I just want to let her sleep.
Let her rest
so she can reemerge a warrior against
the gilded masochism
and misogyny
of the office.
so her perfect vessel combats the encroaching infection
and she can breathe deep and strong
and snort in the lifeblood
of the dawn.
so she can see despite our return to dust
there is yet so much
and she must live in ecstasy
of the moment.
so she can reap the reward of a long deserved slumber
and lose the swollen circles and pains of defeat
and shake the anxieties
of her heart.
Let her rest
so she can come alive.
Let her rest
so she can come back.
Just,
let her sleep.
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 10:18 PM UTC
Walking the glade tonight nature first appears right
yet it is not, when mounds of grass convert to browns
too soon, and down by the stream massed butterflies
seem silently caught in fertilized grey shrouds, clouds
of pollution say they breed no more, too weak to flutter. .
War like this against earth's vale of favour brings claims
of sheer neglect which sees no further than dying bees
and will not question why, from earth, they get no reply.
A few years hence no wishing will recompense for this
for from foolhardiness gross greed created a fatal mess.
Seeing tonight this suffering glade makes me so afraid.
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 10:20 AM UTC
Don’t eat chicken noodle soup from a saucepan leaned back in a recliner
because your neighbor could hit his wife in the back of the head
with a cue ball and the cops might siren down your street
causing you to flinch and spill hot broth on your
chest; I have a bone to pick with the coward.
Sep 26, 2016
Sep 26, 2016 at 4:42 PM UTC
1
A seed grows in my Heart.
(no more than a summer melon’s)
Black, brilliant, roots
crack veneer shell and sprout
propagate
deep into the marrow of my very life.
Tender flesh juicing red,
Replace my sinew!
Take what once fueled the industry of vanity,
the fell machinery of your demise,
the coffee life,
the algorithmania,
the I deserve,
the trite Insta-filter,
the like and friend and tag and share
And cast it aside!—as you once were!—
And make me the vessel of your deliverance
And teach me again
to see you
to breathe you
to feel you
to love you
So that I may redeem some future, some place
where my son can pull the blade from his stone before it is sent to quarry.
2
How I long for you!
For air!
For sun!
For solitude!
For green!
For radiance!
For decay!
For life!
For rot!
For fungus!
For bark!
For sap!
For dirt!
For some well-wish,
some clue,
that we haven’t dug too hastily
with spite and ego and industry and greed.
3
Henry! Let me in your house!
Show me to fish and to bake your bread!
Walt! Chant for me!
Sow me a path with your electric melody!
(you understand my dilemma, boy of the city and soul of the Earth)
Allen! I cry to you!
Put your sunflower in my eyes
And wipe away my tears through dusty gray.
Arthur,
It may never once was, yet let the future be.
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 12:28 PM UTC
I find
waking
at 2am
provides
a convenient window
for two or three hours
of pondering
on my myriad shortcomings
as a husband,
father,
teacher,
writer,
musician
and human being
Conveniently uninterrupted
by the slightest opportunity
to do anything
about any of them.
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 4:52 PM UTC
Poets Like Me..
Suspended at portals of rigid
and well-defined
thought reclines most whimsy,
which poets like me
welcome and use to un-stick
rusted up vision.
Freeing the mind we care not
where reality ends.
Wonder notices even the tiny
and gasps at gross,
the newly dry gossamer wing
seen as fillagreed
diamonds with eyesight, night
versed with ghostly
metaphor, the tides as emotion.
Humanized nature
allures the inventive in scribes
bent on perception
where real meets make-believe.
Awe, understood
as a lever appeals to romantics
like me addicted
to all ethereal's seducing fancy.
Idealized love
presents realms of impassioned
expression, themes,
versing spirit personified holds
complusion, creative
vision awakens to other worlds
where, finally winning
utopia becomes no mere illusion.
What feels real merges
and mixes with linguistic flights
of beguiling imagery.
Life through the eyes of all poets
like me changes
at will from the galling mundane
to that which excites
inspiration for evocative writing.
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 3:27 PM UTC