I'm not a poet
Don't speak the language

Death follows (a lantern-lit, moss-draped carriage)
Offers me a ride (so kind)
But it's not my time (for—for;
give me,
get me)

I'm not a tortured soul
Just trying to be understood

Please? Won't someone save me?
(Where—
oh
where—
am... I?)

I'm just writing on this journey to the end

That’s a reminder,
Of who I used to be.
Scars on my body,
Tell me to save my words.

“You’re too young and brash.”

It’s that big mouth of mine,
That gets me hurt.
I don’t think people,
Can take the truth today.

“You’re a bad man, you can’t save yourself.”

I chose silence,
In spite of the aggressor inside of me.
There’s nothing peaceful,
About the pacification of a fighter.

Long ago not so far away
Monarch butterflies accompanying you on walks
Squirrels twirling their tails
So others know that someone came to feed them again
The aroma of the nuts called to them
Placing a lei on The Pearl Harbor memorial
The quiet was deafening
Dual rainbows over Pearl Harbor bidding us farewell
The weathered and damaged plaques remembering Amelia Earhart
Hoping it will be repaired as she deserves to be remembered
All that and so much more leaves an impact
Sometimes forgotten but remembered in dreams
Henry David remember when I touched your desk near Walden Pond
Dreams

these words sit on a page- there's a crush between
a paper and pen. ah, how smitten are they both, as emotions
feel deep as a well; metaphors and meaning start to swell -
here the poem sits, it sits as a work or art, pieces of the
human heart

may it's message shine as the echoes
of common ground, buried in truth, though a hint
of exaggerated lies, brings it up to rise to the reader's eyes.
             perhaps poetry is a whispered truth

an essence of each passing day, these are stories pinned
onto the page - here I am, but here I am searching for
the words to say.

Right on 490,
The raised turn to 490 east.
There’s a hill,
And on that hill sits a lone,
Lazy Boy recliner.
Two folding chairs,
A table,
Two men,
And one sign.
“F Trump”

Boys will be boys,
Guess that’s it.

A pop poet sold four hundred books by pre-order,
banal and useless illusions.
But if you want to make money,
perhaps it’s not so bad to become ******,
and write only overused phrases.