I would love you if I could
not with tender looks,
nor delicate feelings
encased in soft touches.
I would love you with harsh words,
and bold shoves
until you fell before your foolish pride
and caught my heart in your hard fist.
I would hold that fist closed about my heart,
feel it pulled from my tight chest
in heavy pants of longing,
making it difficult to breathe.
I would love you.I would love you.
I would If I could.
I would if you allowed.
Filed under POETRY
Excuse me, Judge,
to be fair
I must be allowed to break the rule
of law and every other kind
so I may be able to do my thing,
which right now,
well, since forever,
has been running rings
around the opposition
to whatever scheme
currently could make me king.
Money has never been enough.
So, judge, I have to get tough.
You cannot believe
you can treat me
like all the other thugs,
who commit crimes
but cannot stand to do the time.
I am in a political campaign.
I have no time to admit the blame
for what I have done,
and continue to do.
Judge, shame on all of you.
Those other criminals can admit
their crime.
I simply do not have the time.
My problems are all because
of Jack Smith who dares to charge me
with crimes I have committed
against the country and the people
I must rule.
Judge, your interference
is really cruel.
If you, or anyone else, gets in my way
there will be hell to pay.
That should do it.
That is what I have to say.
Bullies always get their way.
I am the biggest bully of them all.
Let the others take my fall.
Filed under POETRY
You became someone else
While I was turned away,
head buried in books
refusing to lift eyes off the page.
Years of study in silent solitude
drew me far away
from the truth that is you.
You, the girl inside,
hidden from view.
Filed under POETRY
If love can survive death,
it can certainly survive life.
No challenge is too great
to overcome hate.
Wearing love as a mantle
protects the ego inside
allowing humility
to overcome pride.
Carrying love as a shield
pushes anger aside,
opening new paths
far and wide.
Holding love as a torch of fire
enlightens all within its reach,
opens eyes wide and inspires
an easier search for truth and peace.
Embracing the spark of love in others,
no matter how small it appears,
empowers trust and dispels fears.
If love can survive death,
it can certainly survive life.
Love saves us both,
those who give and receive.
Love saves us all.
Hate simply deceives.
Start sewing love.
One stitch at a time.
Filed under POETRY
Nights are too long
for those who cannot sleep;
too short for those who labor
longer than is wise to keep a roof overhead.
Each needing to secure
what is needed to survive
and avoid their demise.
Retirement brings no respite
from feeling desperate.
It is not a lock against the clock
clicking through anxieties that bind
sleep deprived prisoners to their comfy chairs
to sit and simply stare until they can awake
and shake off lost hours abed;
too weary to take a walk
or pick up the phone to talk,
or create anything worth the time to wait
for applause, faint praise or commendation;
too tired not to expect condemnation.
Why should their be applause
for simply living long enough to retire,
as if gaining years allowed
some reason to feel proud?
Perhaps some lives, like some nights, can be too long.
Time to get up and dance through the dawn.
No life is ever too long
once we learn to dance to our own song.
Filed under POETRY
I thought the money in the bank was mine.
All mine. All mine. All mine. All mine.
I did not know I could not take it.
I lacked intent to commit the crime.
I had no intent to take what was not mine.
It is all mine. It is all mine. It is all mine.
As are you, and you, and you…
My people are the very best.
I am smarter than you, not stupid,
if you believe only what I want you to.
I won. I won. I won. It’s true. It’s mine I say.
It’s all the same to those who hurt
and hate and fight against their fate,
hiding behind irreligious faith
to praise the savior of their own demise.
We won. We won. What is our prize ?
Pure intention to commit the crime
in plain sight, in plain view
in text, on tape, in interviews.
I won. I won. It’s mine, this crime
against the country, against me and you.
It isn’t a crime to take what is mine.
“I take whatever I want, and they let me”,
these people who are mine, all mine.
It won’t be enough.
I am sure.
Inconvenient facts are such a bore.
Unless…
and this is just a guess…
you love our country more;
and loving
opens the closed door
upon considering
what is in store
if justice is denied,
just to save your pride
and the story you tell to justify
the twists and turns
of so many lies.
One can only hope it is true
that we can count on you.
Your country needs you.
As do I
to keep the temperature down,
calm the storms,
and grow democracy
in rows just and orderly.
Freedom dies too easily
when weeds are allowed
to grow un-fact-checked.
The forecast tells us
four counts must be enough.
Wakefulness from nightmares does not feel safe,
nor clearly defines the life we make,
nor effortlessly guides the steps to take
while we try to stay awake
the day after nightmares reign.
The last person to fear, by those whose dreams allow
peace, security, joy and love…somehow…
are those of us who wake from dreams with screams,
and recognize the loss of hope
which forces us to stay woke
lest we descend once again
into nightmares which never end.
The American dream may be the goal
of those who dream peacefully all night long,
as well as those whose dreams unfold
as nightmares left from days of old,
and from the streets left bare
by poverty, racism and despair.
Waking cannot be a sin
for only those whose dreams begin
in sorrow and pain.
Does not every one of us awake?
Are only those who dream sweet dreams
allowed to waken in the morning light
and not have too explain
it is their right
to stay awake?
Attacking those who awake from nightmares
instead of dreams may merely be a way
to keep some within the nightmare world
any sane person would hope to flee.
We are each entitled to awake and greet the day.
Dreamers of dreams or nightmares,
we are all the same.
I am I, and you are you, when we are asleep.
And, when we wake. I am you and you are me,
those who waken to the same day
after long nights of life on display.
in nightmares or in dreams.
Then, morning dawns with sun’s fierce stroke.
Suddenly, we are both woke.
Who created fire
to cleanse all desire
too hot to handle
man’s desire
to rule in God’s place?
Bound by stones
of hardened hearts
contained fire warms the hearth
where love and safety glow
amidst the deepest dark.
Fire un-contained
destroys every tree
on hillsides, across plains;
sends smoke signals
beyond borders once claimed
by nations no longer constrained
in their wanton use of power
growing by the hour
which drains the very soul
of Earth’s sanctity and place
within the universe of grace.
Fire knows its place,
its power to cleanse
over-rated mankind’s
history of disgrace.
Man’s invention? I think not.
We simply forgot
we only placed stones to hold its power,
and soon kicked them aside
to save our wounded pride.
History knows the place of fire.
It can hold what is too hot handle
across memory and time.
History turn to ash
when we burn it to save the party line;
a line crossed by the fire of ire’s lies
burning too hot
to save people and nations.
Hot enough to restore creation
before man destroyed
his only chance at participation?
Last night I had a wonderful dream.
Hakuna matata was the theme.
Swahili words danced on the breeze.
No trouble. No worries. Take it easy.
Children gathered brushes growing near the river, tools
and colors of paint, as a woman sat on a low stool.
A camera scrolled across the scene from far above
a landscape filled with laughter and love.
One by one each child applied texture and painted lines
across every inch of the woman, now becoming a lion.
Proud and strong she rose up and laughingly stated
“Hakuna matata”. All chatter around her solemnly abated.
Then, voices united as one, the children shouted with glee
“Hakuna matata. No trouble. No worries. Take your ease!”
After that, sleep came easily.
Filed under POETRY
annarino writes 