Home of the brave who are too soon forgotten
dressed in flags of false songs of freedom
to hide the past acts of human treason
built on soil stolen that is drenched in blood
of hands taken far away from their motherland
pride standing on top of purple mountains
full of lies and fools gold

no truth found in the bleeding gums
of the greed of politicians owned by corporations
humanity takes a backseat
to the trust we put in gods of cash and coin

children held hostage to the skies
of thunder raining down bullets of assault
from guns in the hands of lunatics
allowed easy access to the weapons of their deaths

and the puppet of a president
has a hand so far up his ass
his ego can’t distinguish the difference
between the very basics of right and wrong
and it’s all just for show
the crocodile tears paid for by the puppeteer

how much longer can we watch this horror show
how much longer before we stand up and overthrow
another day will be a day too late
and yesterday is already gone

if not now then when?
if not now all we will be able to do
is dance in the regret
of what could have been
She had permanent grass stains on her shoulder blades
and the skin on her back always carried
the scent and salt of the earth
her hair danced like green fields in the wind
and had the subtle fragrance of lilacs
and though her flesh was tied to her bones
and her feet walked the ground beneath them
her heart was not bound by these same rules of gravity
and was often found swimming
in the space between the stars
and her eyes where painted with scenes
of the sky held up by oceans
and oceans held down by the sky

he could see himself in these reflections
broken and incomplete
and that somewhere in his life death would be there
and this would still not change in the end
and that no life lived is every complete
and last breaths are just interruptions
of what is that turn into what will be

he knew she had mysteries to be
and mysteries to discover
and questions to ask without speaking
and answers that couldn’t be put into words
she was perfectly herself inside
and outside of her human frailties
and she held a comfort
that could only be found
in being comfortable with your flaws

somewhere in the sound
of the syllables of her name
was a love open and free
that needed no redemption
gave no judgement
held no sin or shame
only the willing connection
to those seeking to find something more
than just the infinite stars
splattered across the endless universe
the something of wisdom hidden
in the heartbeat of not knowing
what is still to be found
and finding what can never be found
by anything other than the truth
of giving love freely
to the greatest fears of the unknown
She drew out his desires
with the shape of her smile
and the colors of love
that she wore on her lips
and her voice was soft and sultry
and her dark sweet eyes
hypnotized and seduced his flesh in places
that made him blush
and he wanted to know the secrets
she kept between the letters of her name
as each syllable felt like a prayer
as they left his mouth
and he whisperd them again and again
until they became a mantra
to the goddess she was
beneath the curves of her skin
and he offered his heart
to sacrifice for her pleasures
and his life was hers to drain
and release and spill out
as he laid next to her
and lost in her
where he wanted to stay
and never be found
how do I write about the beauty of the world
when barefoot people pass before my window
in search of shelter

how do I share my pleasure of the birds' sweet song at dawn
when I see faces etched with panic
from the deafening blast of bombs

how to rejoice in love and friendship
when meeting people who could barely save their lives
after burying their loved ones

how can I write with passion of the kindness of the human heart
when I see thousands fleeing from the ruins of their homes
only to face police   walls   barbed wire

true words are hard to find
as said a poet of an older war

    when it is a lie to speak
    a lie to keep silent

not easy
The poet from which my last two lines come: John Balaban, Vietnam veteran:
“A poet had better keep his mouth shut,” he writes in “Saying Good-by to Mr. and Mrs. My, Saigon, 1972”:
unless he’s found words to comfort and teach.
Today, comfort and teaching themselves deceive
and it takes cruelty to make any friends
when it is a lie to speak, a lie to keep silent.
A silent conversation where everything is felt and known
in the soft quite space between our eyes
and nothing but slow rhythmic breath passes from our lips
and we don't have to force a smile
and just enjoy the silence wrapped around us
and the noise of nothing tying us together
in a locked gaze free to be ourselves
without the judgment of sound
and happy enough with being bored of being
and still brave enough to poke around
and dare to be a little more than just be
and finding a connection in knowing
together we are still alone
but there is no need of feeling lonely
because all we ever wanted was someone
that understands they don't have to understand
every little thing that isn't said
because there is often a deeper story in the pauses
between each sound and syllable
and each sigh and moan
and sometimes it is better to just lay there
in the comfort found outside the reach of our skin
and listen to the meaning of why
our hearts are beating beneath our bones
in the silent conversation
where everything is felt and known
Why do we imagine beyond
the realms of possibilities
why do we dream of places unseen
why do we dare the stars to fall
so we may make wishes from their death

and yet do so little with our lifes

Why do we fear the things
of our hearts true desires
of love so beautifully blinding
of life so freely lived
that we make small wishes on the death
of stars falling from the sky

What is this life we live of work and toil
to wear away our years and flesh
to fade away in silent desolation
and grind our bones to dust and sand
and be less than memory of dying winds
wishing on stars that die
so they may come down from the sky

do we do too little or think too much
what significance are we
to the sun the moon the stars
when we believe ourselves confined
to the body of our flesh
and lock ourselves within our minds

that only in the breath of the hour
of our dreams that we can be more than
queens and kings of human misery
and take the shape of any bird
and fly beyond the realm of skies

and what is it to dream of places unseen
from what mind or eye did we dare
to steal away memories that were not ours
and from what imagination did we find
realms beyond the possible

were we nothing more
in what may have come before
lonely stars hanging quietly in the sky
waiting to be dreamt as something more
made out of flesh and bone
and be a home for a heart
that knew the truth
of living out loves true desires

imagine what could be
if we believed in the breath
of the hour of our dreams
and we lived a life
so beautifully blinding
that love was free to live
in its hearts true desire
Angels of death and sorrow
Hold open the doors
At elementary dead
Where children become martyrs
For the pride of men
Who cannot let go
Of their precious right
To arm themselves
To kill with speed and efficiency
And pockets lined with greed
Are more important
Than your hearts right to beat

Please lay down in your coffin
If you must, you can scream
Don’t worry it will only hurt
Until you are dead
We will wash off all your blood
and dress you in your Sunday best
Then bury you under earth
and false promise
With your dreams
Stolen we know too soon
Tell lies in guise of prayers
And then forget your name
So we don’t feel guilt or shame
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