Forums
By suggestion, a place for the poets among us to post their words.
...with a face like a mortician's ring finger
Careful, you maverick. They might be reading this.
The Nixon Pixies Are Everywhere
Paper Boy
Paranoid old man
reports his stolen paper.
Story on page five.
-Lycia Harding
You don't have to go to DC. All that shit's on Google Maps now.
That's quite enough from you, slo.Go on, back in the hutch.
Breathe
Just breathe...
Breathe...Gasping, into light you're thrown!
Like glass, your turning leaf is blown
clear of sweet slumber's song but there's
no need of hers - you'll sing your own.
You, newly born of mother's prayers,
will breathe your first of earthen airs
and thirsty, let your voice be heard
'til she's dispersed the drink she shares.
As leaves are, by the wind, bestirred,
with each new breath, you'll find you're spurred
on by survival's undertow
as well as by debts love-incurred.
Oh, precious child, I love you so!
What wonders of this world you'll know
but one day too, this life you'll leave...
Take one last breath and let it go.
Yes, breathe...
- Lycia Harding
Shine
We're so closeAnd yet so far
I guess that's just
The way things are
And we'll all know
When Heaven's here
That's the place where no one lives in fear
so Shine
There is nothing better for you to do with your
Time
Than be a rainbow of love
We're living on
A miracle
We pick and choose
Of our free will
And each new day
We choose our path
And only love can make God laugh
so Shine
There is nothing better for you to do with your
Time
Than be a rainbow of love
We're so close
And yet so far
I guess that's just
The way things are
A smile here
A heart-ache there
So many things that we all share
so Shine
There is nothing better for you to do with your
Time
Than be a rainbow of love
Planet of The Apes: Origins
I have existed as I expected yet been disaffected by decisions to which I succumb. In the future, I reckon, as poor choices beckon, I'll be less nimble than numb. A rising inhuman feeling, I'm apart of being, but a part of the decidedly dumb. In my condition, unable to speak without contrition, unspeakably sedated and out of commission, I find myself among the unsung. With debilitating humility from declining mental agility, a lesser primate, I have become.The devolution's hastened by faux revolution raisin' in the name of the orangutan Trump. A regular Ape Lincoln, with a gorilla tactic inklin', the only change his devoted will get is a chump. Yet, the worst of it, as he threw his shit, too many fell for this relative chimp's speeches on stump. In time and despair, perhaps we'll care, and American humanity recognizes insanity, then gives him The Donald Dump.
If The Drum Is A Woman
If the drum is a womanwhy are you pounding your drum into an insane
babble
why are you pistol whipping your drum at dawn
why are you shooting through the head of your drum
and making a drum tragedy of drums
If the drum is a woman
don't abuse your drum don't abuse your drum
don't abuse your drum
I know the night is full of displaced persons
I see skins striped with flames
I know the ugly dispositions of underpaid clerks they constantly menstruate through the eyes
I know bitterness embedded in flesh
the itching alone can drive you crazy
I know that this is America and the chickens are coming home to roost
on the MX missile
But if the drum is a woman
why are you choking your drum
why are you raping your drum
why are you saying disrespectful things
to your mother drum your sister drum
your wife drum and your infant daughter drum
If the drum is a woman
then understand your drum, understand your drum
your drum is not docile
your drum is not invisible
your drum is not inferior to you
your drum is a woman
so don't reject your drum don't try to dominate your drum
don't become weak and cold and desert your drum
don't be forced into the position
as an oppressor of drums and make a drum tragedy of drums
If the drum is a woman
don't abuse your drum don't abuse your drum
don't abuse your drum
don't abuse your drum
- Jayne Cortez
A Warm Welcome
My life has spanned the decay of decadesAnd precedents predict present charades.
I found the light but it’s starting to weigh
Man's on a mission where the other’s prey.
Too much is not enough, I'm frayed to say
Old black gold and pipe dreams drive our freeway.
