a good bullet never saw a good war
a good bullet never felt the hammer strike
a good bullet never heard the thunder
  never felt the heat of the explosion
    that sent it like lightning
      flying from the chamber of a gun
       the barrel of a riffle

a good bullet never tore a hole through flesh
a good bullet never shattered bone
a good bullet never bite into a heart
  and held it in its teeth
   until it stopped beating

a good bullet was never made
  
  was never made

was never made to steal a child’s smile away

not your sons
not your daughters
not at any age

a good bullet was never made

  a good bullet was never made

a good bullet was never made
to turn a playground into a graveyard
where a mothers eyes drained
of all their colors but grey
fill with storm clouds
that endless pour down
tears of grief over the dug open earth

a good bullet was never made
to turn a school into a war zone
where a fathers chest is emptied
of everything but the pains of loss
for his daughters smile
that he will only see
in photographs of memories
and haunted dreams

a good bullet was never made
to turn a traffic stop into an obituary
where blind hate and fear
flows from heart to hand
to trigger and hammer and...

****** will somehow
not be considered ******
when the hand of the killer
wears a badge
and the training manual
says shoot to ****
as it is more cost effective
and the deceased
will become just another name
to be lined up behind a hashtag
and a slogan...

a good bullet was never made

   was never made

to feel the hammer strike
to leave the chamber off a gun
to steal a life away

A good bullet was never...

I want to give you the alphabet
and every syllable and punctuation and exclamation mark
I want to build you a stage out of the bones
dying to get out from under my skin
and watch you make the world a better place
a softer and safer place
I’ve seen you do it before
and I know I will watch you do it again

there is nothing more beautifully alive
than when you are up there on the stage
a slight tremor in your voice
as your hand trembles
holding that piece of paper in your hand
and with all the fury of nature you exhale

your heart comes flying out
and fills the room with such a gentle warmth
that it feels like a Christmas snow is falling outside
and the fire place is crackling and popping
and snapping inside all of us
and the hot cocoa is just about cooled off enough to drink
and we drink it all in

every painful truth you paint from your inside
every broken bone of your past
all the heartache in the ghost of the tears that haunt your cheeks
the madness in your sanity of pushing
and shaping your dreams into a better future
where everyone is loved for who they are
no matter who they are
and everyone can love who they love
no matter who they love
and kindness is the only rule anyone follows
and for every one person that has a hungry mouth
their are two people not just willing but eager
to cook a meal for the belly at the bottom of that mouth
and no one is homeless
because everyones heart has opened up
into something much bigger than a fist
and there is no stranger too strange
that we cannot invite them into our homes
and help them find their feet
and give them a pillow and place to lay their head
and all the cogs in the machines of war and industry
have been melted down
and minted into pennies for the wishing well
and everyone gets a turn to wish
and every wish comes true

now everyone
everyone do me a favor
put your hand over your chest
do you feel that?
That electricity
that booming thunder
that thing keeping you alive

that heart

that heart is you
and in that heart is the universe
with the power of every star shining at night  
and the heat of every burning sun throughout the day
and the song of every named and unnamed moon
do you feel it
do you feel how we are all connected
how we all need each other

how that heart
how that universe is part of us all

how we all belong
we all belong to the here and now

How do we decapitate a headless monster
how do we **** something that does not have a heart
a cold mist of illusion and deceit
a bodiless creature made out of the poison of fear and lies

a lesson handed down from generation to generation
  written inside their blood
and scribbled blindly on the walls
  that keep their minds caged
    inside an ignorant state of being

a ghost of terrible influence and horrible power
a being that maybe near as old as time
infesting the body of believes of an unknowing youth
a mountain of evil worn like a suit of armor
  over their misguided pride
     their arrogant smirks

a finger over the trigger of a gun...

a fast and repeating explosion...

a room filling with smoke and blood...

lungs giving their last breath
hearts taking their last beat
screams echoing deep into the future

and quietly the monster slips away
untouched with no remorse
thinking itself a hero

this monster without a head
  this thing that has no heart
    this misguided pride
     this mountain of evil

how...
tell me how...
how do we defeat

this thing called hate

She was there last night
the girl you write about
the one you read of
I saw her again
I heard her voice

she was on stage
pulling her ribs open
exposing her heart

it was a blazing star
full of warm soft fire
burning with passion
and vulnerability

her eyes glistening jewels
carved out of moonlight
full of both mystery and wonder

her smile...

her smile
I wish I could describe it
without sounding like a teenage boy
falling in love for the first time
because my teenage years
were a long time ago
and I was never that kind of brave...
not then...
not now either...

