The lilt of your sea
Is a mystery to me,
The form of your lips
A vast calligraphy.

The shape and stem
Of your new world,
Impregnated with maudlin and marrow,
And how it curled, instead of set.

You are remarkably
Cloud-hidden,
Less an end to everything,
More a furtive wellspring.

O sweet custodian of paradise,
Please measure out your turn of phrase
In the language of light,
As we enter into the uncreated night.

What if it’s all a big joke
cracked mirrors and
swirling smoke,
how could we defend
our riches against the
poverty that’s undeniably
within us?

A case of six of one and
half a dozen of the
Russians,
oh
did I say Russians?
I meant of course,
others.

Not one to be swayed by the news
I listen all the same and form my
own views
which broadly speaking are
inevitably biased
and that’s
programming from the day we were born
there is no chance to escape from what becomes
the norm
all we can do
is laugh
and if you laugh too much
they send you off on a retreat
to somewhere like Stalingrad,
oh,
did I say Stalingrad?
I meant of course
Hastings.

When I repost
an old poem
I feel like a con.
It easily trends
like when it begun.
Same poets read
Similar comments repeat
causing my creative force
to feel incomplete.
Lazily I write
uneasy I flow
I lost my only muse
and now my mojo!

I got things all wrong, I do confess. Propaganda lies until there no truth left.
Blame it on the imperialistic west. Fall in line you’ll pass their test.

Spirit creatures, fiery hells, even my own parents were blinded as well!
Manufacturing consent for foreign wars, our media led us straight to evil’s door.

Think God now I can clearly see,
hate and separation are a deadly disease!