Greed cedes family trees through winds that sway
Now the heat’s on, let’s toast, "God, It's Fry Day."
Yet the climate's cool when the right pals pay
Cuz reason's chilling in the USA.
Rewind yourself before memory fades
After DJ Trump spins, tweets, and evades.
Forward To The Past
Is Trump building a covert bridge too farTaking us back to the USSR?
Letter to the Local Police
Dear Sirs:
I have been enjoying the law and order of our
community throughout the past three months since
my wife and I, our two cats, and miscellaneous
photographs of the six grandchildren belonging to
our previous neighbors (with whom we were very
close) arrived in Saratoga Springs which is clearly
prospering under your custody
Indeed, until yesterday afternoon and despite my
vigilant casting about, I have been unable to discover
a single instance of reasons for public-spirited concern,
much less complaint
You may easily appreciate, then, how it is that
I write to your office, at this date, with utmost
regret for the lamentable circumstances that force
my hand
Speaking directly to the issue of the moment:
I have encountered a regular profusion of certain
unidentified roses, growing to no discernible purpose,
and according to no perceptible control, approximately
one quarter mile west of the Northway, on the southern
side
To be specific, there are practically thousands of
the aforementioned abiding in perpetual near riot
of wild behavior, indiscriminate coloring, and only
the Good Lord Himself can say what diverse soliciting
of promiscuous cross-fertilization
As I say, these roses, no matter what the apparent
background, training, tropistic tendencies, age,
or color, do not demonstrate the least inclination
toward categorization, specified allegiance, resolute
preference, consideration of the needs of others, or
any other minimal traits of decency
May I point out that I did not assiduously seek out
this colony, as it were, and that these certain
unidentified roses remain open to viewing even by
children, with or without suitable supervision
(My wife asks me to append a note as regards the
seasonal but nevertheless seriously licentious
phenomenon of honeysuckle under the moon that one may
apprehend at the corner of Nelson and Main
However, I have recommended that she undertake direct
correspondence with you, as regards this: yet
another civic disturbance in our midst)
I am confident that you will devise and pursue
appropriate legal response to the roses in question
If I may aid your efforts in this respect, please
do not hesitate to call me into consultation
Respectfully yours,
- June Jordan
Forward To The Past (Redux and Recovers)
Don't know about The Donald's true desiresDetail's in the devils fanning, "You're fired."
Is he building a covered bridge too far
Taking us back to the USSR?
If rushin' love's not for covert lootin'
Perhaps hushed rendezvous pleasin' Putin'
Repay debts with risky, Rusky rootin'
And addressin' Russia as well suitin'.
Trump soundly renounced all intelligence
Announcing, "Mexico pays for the fence!"
Then he chose one unworthy of two... Pence
Cheer leader for synchronized sycophants.
Trump's tenure will defile his rank's living
With labored days, no raise, no Thanksgiving.
His eviction requires complete sieving
Of toxic tax tactics, he's not giving.
What We Need
The Emperor,his bullies
and henchmen,
terrorize the world
every day
which is why
every day
we need
a little poem
of kindness,
a small song
of peace,
a brief moment
of joy.
