Tag Archives: poets

AMERICAN RENAISSANCE

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The dark ages were not dark everywhere.

Light shown to the East, the South, and the West

while Europe cloaked itself in dark days;

as The United States of America does now.

Even camera crews have turned off light and sound.

And evil men and women try to rebound

by creating their own clown-faced muse

with his crypto, coins, twitter, and TV news.

These wanna-be strong-men turn away from the Light of Truth

forsake the Bill of Rights’ light once so very bright

with promise by all, for all, and to do all things right.

We watch all systems fail across airports,

roads, water plants, farm fields, schools and hospitals

and death becomes unleashed by ICE men

playing false as con-men overrule the Rule of Law.

Their appointed judges enact The Rule of Flaw

This may be America’s final straw;

judges sitting in dark court rooms

unable to see what facts there be

so precedence can be overruled

and lights kept turned off, but not for all.

January 6 criminals, rapists, pedophiles, and fraudsters are free

to roam in darkness so deep we cannot see

that none of us is allowed to remain free.

None of us are safe from deportation

to an unknown country, or to our own private hell

here in our own homes, on our own streets,

within our universities and our own communities.

The lights seem to be growing dim

as Dark Ages descend again.

Artists can paint, sculpt and write in the dark.

They see more clearly what is, and imagine what can be.

Their imagery is lightened within dreams and memory.

A new Renaissance can overcome such darkness.

It did so once. It can, again.

There should be no return to the old days, but a rebirth

of those ideals sought enacted by people of Earth,

when our constitution, its amendments and Judicial Act

were put in placed to support a Bill of Rights

to overcome dark night and shine a brilliant Light

across an entire world. Peasant freedom unfurled. 

The work of artists is to bring forth light and right;

a Renaissance of love and peace, respect for all;

and, the courage to make things right.

Art and artists’ dreams dispel, like a liars’ tell,

 shining light in the depths of these dark nights.

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Words

Some days the words refuse to let me go.

On other days words pretend I am someone they do not know.

The cut-direct should not hurt so.

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MY FELLOW AMERICANS

MY FELLOW AMERICANS

I hold my tongue.

It takes strength I do not have.

Whimpers escape

On shattered breaths,

In silent screams.

The fight worries my soul,

Battle weary and choking,

On words held tight inside.

Once the scream begins

I doubt I could stop.

I wait for your speech.

I yearn for your promise

To stop the authoritarian

Who has taken over our house,

Emptied its vaults,

Stolen its wealth,

Sold its power

To the highest bidders.

So, I write. That I can do

While I wait for you.

To me, this nothing new.

Do you believe me now?

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DECONSTRUCTION

Columbus, Ohio 10-18-2025

The streets were lined for blocks on end.

Signs reminded all who rejoiced to attend

Why they walked and talked and smiled and waved

At passing cars who braved delays

While drivers honked horns and shouted out

“Vote him out and make it a rout!”

Costumed critters danced to our delight

Knowing their freedom would give him a fright.

Deconstruct the lies we have been told.

Deconstruct the narrative being sold.

Deconstruct the bullie’s hold.

Deconstruct institutional mold.

Gather in peace the young and the old.

Stronger are you, more wise, more bold.

Deconstruct so we can rebuild

What he has destroyed with his minions’ lack of skill.

We know how to do this, and more.

We have done it many times before.

Columbus, Ohio 10-18-2025
Columbus, Ohio 10-18-2025
Columbus, Ohio 10-18-2025
Columbus, Ohio 10-18-2025
Columbus, Ohio 10-18-2025
Columbus, Ohio 10-18-2025
Columbus, Ohio 10-18-2025

My thanks to my friends in Clintonville area of Columbus who helped me attend this moment of patriots’ challenge to the con men robbing the USA of its power, wealth, ideals and humanity. The lack of media coverage was appalling. The misrepresentation of attendance numbers cannot be challenged when media fails to provide images of the gatherings. A local station covered it AFTER it was over and crowds had dispersed. Another stated hundreds attended when it was actually thousands. We are here. We are resisting. We are going nowhere until the despotism and kidnapping of people and the Supreme Court, universities, news organizations, social media outlets, medical and public health Institutions… even our very language and the meaning of words and phrases has been brought to an end and freedom restored.

