Tag Archives: poetry

June 3, 2022 · 1:04 am

WORDS

Are words without heart more marketing than art?

Is there any assurety my words sit on your lips

with the same joy they sit on mine?

I count on words to keep us all alive.

Or is it false security to believe in such vanity?

I sit quietly, in meek wonder at the power of words

to turn a cheek against a blow, 

or use a laugh to turn aside sorrow.

As I await inspiration words flow.

I wonder how this can be so.

What is life but waiting to know?

What is hope but a quickening of spirit?

What is faith but a breath in and breath out?

What is love but accepting whatever comes about?

Has life any purpose or is it merely aspiration?

Is life simply our imagination?

Without imagination can we survive?

Can any nation?

I wait. 

I breathe.

I accept.

I imagine.

I survive.

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April 18, 2022 · 7:02 pm

Haiku

Roiling emotions.

Put pen to paper.

Another haiku.

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April 12, 2022 · 11:45 am

I NEVER FELT SO SMALL BEFORE

I never felt so small before

Tiny dot in a universe of stars

viewed on a clear night 

as i looked up at the sky.

This, this I know. 

But not this smallness 

of heart, and mind, and soul

discovered in the face of war.

War I always fought.

War I always sought

to end and make no more.

And not just war over borders

against peoples and nations;

but war against colors of skin,

war against sexual orientation,

war against religion,

war against women’

war against children.

The list goes on and looms large,

larger than I can cope,

destroying all hope.

I never felt so small before.

I struggle to find a way to do more

than put words on a pages

while all around me uncivil war wages.

I never felts small before.

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April 1, 2022 · 2:19 pm

POETS

A spirit guards this space

placing a soft touch on the hand

which holds the pen

disclosing its presence

where ink marks the page

in a language known

if not understood

except by poets.

The poet is the reader of

Spirit’s words, not the writer.

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February 23, 2022 · 12:30 pm

TAX SEASON

I love paying taxes. I do.

They help me connect to you.

and you, and you, and you.

I pay my share and trust my taxes

will outlast the needs we share.

They show how much I care

about city, county, country.

Taxes build strong community.

The shining necklace 

that connects us

is only so strong 

as its strongest link.

so, I do not shrink

from my duty to pay my taxes.

They are never late.

It is the forms I hate,

pages of numbers

that destroy my slumber.

Is it too early to rise?

Can the day not wait

until my words can untangle,

by numbers strangled,

inside my dreams

where truths scream

to be lightly told 

as dawn unfolds?

My dreams try to pass on

objects long gone

from emptied drawers:

wooden spaghetti fork,

aluminum sieve,

cotton cheesecloth.

All items one needs

to stir the pot as tangled food heats;

as tangled words strive to unfold

the stories hidden and untold.

And tools one needs to sift through

lies and deceits to give you truth.

Reading tax instructions in my sleep

makes me weep

at the destruction of poetry.

There is no tax symmetry.

Words flee the grasp of Publication 17.

Line by line of form 1040

blocks all ability and creativity,

destroying poems before they are born.

Tax season is the theft; not of cash,

but of dreams. Words are torn.

Tax season is a thief in the night

Tax season continues to steal even in daylight.

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February 6, 2022 · 4:39 pm

REMEMBER THOU ARE DUST

Call the sun names.

Carry buckets of coal.

Bring shovels to bury the dead.

Careful, now, how you tread

on the burnt offerings

of now fallow fields 

and forests turned desserts.

Take to the sea.

In sheltered ports linger

to avoid the worst storms.

Set sail in steaming waters

which no longer cool

temperatures nor tempers,

and boil over onto shores

of discontent.

Remember thou are dust

and to dust thou shall return.

We are over-heated earth.

We are worsening storms,

more violent, 

making everlasting wars

within ourselves

and our false borders.

We are both victimizer and victim

of global warming.

We cannot escape

ourselves.

We are dust

and to dust

we shall return.

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January 29, 2022 · 2:10 pm

AFRAID TO BEND

Sometimes, I think

I have forgotten how to bend.

Life now seems mere posturing.

We stand 

for something.

Or, we stand 

for nothing

real.

We sit on our hands.

We run from truth.

We sleepwalk through twi-light

days and nights blended

and mended by calculation

of who holds the reins

of our harness.

So, I stand

and I stretch

to find some balance

of thought and action;

a tiny fraction

of what reality 

used to be.

And I dare not bend

for fear

of losing

my balance.

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January 29, 2022 · 2:07 pm

AFRAID TO BEND

Sometimes, I think

I have forgotten

how to bend.

Life now seems

mere posturing.

We stand

for something.

Or, we stand

for nothing

real.

We sit on our hands.

We run from truth.

We sleep-walk through twi-light,

days and night blended

and mended

by calculation

of those who hold the reins

of our harness.

So, I stand

and I stretch

to find some balance

of thought and action;

a tiny fraction

of what reality

used to be.

And I dare not bend

for fear of losing

my balance.

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January 28, 2022 · 1:50 pm

NIGHT SNOW

NIGHT SNOW


In the middle of the night,

blankets hugged about the body tight,

I gathered them about and rose

slipping on boots to go

into the tranquility of the garden

bright with moonlight.

Snow now fills the tracks

of man and beast.

Huge flakes drift down

breathing quietly as I,

gently riding unseen currents,

falling onto still branches,

through a silent sky.

And I stand quietly along their side,

arms held aloft and wide,

chin tipped high

in awe of night,

and snow flakes in flight;

warmed by the sight.

I live! I am alive!

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January 27, 2022 · 3:05 pm

THE FINEST LIGHT

Forty winks and now

we see you,

until we don’t

lest we are mistaken

we have awakened.

The sun stays hidden

as we pretend

night is at an end,

and a new day begun.

The winking does not end.

The winking does not bend

the light enough to hide its glare 

crouching low behind the clouds.

Would it be wrong to open eyes wide

on days like these

bathed in cloudy skies?

Seeing truth shining bright

might justice be the finest light.

Stop winking.

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