-David Budbill
Being Human
I wonder if the sun debates dawnsome mornings
not wanting to rise
out of bed
from under the down-feather horizon
if the sky grows tired
of being everywhere at once
adapting to the mood
swings of the weather
if clouds drift off
trying to hold themselves together
make deals with gravity
to loiter a little longer
I wonder if rain is scared
of falling
if it has trouble
letting go
if snow flakes get sick
of being perfect all the time
each one
trying to be one-of-a-kind
I wonder if stars wish
upon themselves before they die
if they need to teach their young
how to shine
I wonder if shadows long
to just-for-once feel the sun
if they get lost in the shuffle
not knowing where they’re from
I wonder if sunrise
and sunset
respect each other
even though they’ve never met
if volcanoes get stressed
if storms have regrets
if compost believes in life
after death
I wonder if breath ever thinks of suicide
if the wind just wants to sit
still sometimes
and watch the world pass by
if smoke was born
knowing how to rise
if rainbows get shy back stage
not sure if their colors match right
I wonder if lightning sets an alarm clock
to know when to crack
if rivers ever stop
and think of turning back
if streams meet the wrong sea
and their whole lives run off-track
I wonder if the snow
wants to be black
if the soil thinks she’s too dark
if butterflies want to cover up their marks
if rocks are self-conscious of their weight
if mountains are insecure of their strength
I wonder if waves get discouraged
crawling up the sand
only to be pulled back again
to where they began
if land feels stepped upon
if sand feels insignificant
if trees need to question their lovers
to know where they stand
if branches waver at the crossroads
unsure of which way to grow
if the leaves understand they’re replaceable
and still dance when the wind blows
I wonder
where the moon goes
when she is in hiding
I want to find her there
and watch the ocean
spin from a distance
listen to her
stir in her sleep
effort give way to existence
- Naima Penniman
monk music
Music functions in a pattern. Patterns.
Patterns function in a whiz; the
worse for patternistry which is not
there. The gems of few lines. Then
- music functions whole, patterns
into system patterns. Thus do
patterns become history and
music - forms. Yes, do pages of
phrases write motion, still things -
that move, that have lines in mystery, because the best music then forms
benign of misery.
Blues yes! The blues do. But
there is the music -in the blues
that do and mercuriate to fire
straight lines, non-curve, in
monohorizontal unperplexed –
in placate history with story-flight
that flies faster than
the bumblebees, yet
with a blue aura:
time in history does
form this semblance,
gravity in norm as
unquested and easy,
easily drawn.
Straight go: time as music alive
between the heats -plus-non-plus
quicker in deed than Hurricane
Jackson the heavyweight, more
Alice in Wonderland before the
feet think twice
is Monk's music is.
Feeling driving non-driving diz.
- Henry Grimes
Happy Bicycle Day :)
All the plans That were made
Let them die
Let them fade...
After all's said and done
Only here a moment
Then the moment's gone
I'll spend the day in my own way
from In My Own Way - Ray LaMontagne 'Ouroboros'
Love Dogs
One night a man was crying, "Allah! Allah!"
His lips grew sweet with the praising,
until a cynic said,
"So! I have heard you
calling out, but have you ever
gotten any response?"
The man had no answer to that.
He quit praying and fell into a confused sleep.
He dreamed he saw Khadir, the guide of souls,
in a thick, green foliage.
"Why did you stop praising?"
"Because I've never heard anything back."
"This longing you express is the return message."
The grief you cry out
from draws you toward union.
Your pure sadness that wants help
is the secret cup.
Listen to the moan of a dog for its master.
That whining is the connection.
There are love dogs
no one knows the names of.
Give your life
to be one of them.
- Rumi
American Smooth
We were dancing - it must havebeen a foxtrot or a waltz,
something romantic but
requiring restraint,
rise and fall, precise
execution as we moved
into the next song without
stopping, two chests heaving
above a seven-league
stride - such perfect agony,
one learns to smile through,
ecstatic mimicry
being the sine qua non
of American Smooth.
And because I was distracted
by the effort of
keeping my frame
(the leftward lean, head turned
just enough to gaze out
past your ear and always
smiling, smiling),
I didn't notice
how still you'd become until
we had done it
(for two measures?
four?) - achieved flight,
that swift and serene
magnificence,
before the earth
remembered who we were
and brought us down.