We shall not be silenced.

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Filed under COMMENTARY, POETRY, POLITICS

BREATHLESS WORDS

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I am out of breath and words.

The hill ahead we must climb

seems much too high

and tightens the core

in bands of steel

that limit flexible movement.

How can we climb under such duress?

Any future hope must be a mere guess

that we can find a way

through the dark and fretful days ahead.

Fatalism blocks the intake of air.

Fear locks an exhale all too aware

of obstacles placed along the path.

Few sherpas remain to assist,

compromised by willingness to desist

the smug faces of so many now in charge.

Human compassion is suppressed.

Freedom is kept at-large.

The goal remains the same.

The path is now littered in shame.

I am out of breath and words.

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HAIKU/ POETRY

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Wildly careening

prose portrayed as poetry

fools no one but me.

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THE POET

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I wake with words upon the tongue,

fingers ready to write down thoughts among

the fractured dreams of worlds long gone,

whose stories linger eon after eon.

No breakfast nor shower first for those like me

who live and breathe a universe of poetry.

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GREY DAYS

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Some days are more difficult than others

and paint will not dry fast enough 

to add the details which make the canvass

come alive in form and color.

The grey, pregnant clouds cover the sky

from end to end and roll over again ,and again,

blocking the sun and the light in one’s eye.

The brush sits, waiting in the palm.

The heart sits, waiting out the storm.

The canvass sits waiting

as empty as life seems to be.

But, artists know better than to fear

the light has died forever.

Artists simply wait out the storm,

paint the clouds above the crowd

of grey and dull thoughts;

and, write the words bold and loud.

Some days are more difficult than others,

thank goodness.

They challenge the artist and poet inside

and offer them a place to hide.

Until the sun rises high in the sky.

then artists and poets run outside,

paint and words flying far and wide.

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PATTERNS ET.AL.

PATTERNS

Patterns tell stories

usually hidden from view.

Each morning I rise

and pick up my pen,

put it to paper

to see what thoughts

descend.

Today, a series of thoughts

seem attuned to one another.

Four poems gathered

but refused to do more

than make me yearn

for words to return

and tell a story

to help me learn

something.

Anything.

Perhaps putting them in a row

will eventually show

what they are trying to tell me.

so, here, I go.

SAVED  BY THE GARDEN

Saved again by the Garden.

Its views extend my own.

Who knows what will become

of the seeds I have sown.

Better to focus on new life

than to reflect on the old.

RUNAWAY

Hurry to the table.

Pick up the pen.

Let thoughts descend

before I pick up a comb,

wash  my face,

or even get dressed.

The words run off

too fast for any of that.

I struggle to catch the words

before they are lost

in mundane tasks.

Today, I was too slow.

DISAPPEARING ACT

Where do words go

when they run from me?

To another poet?

To another essayist?

Are they too uncomfortable to tell 

the truths I know so well?

Is the runner the words, 

or is it I who run 

away from words ?

LOST DREAM

A blast of cold air

swept over the sheets

and awakened me too soon

before the dawn

grew bright enough 

to see within the darkened room.

I could not see  the words today.

I only felt the cold and felt bereft

that the dream had gone.

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SIGHT UNSEEN

Meaning hides behind the curtain of words

strung on steel spines laid across windows

open to the view of curiosity seekers

walking the borders of meadows

where secrets are held in shallow graves.

I watch their progress across the land

mined with traps of grammar and rhyme,

their trampling feet raising dust to obscure

whatever truths they might find

should their path be more certain, more sure.

Discoveries are few and far between.

They wander and look everywhere but 

where the treasures lie sight unseen.

Makes me wonder why poets write,

what they expect others to glean

from meaning hidden in plain site.

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