In a world with
pain sorrow suffering
grief corruption mourning
angst yearning loving fighting,
where are the poets who bring us
joy through their delightful writings?

Why do we go back to our saddest moments
when we need comfort
Maybe to bathe in tears...
a baptism
of rage
to blow the sides out of sorrow
to come to terms
with helplessness?

To get someone
to hear
maybe to listen
to loss?

The night is ink
It moves around me
with it's broken heart

I am resting in Isness
reposing in God
we all are
even if one can’t tell it
who is I am?
if I am here in it?
you see, who ain’t really a who
here is the real
of what all that there is
I am you and simply, you are all
which has to include this me
though when I say me
it makes me no sense at all
there is a sense of knowing
and then one of showing
the true you that's actually here

this body rests
I am no more
each night sleep is death
you can let it be if you wish
for eternities in peace
what if I told you it’s all right here?
just under the surface
of the film stars and stardust
covering all in a drowsy haze of delusion
just here beneath your untrained scents
All the while
while you dreamt and slept
and thought you knew who you were
but how could just a thought
know a real thing at all?

is that an insult?
to a no thing
just a thought
to see you that way
let it go, my little kiddies
free your own Self
from all this you made
you can’t know the half
of what’s stored in the warehouse
more loot than you ever
could imagine to hold
In a mega super W store

call it all what you will
think that matters one bit?
your “belief” and okay?
you don’t even exist
your faith or not
is held within me
I can swallow you whole
or go light up your screen
the ultimate decision
only choice ever was
that’s yours and yours only
you’ll burn up in flames
one way or the next
all no things burn up
into nothing but vapor
just like it’s always been told
don’t imagine what it means
imagine’s vapor too
only sit in this silence
rest all of your thinking
and let Truth pay a visit to you

“On Wednesday afternoon, Lynn Ungar — minister, dog trainer, little-known poet — sat down at the desk next to her kitchen table and began to type. A friend had posted something on Facebook about how much we need poetry in this anxious coronavirus age and she thought, “Yeah, you’re right.””

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“Pandemic" by Lynn Ungar

What if you thought of it
as the Jews consider the Sabbath—
the most sacred of times?
Cease from travel.
Cease from buying and selling.
Give up, just for now,
on trying to make the world
different than it is.
Sing. Pray. Touch only those
to whom you commit your life.
Center down.

And when your body has become still,
reach out with your heart.
Know that we are connected
in ways that are terrifying and beautiful.
(You could hardly deny it now.)
Know that our lives
are in one another’s hands.
(Surely, that has come clear.)
Do not reach out your hands.
Reach out your heart.
Reach out your words.
Reach out all the tendrils
of compassion that move, invisibly,
where we cannot touch.

Promise this world your love--
for better or for worse,
in sickness and in health,
so long as we all shall live.

When the streaks of dawn enter the crevices of the windows
The eyes refuse for the emptiness to subside in
Although the sweet chirruping and rustling of the Neem's lave leaves
persevere to pose positivity yet
The loneliness, the vacuum subsides in

I chatter, sing songs of Hope and homecoming of warriors
Beating the wrinkled skins of old drums
Yet my heart rings no louder
My conscience seems shaken

When the sun sets in
Sets the Oblivion for 'they' return
With wide smiles and affectionate hugs
Howling joyously as they bid goodbyes

In the sunshine , solidarity Sparks everywhere now
As 'they' leave to be able to feed their malicious stomach
The bell chimes from the nearby temple
The pacing footsteps outside fail to rekindle

Loneliness subside in...