- Rita Dove
Prerequisites for Preservation
we're gonna need to get organizedlive beyond boundaries
soften our hearts
talk to each other
we're gonna need to leave behind our baggage
relinquish our comfort
release our control
co-exist
we're gonna need to give up our addictions
confront our pain
ask for help
give more than we take
we're gonna need to dream bigger
work harder
get dirty
take time
we're gonna need to remember
we're gonna need to forgive
we're gonna need to let go
we're gonna need to let go
we're gonna need to feel fully
revive our intuition
make up our minds
enact change
we're gonna need to look at ourselves
reconcile our ignorance
sacrifice shame
make amends
we're gonna need to need less
peel away the nonessential
go hungry
break a sweat
we're gonna need to heal our fears
tell our secrets
share with our enemies
love ourselves
we're gonna need to study existence
refine our dreams
mediate our shadows
cure our disbelief
we're gonna need to practice magic
we're gonna need to cherish water
we're gonna need to grieve
we're gonna need to move on
we're gonna need to stay focused
we're gonna need to be strong
tend our commitment to beauty
fuel our devotion to truth
we're gonna need to pray
we're gonna need to follow through
endure burning
we're gonna need to
surrender
we're gonna need to trust
we're gonna need to give light
we're gonna give light
we are light
we are
- Naima Penniman
The Artist's Duty
So it is the duty of the artist to discourage all traces of shameTo extend all boundaries
To fog them in right over the plate
To kill only what is ridiculous
To establish problems
To ignore solutions
To listen to no one
To omit nothing
To contradict everything
To generate the free brain
To bear no cross
To take part in no crucifixion
To tinkle a warning when mankind strays
To explode upon all parties
To wound deeper than the soldier
To heal this poor obstinate monkey once and for all
To have kids with pretty angels
To display his dancing seed
To sail only in polar seas
To laugh at every situation
To besiege all their cities
To exhaust the primitive
To follow every false track
To verify the irrational
To exaggerate all things
To inhabit everyone
To lubricate each proportion
To experience only experience
To deviate at every point
To offer no examples
To dismiss all support
To make one monster at least
To go underground immediately
To smell the shark's ass
To multiply all opinions
To work only in the distance
To extend all shapes
To acquire a sublime reputation
To consort forever with the runaway
To sport the glacial eye
To direct all smouldering ambitions
To frequent only the exterminating planets
To kidnap the phantom's first-born
To forego no succulent filth
To masquerade as the author of every platitude
To overwhelm the mariner with improper charts
To expose himself to every ridicule
To ambush their blow-nose Providence
To set a flame in the high air
To exclaim at the commonplace alone
To cause the unseen eyes to open
To advance with the majesty of the praying serpent
To contrive always to be caught with his pants down
To sprinkle mule-milk on the lifted brows of virgins
To attach no importance whatever to his activity
To admire only the absurd
To be concerned with every profession save his own
To raise a fortuitous stink on the boulevards of truth and beauty
To desire an electrifiable intercourse with a female alligator
To lift the flesh above the suffering
To forgive the beautiful its disconsolate deceit
To send the world away to crawl under his discarded pedestals
To have the cunning of the imperilled wave
To hide his lamentations in the shredded lungs of the tempest
To recommend stone eyelashes for all candid lookers
To attribute every magnificence to himself
To maintain that the earth is neither round nor flat but a scomaphoid
To flash his vengeful badge at every abyss
To be revolted by only the sacred cow which piddles at the toes of the swamp
To kneel with the blind and drunk brigands and learn their songs
To happen
To embrace the intemperate hermaphrodite of memory
It is the artist's duty to be alive
To drag people into glittering occupations
To return always to the renewing stranger
To observe only the funereal spectator
To assume the ecstasy in all conceivable attitudes
To follow the plundering whirlpool to its source
To cry out nervously with every knock
To stock his shelves with plaintive confessions and pernicious diaries
To outflow the volcano in semen and phlegm
To be treacherous when nothing is to be gained
To enrich himself at the expense of everyone
To reel in an exquisite sobriety
To blush perpetually in gaping innocence
To drift happily through the ruined race-intelligence
To burrow beneath the subconscious
To defend the unreal at the cost of his reason
To obey each outrageous impulse
To commit his company to all enchantments
To rage against the sacrificing shepherds
To return to a place remote from his native land
To pursue the languid executioner to his hall bedroom
To torment the spirit-lice
To cover the mud with distinguished vegetation
To regain the emperor's chair
To pass from one world to another in carefree devotion
To withdraw only when all have been profaned
To contract every battering disease
To peel off all substances from the face of horror
To glue himself to every lascivious breast
To hurl his vigorous cone into every trough
To unroll the hide from that repugnant rhinoceros Time
To refrain from no ownership
To crowd the squat-rumped centuries into his own special residence
To plunge beyond their smoking armpits
- Kenneth Patchen
Story that includes over 150 Dead songs
Check out my new 75-page novella, 'The Grateful Dead' that includes characters, places, scenes, and phrases from over 150 Grateful Dead songs. See if you can find them all!
