An owl in a tree
whose spirit reaches beyond
everything we know

is unjustly shot
down to the summer forest
floor, flanked by flowers.

And so I ask you:
who was the one who shot it?
...

Golly, fellas!
Gee, ladies!
These folks.
Am I right, person(s)?

They say it's no fair!

Hey, if you didn't already know it-
I'm hoping you get the best.
Usually, that's by lesson.
And, wouldn't you know it,
You're quite the students!
I just noticed you were struggling learning.
So, I reduced it down to the basics!
You've just got to get to studying.
Of course, not that it's always obvious,
What field even peaks your interest?

Perhaps it's walking.
Perhaps it's gawking.
Perhaps it's trying.

But to what do they compare?

Perhaps it's sensation.
Perhaps it's thinking.

But who's to say
What that even corresponds to?
Who's to say
What those even correspond to?

The only you with say
Is the same to make the decision.
What I mean is;
A lot of things are going to get in your way,
Don't be your own obstacle.

I taught children to write cursive.
And how to drive a stick.
In fact, they learned all my baby boomer things,
Like reading (aloud and to oneself), walking,
Talking with friends (facially, in person).
They learned about winning, and all about losing, with dignity.
They learned about friendship, loyalty, honour, trust,
And perseverence.
They learned that truth, as hard as it might be, was ok.
These should not, cannot, be sidelined.

But today's child is not for these times.
They are time travellers.

Life is short, with a

lot of evils. I keep that --


back from my children.

Daughters of neighbors
pierced the skin of the skies,
riding chariots of fire,
floating nine months
in the arms of weightless stars.
They whispered to the void,
grew life where even breath
has no permission to exist.

But here —
our daughters sit behind locked doors,
trapped in silence at the end of the street,
where schools are closed,
where a blackboard is a battlefield,
and a book
a forbidden fruit.

They planted seeds in space,
in the soil of galaxies,
while we—
we could not plant
a single seed of mercy
in the hearts of those who breathe
oxygen too richly to share.

O Sunita!
You carried the prayers of science
beyond the blue.
But our girls?
Their wings were broken
not by gravity
but by impatience, by fear,
by chains disguised as customs.

How long?
How long will the stars sing
while our daughters are silenced?
The earth has already taken flight,
and we—
we are still
binding the feet
of angels.

Let us give them wings too.
Let them fly—
not to escape,
but to arrive.
Let them touch the sky,
and return
with the soft, burning realization
of their own light.

Because the sky
is not for a few.
It was made
for every dream
that dares
to open its eyes.

It's unbearable to hear the blind speak of light
Or the dead teaching the dead how to live
And liars affirming liars with yet more lies
But alas inescapable is this babelic cacophony
I run, far into the wilderness, but woe upon me clings
Thus I close my eyes, shut my ears, seal my tongue
Wrap myself in the dark depths of desolation
And like the dead, slip into the silence of the void

Ivory lad,
Ivy grad;
Tell me,
Why is it that you're so slow?
Behind the times,
Stuck where
Even your parents have outgrown.
What eccentric lessons,
What bombastic professors!
To say it is one school
Would be an insult
To the whole of the institutions'
Asserted goals & aspirations.
It would be a disservice
To their alumni,
The attendees,
And those to be admitted.
Prattle off your dissertations,
I'm genuinely interested
To hear of your perspective,
But I won't hold my breath
So keep the air honest
Lest you share a foul stench
Like dioxide so sulfurous.
What hand is up your ***
To puppet the controls as so?
What stick has been stuck
Through your rear-end
Which parades you around on?
What pike has been found
Deep in your bowels
Rendering detachment & disembodiment?
From which war & what battle
Do you think you're taking part of?
Which side & which force
Do you swear allegiance?
What little league team,
What playground do you call home?
What duel with duality,
What fight with nature!
It would be entertaining
If they had only stuck to playing in the mud.

I was helping my
son with his homework
the other day.
For one of his assignments,
he had to write a
public service announcement.
He has been visited
by the muse
at an early age.
His goal is to publish
his first book by the
time he's 18.

It got me thinking about
my life as a writer,
and the young formative
years.
As a boy, I had a
broad imagination,
and much time alone.
I remember coming
up with plot lines in
my head, and then
writing little adventure stories.
My dad was a drama
teacher.
He directed four or
five plays a year.
I grew up watching
the classic plays,
and developing a love
for literature.

In Junior high,
I saw the power
of my gift.
I wasn't a popular
kid; somewhat of a
loner.
But one day in
English class, I wrote
a story about a
*****-headed hamster,
with an underbite-like
a French bulldog.
The other kids loved it.
They listened and laughed,
and applauded.
Words became my
new best friend.

I grew and leaned on
writing through the
good times and the bad.
They were warmth
In the long winters,
and rain in
springtime.
Through the alcoholic
haze of much of
my adulthood,
writing kept me sane,
and it gave me
the will to keep
living when the
pain grew into
a beast of its own...

My son hands me
his paper and it's
brilliant--it warns people
about the dangers
of cyber hackers, by
portraying the average
person surfing the net
as a lamb walking along
in the grass,
thinking life is grand just being
a sheep, when along
comes the wolf that pounces and
devours.
He finishes with,
'Don't let this happen to you.
Protect your computer and files
with such and such software.'

He asked me if I thought
he could be a good writer.
I laughed and told him
that he already was.

I’ll take a stroll
through wintry night air
to free my mind
from its dark wisps and snares.

While walking in the night’s leaden fog
that weighs upon both eyes and mind,
a building emerges from dampening slog
adorned with columns of marble refined.

The fog oppresses all the known world,
with eyes and ears slammed shut by fear.
Its thralls have spread, its pall unfurled
to wring out all sense of what was clear.

And yet: Here rises
from black fog’s embrace
the lights of a campus
that spite fog’s dimming wastes.

Upon building’s brow, above the main gate,
two words inscribed. Letters gleam through gloom
and icy tendrils of iron mist’s weight:
“Auditorium Maximum” —

— the place of the greatest hearing.
If only this hall could vastly hold
the sum of all in fog a-fearing,
to teach each to hear and be thus consoled.

To live in more than piecemeal peace
in a heartily hearth-warmed hall
where all must learn the art of hearing,
to share in the greatest art of all.