Category Archives: POETRY

SINK OR SWIM

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The lights are low

aligned with thoughts

of swimming free,

a simple fish

swimming toward light,

suddenly caught

now distraught;

facing a tightening thread.

lifted alight and set right

on the trawler’s deck,

only to face slaughter.

Low thoughts, indeed,

in an ocean of democraseas.

“if onlys” abound

as I flutter and flounder 

and flap atop the heap

of fish so like me.

Unsure of success

I push fear aside

propelling my self

over the side,

carried away on the tide

of endless seas of hope.

I am free!

I am free!

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HAIKU

8/22/22

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Dreams are the blueprint

for life’s emerging story.

Each frame a promise.

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LOVE AND MIRACLES

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Either everything is a miracle

or nothing can be. 

The choice is ours.

It seems to me.

More is unseen than seen;

more unknown than known.

I believe in all that could be.

I await the next miracle.

Hope tells me this is true.

Faith gives me patience to wait

for miracles, my heart to renew.

Hold my hand and we

can wait together.

Oh, the wonders we shall see;

none more miraculous

than my love for you 

and yours for me.

Love show us miracles

to set our souls free.

Either everything is love

or nothing can be.

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LIFE BLOOD

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Rivers flow with water and blood

above earth’s bedrock and my own

carved out from the beat of a steady flow.

Banks erode, sometimes 

bursting,  or crumbling slow.

Older beds are no longer smooth;

broken branches snagged

and embedded roughly in the 

now-gravelled surface below.

My skin and earth’s, bruised

and channeled by our river’s glow.

As the drying out continues

to thicken and slow 

river’s course is brought low.

Finally, so dry it comes to an end

and our efforts to amend

cannot stop its final show.

Dried rivers of water or of blood

cannot sustain life

while we foolishly wonder

“Where did the rivers go?”

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BEING HUMAN

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When fingers are frozen

with too-tight a grip on the trigger,

and hearts are so cold

that their over-heated words

freeze others’ tongues,

can their ice-blocked minds

ever be thawed?

Have they become mere automatons

unable to think an errant thought,

icily convinced they are always

right?

Are their minds no longer their own?

Are they so frozen in fear,

so brittlely certain that they are in danger

of reason breaking into hard shards?

“Who are these people?” is not

an uncommon question, nor

one of personal identity.

It questions if they are indeed

part of humanity.

The true question must be

“Are they human?”.

For those still warm enough to reason,

to progress, to change, to love

that question is what we really fear.

For, if they could lose their humanity,

might not we?

Has humanity chosen self-immolation

in an over-heated fossil-fueled world?

It is a choice within every nation.

Elections matter in a time like this.

Voting is an act of creation.

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HAIKU

LA, age 3, dance studio

All poetry is

autobiography.

‘nough said already.

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FIXING U.S.

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The dining table is the place

where family and friends gather

to partake of shared memory,

long history, and future planning.

I sit at a table with a leg cut short.

It wobbles and shakes discomforting

all seated round, frowning

and disconcerted, alerted to danger

of falling plates, tipped glasses.

We make an effort to stabilize the table

while grabbing utensils and protecting laps.

Some say, let’s move to another table.

Others look for a deck of cards

or a roll up napkins to place under 

the shortened leg, while the rest wonder

how a simple meal could have become

such a disturbing conumdrum.

Any fix cannot last. The thought

of a restful meal is long past. 

Many simply leave the scene

wanting only peace and a place

where they can eat decent meal.

The table can be fixed we know.

It will not be fast. Any fix should last.

Remove that bad leg and replace

with a leg that carries the table with grace.

Cutting off the other three

might improve the table’s stability.

But would anyone but the very small

fit at such a table, not brought low?

Ignoring the furniture in our world

has brought us to this?

No place to safely and calmly sit?

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HAIKU

Honoring Father Mike Gribble. Fr. Gribble was a life-long friend to all who knew him. He will be sorely missed and never forgotten.

He had a direct

line to heaven, and now need

no longer phone home.

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WINDS OF CHANGE

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I want to listen to the wind

scouring down the mountainside

of hopes and dreams still unseen

to tinkle tunes in the gravel below

where the river flows awash

over dislodged stones

from past faults now crumbling

as water goes tumbling making music

of each thought and each sigh,

buried deep, yet still alive.

The wind brings melodies to bear down

on each unhappy sigh and sound

choked back by river’s tears.

I want to listen to the wind at water’s edge

with a courage that washes away all fear.

I want to listen to the winds of change.

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NUCLEAR RECORDS

The clock keeps ticking.

TICK-tock-TICK-tock-TICK.

It has not stopped since

Hiroshima and Nagasaki,

Three Mile Island,Chernobyl

and Zaporizhzhia.

TICK-tock-TICK-tock-TICK.

Closer to midnight 

with each strike or two.

Morbier’s clock may be needed

to remind us of the danger.

TICK-tock-TICK-Tock-TICK.

Power grids and greed and more

lead us into endless war.

What did he want nuclear records for?

TICK-Tock-TICK-tock-TICK.
What financial gain was sought

to hide such secrets in his house?

TICK-tock-TICK-tock-TICK

Or what power was sought

TICK-tock-TICK-tock-TICK

by fascist bullies with threats

TICK-tock-TICK-tock-TICK

holding hostage democratic republics

TICK-tock-TICK-tock-TICK

with nuclear threats, treason

TICK-tock-TICK-tock-TICK

and crass insurrection

TICK-TOCK-TICK-tock-TICK

to seize re-election?

TICK-TOCK-TICK-tock-TICK

Which enemies hold him 

and our nuclear secrets close?

TICK-TOCK-TICK-TOCK-TICK

Merrick Garland, reset the lever!

TICK-TOCK-TICK-TOCK-TICK-TOCK

TICK….

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