Synopsis: Jed tries to decide whether to return to Tennessee or stay in the land of Fennario where he lives the good life in a house with his friends: Cassidy, Mason, Stephen, August West, and Jack Straw.
Here is the link to the story:
https://wordpress.com/posts/drawingsstories.wordpress.com
Jacob Sackin
www.jacobsackin.com
The Manifestations of the Voyage
my house's stairway is seizedwith vertigo.
Matter having forsaken its laws,
we land in hell,
ascending to heaven.
Shadows move along ladders
under the silence of ordinary things
there is another silence:
it belongs neither to the leaves nor to the
dead
with a crown of birds circling
him
a child is running in an abandoned
house
the stairway takes the measure of
its own emptiness
I myself am the stairway that
Time has used in its
funeral course
wheels lift water in the
gardens of Hama
and come down
not waiting for the river
to put out the fire
Here we are left with
the river Seine and Paris's poisons.
I prefer gardens where
linden trees get ready for
a lunar voyage
The stairway that separates my
room from my memory
whispers in my ear...
I am not at the mercy of men
since trees live in my fantasies
men and trees long for fire
and call for the rain
I love rains which carry desires
to
oceans.
Between one airplane and
another
space is disoriented
stars sneak into holes and brides
go naked to wells
their innocence wanes under
our eyes
You and I are made from a
worm-eaten wood
The Word has sunk
we are left with no cry gesture
or gaze
silence to us is forbidden.
We are threatened neither by life
nor by death
nor forced to admire the Spring
I found earth-castles on the edge
of the desert's torrents
I took their marble stairs
but could not find my way either
up or down
then I understood that I was
in a state of non-reason
and non-madness
and that the gardens of Andalusia
were standing
ready to die.
Two cities Two tears
Let insanity keep between
its skirts
legs
within its black eyes
the fright of my adolescence
and the nocturnal walk on the hills:
which hill?
I mean the kingdom that a man carries
in his gut when
his love's fulfilled.
Two cities which are neither Beirut
nor Damascus
two tears: neither of alcohol nor of
rain
Yes there has been a truck
and a blue-eyed woman
from Russia
—grey olive tree—
I was a butterfly caught by
a fire:
neither the day's not the night's
but the
incandescence that radiates
from the body like a
receding sickness,
Let tombs stay open!
The stairway which leads to my
room
borrows its metals from Babylon
The Prophet's Ascension
had two movements
we fell into whirlpools
of mud
and the wind followed his horse
A tempest went after
the sun's steps
The Prophet swam through waves
of clouds
a river of gold carried his
vessel
and away from the sun he reached Paradise
a Paradise made of light.
The stairway which leads to my room
leads to an observatory
I own two telescopes
to observe stars and black holes
and take mechanized stairs
which advance with no advance
my hair spins with
sunflowers
Illegitimate is this linden tree
which shakes by my door
let us get ready for Hell!
Cursed be messengers
tossing about water's tranquility
and building forest fences
Oh that the wind go quicker than us!
that we may be smothered by light!
This linden tree standing by my door
weights heavy on my days
I will finally marry it
and we shall bring children
condemned to terror
this tree looks at me
with insistence:
It will be kept waiting
until Time's end.
