ankle-length socks
Bermuda tangoed, with your mower.
I eventually came under its blades.

You wash in the flood of the tears of mothers.
We lay at your feet the broken bodies of children
And wrap you in the very skin of so many victims.

As you paint your face and hands in their blood
To add a million scalps to your beastly belt
You should not be called "leader", for you are not.

In time you will ultimately fail and you will pay
For when love prevails, evil shrivels and dies
In the dense darkness that was created for others.

Then you will take your final "perp" walk.

Oh, Butterbean,
My bovine queen,

Tell me what you've seen
In yon field of grass and buds.

I heard your bell tinkling
As you were exploring

Seeking out the most tender
Of the luscious blades to wrap

That massive tongue around.
You are a grand lass,

I must say,
Grand among the cattle.

You could just as well
Turn off the sky

Or block the sun from view
As to stop my loving you

Could one take the stars
And place them on Mars

Or grab the moon
And to place in your room

No!  For time rushes on
And opportunities can be gone

Yet, there are universal truths
That offer us much proof

Love is mightier than the universe
If only I could put time in reverse

I'd still be with you

Who has agency to guide?
The one with the most likes
Can be used to divide.

Wealth makes you elite
Favoring blind submission.
Your charisma is highly valued.

Now we live underneath
A flinty harsh heavy-handedness.
Ram your authoritarianism

Somewhere else.
Concentration of only your power
Is called a cult, a regime.

Constitutionally respond to the people.

It is feeding time.  Time to push the hay
from the back of the truck.  Whistling,
calling for the cows to come up.

I see the morning mist among the cattle,
smell the scent of pine hanging in the crisp air,
in my heart and mind, I want to be there.

The forested pastures, the open grazing fields
wrap around my soul memorized comfort, where
I can reach out to touch and to feel.

As for me, that place will always be there,
yet, it is gone.  Gone for many a year.  All gone,
the pond dried, the forest overtook the fields.

Gone is the truck, the hay, the cattle too.
Yet, my memory is a place where all it lives on.
And memories turn my thoughts to you,
- as they always do;

Beautiful you.  You are gone, too.

I am just an old woman who has read
And written poetry for many years.  
It is like daily bread to me,
Sustenance on which to feed
And to fill a deep soul need.

Poetry is like the essential oil
In an exceptional perfume,
Refined down to its essence.  
A distillation to what is pure.
It is the molecular structure,
The scent of the blossom.

Its scent deeply impacts all  
Who are privileged to inhale it.  
Smell a high quality rose otto,
Immediately you know it as a rose.  
You do not wonder what else it is.  
It is a note of singular distinction
Because it has been distilled down
To the very soul of the plant.  

Good poetry makes you feel that.
It does not rely on cliché,
Nor unsophisticated childish notions.
Poetry must not be superfluous.
But must be succinct, the essence
Of the feelings being expressed
Without the fluff.

You must tear a poem down,
Rewrite it, set it aside for a while
Then come back to it with fresh eyes.
Poetry is work and an inner struggle.
We must be willing to give the time
Each poem needs from our loving attention.  
They are our children, born of us, part of us.  
No child should go nameless,
Each one deserves a name to be given it.
We owe them nurturing as loving parents.

Give me your eyes
In love, look solely at me
Give me your body, wholly,
To be part of mine

Your hands are mine
For only my caresses.
Your feet are mine, also,
To walk straight back to me.

I give unto you the "all" of me,
All who I am or might be.
All that I become is yours
And you are my gift, as well.

True love does not vary
Nor change like shifting shadows
True love remains ever in the light
For all to see its honesty

A love that maintains its vow
To love, respect, and cherish
It does not alter or "bend
With the remover to remove"

Love is everlasting and true
Real love is yielding to the other
It does not possess, nor smother
It trusts because it gives it to receive

Love is the very soul of equality
It does not reveal but protects intimacy
Love grows with time and with maturity
True love by all is easily seen

Only fools poke out their own eyes
Mistaking true love for hypocrisy
True love is from celestial heights above
And lights the way to unfaltering love

Strong my castle walls!
For it has been so long
Since any hand has touched
Her imposing gates.

Please do, cross this mote
Of my desires, I
The cry within my throat.
And must you wonder why?

What is a queen without any hope?

Some whom you feel you knew so well
Fade from the mind, in time.  Why?
Who forgot first?  
They once were real.

Time taken is time gone,
Only the memories linger on,
And remain there in the brain's folds
Even though we become old

Let them flash before your eyes
Long before time for you to die
Grab them like the precious gems
That they are, reclaimed