every individual must destroy
before he can become himself

“it was the first fissure in the columns that had
  upheld my childhood, which every individual
  must destroy before he can become
  himself…  such fissures and rents grow
  together again, heal, and are forgotten, but in
  the most secret recess they continue to live
  and bleed.”

Found all over the world,
And spreading the deadly views
Of hate-mongering preachers
From whom they get their cues,

Unchristianly Christians
Peddle their thou-shalt-nots
And never question the dogma
That slyly poisons their thoughts.

“It has to be right for you,
Since it's right for me.”
That’s what most of them think
Who judge to the nth degree.

If your beliefs are different
Or vary from theirs, forget
Heartfelt understanding;
You're too much of a threat.

Other religions, too,
Are certainly not exempt
From dangerous fanatics
Whose actions draw contempt.

Twisting the sacred scriptures
To suit their misinformed needs,
They act without perceiving
The shallowness of their deeds.

People are ostracized
And even lose their lives
When shameful ideology
Or noxious ignorance thrives.

And hypocrites abound.
We often hear of them--
The ones who criticize others,
Then do what they condemn.

How sad it is when people’s
Actions demonstrate
How little they love to love
But how they love to hate!

(10-19-17) By Bob B

During Trump's campaign we saw
How very low the man could stoop
When it came to insulting any
Individual person or group.

The Gold Star family Khan, for example,
Received a heap of Trumpian abuse
As Trump blasted the family with
Insults, childish but profuse.

But even when Trump makes an attempt
To say the right thing, he still bumbles.
His team can pass him the ball, but then
The clueless president still fumbles.

He can have General Kelly
Speak in his defense, but then
On the next opportunity,
He'll stick his foot in his mouth again.

From someone in Trump's position we
Expect much more finesse, but alas!
In the meantime all we can do
Is say to ourselves, "This, too, will pass."

(10-20-17) By Bob B

Washing of mind is necessary after each quarrel
For its smooth function

I don't have to fall asleep with the TV on anymore.
The sullen silence waiting in the click of a light switch
Doesn't intimidate my eyelids anymore.
I don't stare at the glow in the dark stars
Placed on my ceiling long before I was ever an occupant.
Their soft green glow isn't necessary to still my uncertainties.
When I close my eyes,
I smile when the still-frame of your face arrives
I can wiggle my toes and cling to my blankets a little tighter
Wishing, longing it was you in my arms.

No more holding back my love for you
With the dam of Bee Arthur's and Betty White's voices.
No more counting the number of breaths until I fall asleep.
No more,
Because somewhere outside my cheap mini-blinds,
Under the same moon and stars
There you are, living a life where you love me, too.

You were always better at love poems
Which is truly a tragedy
Because now who will write you the eloquence you deserve?
There is something terribly fitting, and yet sad,
That when I think of how to write for you,
"Your Song" immediately comes to mind.
However, unfortunate for you, it's also true.
If I had anything better to express these wavelengths vibrating in my chest,
I would do it, to show you the depth, volume, mass of my affection
For the way you hair only knows how to grow up,
For your hobbit-like, animated toes,
For hands so perfect, Michelangelo couldn't have done it better,
For the ever-shifting newness of your irises;
But as previously lamented,
I have nothing but words.

Even more unfortunate for you, love
I was always more of a math brain.
Ah! If only there was a formula,
One where x equals the buzzing in my knee caps when you're standing close enough to touch,
And y equals the deepest secret that cummings tried to explain,
Where there's a tree and a sky and bud.
Something I could quantify,
Like how your star sign and mine dance around the earth with one another.
How it all means nothing by itself, just some shots in the dark
But because of love, some of those shots meet their target.

One day I'll write you a love poem,
A real one.

There are secrets buried in the freckles on your elbow.
Stories, memories, dreams
All interwoven with epithelial cells and sunlight.

When I first realized I loved you
I found myself captivated by essence of star you carried in your skin
Like Sirius, embodied.
But now that my eyes have adjusted to your brilliance,
I instead ponder the depths of the tales each freckle could tell.
You are endless, intricate, effervescent man, you
Are your own night sky of constellations.

Tell me a story?

He told me he loved me once
I still do.