- Etel Adnan
from "The Manifestations of the Voyage" from The Spring Flowers Own & The Manifestations of the Voyage.
To Believe
To Believe11/10/17
I have died a thousand deaths
Still you take away my breath
And Lord I need you by my side
Or I won't make it through the night
You've shown me things I never knew
There's mystery in all you do
And even if the sun don't shine
I'll love you 'till the end of time
You lift me up and lead me on
You gave me hope when it was gone
I saw your smile through my tears
And knew there's nothing left to fear
Some things we aren't meant to see
And some things they won't ever be
As long as it's still you and me
There's still a reason to believe
chorus
And yes, there's still a magic we can share
It's running through our fingers and it's floating in the air
And yes, oh baby yes I still believe
If we try we can find everything we need
The seasons come the seasons go
There's always something new to know
Cause nothing ever stays the same
The weather always wants to change
So feel the sun and watch the storm
And let each day a new love form
A vision of what's meant to be
To hold us for eternity
And yes, there's still a magic we can share
It's running through our fingers and it's floating in the air
And yes, oh baby yes I still believe
If we try we can find everything we need
Once
Once, you opened up our eyesOnce, you said "let there be light"
Once, you walked upon the sea
Once, you rose to set us free
Once, you calmed the storm above
Once, you fed us with your Love
Once, you made the dead to rise
Once, you turned water to wine
For you are the life and
You are the way and
You are the truth that brightens our day
So I'm just gonna watch and wait for Love
Once, you travelled through the land
Once, you healed us with your hand
Once, you taught us to be kind
Once, you changed the course of time
For you are the life and
You are the way and
You are the truth that brightens our day
So I'm just gonna watch and wait
for Love
4 / 20 FOR 25
HIGH ! ! !
I AM
:
HUMBLED
.
I AM
:
RUBY FROM LONG BEACH
.
I AM
:
WITHIN
:
THE
:
MINDSET
:
OF
:
BEAUTIFUL
:
MELODIES
AND
SYMPHONIES
.
PLEASE . . . LOVE MORE
PLEASE
. . .
. . .
. . .
FOLLOW
:
THE
:
GOLDEN
:
BRICK
:
ROAD
. . .
. . .
. . .
MAY
:
I
:
HUMBLY
,
ASK
:
MAY
:
A
:
GRATEFUL DEAD - TYPE BAND { S }
. . .
. . .
. . .
PLEASE ! ! !
PLEASE ! ! !
PLEASE ! ! !
. . .
. . .
. . .
LOVINGLY
,
AND
,
HENCE
,
HUMBLY
:
PROVIDE { THROUGH & WITH GOD . . . ALL THINGS ARE POSSIBLE . . . }
:
A
:
MUSICAL
:
SENSE
:
OF
:
FREEDOM ! ! !
! ! !
! ! !
:
ALL ! ! ! WEEK ! ! !
,
VIA
:
BALBOA PARK
,
san diego
,
CALIFORNIA
,
WITHIN
:
REFERENCE
TOWARDS
:
THE 4 / 20 FOR 25
! ! !
! ! !
! ! !
LAW
! ! !
! ! !
! ! !
? ? ?
? ? ?
? ? ?
Empathy
Who cries for the homeless, hopeless and illFinding scripture dry and prescriptions refill?
Once hooked, they’re praying for pure poppy pills
Because life’s not easy climbing man made hills.
Who sings for those grown lonesome and old
With their dreams denied and denials untold?
Hardened by aging and shoulders turned cold
From the restless young and the recklessly bold.
Who walks with those of color in this land
On a trail of tears facing a pale plan?
Bridges burnt, walls built, and the clueless clutch clans
As hate becomes common for our fellow man.
Who knew the tales we learned when we were young
Of justice for all, doesn’t include the unsung?
Until they have a ladder to climb each rung
Our leaders still speak with a serpent’s tongue.
A Grateful Deadhead
Thanks, Time to emphasize empathy because immigrants aren’t the enemy.
I didn't know this was even here....
....mud on my face, mixed with a tear.
Palest Light
The rains came in the FallThe leaves covered the drive
We stayed inside and waited…
Waited for the warning bell to sound
And the people we knew to assemble
For things that were meant to happen
Waited at Otter Crest Beach
Down the long twisted road
Towards the jagged cliffs and tunnels
Waited in Ketchum, Idaho
Whiskey drunk at the Pioneer Saloon
Drawing her picture on a coaster
Waited, as the New Year passed
On the long snowy road to Jackson
Flakes hitting the window - the music up loud
Waited for the road to open outside Driggs
Sliding down Teton Pass, with the palest light rising
The only sound – tires breaking through new snow
Waited out the heat north of Tucson
Under the slow fans and adobe walls
Through the startling quiet of the nights
Waited by the winding ribbon of the Rio Grande
Past the sandy banks in the steps of boot heels
Under the yellow moon with only the murmur of water
Waited five days on the Saharsa Junction train platform
The sweltering humid Monsoon flooding the tracks
Barely noticing the rats scurrying across our feet
Waited all night in a truck stop diner outside Laredo
Flies batting against the dirty windows and falling
Returning to hurl them-selves at the glass again and again
Waited for fear of the unknown to pass by
Waited through the pain that is my lover
Waited for the whispers in my heart to cease
You Gotta Think
Empathy is not pathologicalAs refugees run north from gangster wrath.
They help support an aging demographical
So immigration is just a logical path.
A backwards kind of Day
The vibe is Trippy, Hippy and deep,But she has promises to keep,
After cake and lots of sleep.
Sweet dreams come to her cheap.
She rises from her gentle bed,
With thoughts of kittens in her head,
She eats her jam with lots of bread.
Ready for the day ahead.
Whose Tapestry is that? I think I know.
Its owner is quite happy though.
Full of joy like a vivid rainbow,
I watch her laugh. I cry hello.
She gives her Tapestry a shake,
And laughs until her belly aches.
The only other sound's the break,
Of distant waves and birds awake.
Before the Show
The little wars between us never pause for longIt’s always August somewhere and forever far behind
The words that cut and scar, and write the saddest lines
I always found your hand as it reached towards mine
Even in the lost days when we barely spoke a word
Following every crooked step, dark angels watching over us
Then September came and Violet was there, and brighter days
Always the steady side-long glance at the unspoken moments
Waves of heat radiating off the pavement in the hot Sacramento sun…
…Hours before the show
Leaving
The same as it’s always beenQuickly, quietly and carefully
We are continually leaving
Never a moment of insignificance
Or ignorance from how small we really are
Just the constant, familiar forward motion
All the truth was never wasted time
Or the beauty in the fading pictures
Even the torn years still worth the ride
All it took was a sly smile on the East bound bridge
The world slowed enough to finally notice
Everything bright, clear and present
The same rain falls in the tall grass
Just before the dunes and salt spray
Those waves bringing us back
Running full speed down the narrow drive
Years went by like whispers in the palms
Our eyes always focused on the road ahead
Change
Change begins with a meaning not a memeas news tie rants that demean and redeem
to trying true untried treacherous schemes
with deflection reflected in muddied streams.
Would a King have need to alter his theme
when the policies policed past extreme
extinguishing light a distant hope gleams
of life not lived just in afternoon dreams?
Though the furor denies folks real esteem
some stay mum to silencing this regime
damning yanks for what eternity seems
to deals lost by pitches of little league teams.
The subpar deceived to ascend supreme
but when they go low, turn on the high beam
highlighting lies until the message screams
then increase heat as the tea party steams.
Women Rule
Sadat with Begin and Gandhi ‘fore KingNations lost foundations to peace building
But harmony isn’t how we or the world sing
And blood’s still gushing like hot water springs.
Bet on wise women for peace to have a chance
Before the puppet does his shadow dance
They addressed advantaged deviants’ advances
Now give them a hand so each life enhances.
Denigrated and denied for far too long
Women aren’t playing good old boy songs
Deeming to undo what the men did wrong
Because man’s fighting unless doing bongs.
Today’s woman will bring this cabal to tears
Sweeping in souring deals ‘til the swamp clears
Fair ladies will help to rebuff four gone years
With a peace from justice and the touch to fear.
Toast
He takes bread with butterLoves to boast and ham
Truth has never been uttered
From the mouth of this man.
He must play the rallies
To hear the cheers and hands
Divides by aid from allies
United is not in the plans.
He hates mother nature
But Fox is his best friend
Now he is endangered
Though RINO’s still defend.
He adores oligarchs
Rushin’ to their demands
Whenever Putin barks
Puts his head in the sand.
He deserves bread and water
Desserts for the conman
Turns out he’s a squatter
Hides rubles in foreign land.
No more bread with butter
No more kin and klan
No more will we shudder
Get rid of the money man!
Feel For The Refugee (continued)
Empathy is not pathologicalAs refugees run from the gangster’s wrath
They support an aging demographical
So immigration is a logical path.
There’s a cost to Costa Rica
When hunger hounds El Salvador
Where’s the salvation for Guatemala
In the clamor for our vice amor.
We once beckoned with a beacon
Now we behave so insecure
When we grow older and weaken
We will have wished more help were here.
Our history has an oft whited bend
As the land turns a little more brown
Once natives were bled and branded red men
But that’s past dark for those northern bound.
A New, Clear, Holy Cause?
Pompeo erupted when told to hit the road. Korea will be m*a*s*h*d if Trump unlocks and unloads.
Making Love
Not a poem, but beautiful nonetheless:
In the seventies, you and I called it "having sex" or just "doing it," and we did it wherever and whenever we could: in the shower, on an air mattress in a tent, in saggy beds in cheap motels.
Somewhere in the eighties it became making love. Our honeymoon lovemaking was the best ever: in a real bed with no one to interrupt us. We were going to do this forever. In the nineties we did it on a schedule: calendars and thermometers and keeping track. After the babies, making love meant keeping promises. It was as routine as you putting on the suit and tie and shaving every morning, and me doing laundry and having dinner on the table every night.
The babies grew up and left home.
After 2005 making love was you saying I was beautiful even though I was vomiting and bald, and my skin was gray.
In 2008 it was your turn. Sex was out of the question. Making love was me changing dressings and cleaning the drainage tubes as gently as I could.
By 2012 making love was just this:
lying beside you, our hands touching knuckle to knuckle;
smiling and crying; letting the morphine do its job;
saying good-bye.
- T.M.
Slo Lettuce - Bangin' Away
Hey Man, kiss off. First thing in the morning, not even a cup of coffee in me and now you got me crying like a baby. I don't need this.
Thanks, that was really nice. Very true. This September will mark 40 years with my wife. Talk about a long strange trip :-)
Dear Dennis
Made me cry like a baby too. Beautifully written life experience.
And Congratulations on your 40 yrs with your loved one! That's no small feat.
Take care
Joe
Thanks for that. Really hit…
Thanks for that. Really hit home with a lot of stuff I've been going through. Now pass the Kleenex box please.
From touch to touch
Each moment individual separate, never touching.
A space, a breath, three sneezes, and a bless you.
Pristinely rough, the challenge is that
Nothing ever happens.
Free and clear, nothing touches you,
Nothings touching me.
In golden light fading, we watch
Our faces becoming drawn,
Revealing parents and lizards and tigers inside.
The heart is like cement.
Oh so easy to get harder and harder,
Until the only solution is to
Take a sledgehammer to it,
And smithereen it back into tenderness.
Ive missed being here, its good being back,
Although being forced back into the
Digi world was unwelcome, here I is back in it.
Lots of love, be strong and upright for the people
Around you to be supported by.
Andy
thank
thank for that :)
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