I don’t know if when we die
if heaven will be there
if we will meet a god or gods
but to see her smile
is to catch a  glimpse of eternity
to feel the safety
of what heaven is dreamt to be

and that is only a small piece
of her beauty
the larger part
the fullness of her beauty
isn’t all the pretty
that can be seen with our eyes

no... the fullness of her beauty

is how she crafts
the time and space of the room
how she walks through
the infinite mysteries of life
leaving questions hanging in the air
like ripe fruit ready to be harvested
to nourish the mind
encourage the spirit

the fullness of her beauty
is felt in the tremble of her voice
the quake of sound
she lets loose into the air
the rumbling war drum beat
thundering from her open chest

it is the song of her heart
reaching out to the lost
to let them know
they are not alone

it is the soft warmth
you feel when she takes the stage
it is the seed of hope
she weaves into her words
it is the fire  
that dances in her poetry

the fullness of her beauty
is the beauty
of all the things
we can only feel with our hearts
only hold in our breath
the things that can touch us
that we can not touch
back with our fingertips
it is the beauty
of all the things vulnerable

While the mother crow cries
over the dead bodies
of her children
the doves fly away
as if the murdering of crows
is not any kind of crime

as the doves
see evil
hear evil
protect evil

The crows heart
a constant target
of the doves violence

Who's next?
Whose name is destined for hashtags and ******
how many lives
will it take
before the hate
and fear
in the doves heart
bleeds out

The deadline of
the life of a crow
is drawn by the jeweled crown
of loathing the dove wears
on its head
and the fear inside
the loaded gun
of the doves eye
and the hate beating
wildly beneath its wings
and blindly in its heart

Hope is a heavy burden
under the pounding
blood red sky

Where the doves
practice ******
more often than
they protect the peace

As the oath has changed
to protect and serve
their own kind

and lady justice
has been blinded
by a white wash
of white lies

And the murdering of crows
goes on...
and on...
and on...

While the living
can wait their turn
to be murdered
and crucified
and martyred
on the next hashtag

while serving their time
from inside the freedom
they have behind the bars
of the cage of poverty
and there is always
more room for another
and another
and another
inside the skin
of the prison cell life
they were born in

The crow is suspected guilty
until pronounced dead

and its innocence
is nothing the doves
cannot beat out of it
even after it is already dead

as the color
of the doves guilt
is judged to be
more pure than
a corpse with
a crows dead heart
no matter the weight
of its innocence

and the murdering of crows
goes on...

and on...

and on...

While the feathers
of the doves wing
spread out sharp like knives
with a seemingly
bottomless hunger
for the heart of the crows

and we lower the body
of another martyr
into the earth
how much longer
will we allow
the murders of crows
to walk free
as if the murdering of crows
is not a crime

the doves can bury
the body of a crow
after crow
(one after another and another)
but never their songs
never their names
never their hearts
and the dead will speak
for the living
as long as the living
never forget the dead

one day the crows
  are going to rise up
over the black asphalt
  city skyline

singing into the
  blood red sky
   hearts crowned
    with fire and hope

flying high and free
   flying over
     the mountain tops

singing of the
   promised land

singing for the dead
   but not forgotten

singing words
  of flame
    and poetry

singing for
   freedom
     and unity

carrying the weight of hope
and hope is a heavy burden
we all must carry into tomorrow
and tomorrow
or tomorrow will never
be better than today
we must always lift our dreams
with love and hope
and one day may we find
our way over the mountain top
and into the land of promise
where birds of every feather
are free to fly in a sky
without violence
and fear
and hate
where tomorrow is a river
flowing into a better today

The art of war is a canvas painted
with the blood of our children’s lives
it is paint dyed with the colors
stolen from their dreams and futures
that will never blossom or bloom

it is the chiseled marble
forced from the flesh
stripped from their bones

it is the shaped clay
from the hole in the earth
where their bodies will decay

it is the blind writing eulogies in Braille
for all the mothers who will never again
set their eyes on the sunshine
of their sons smile

it is the deaf writing songs
for fathers who will never again
hear the sweet sound
of their daughters laughter

it is the end of the road
for all those who are lost
waiting for the loved ones
who will never make it back home

there is no beauty here
death does not sing of glory
death does not smile
for the fresh and never ending harvest
from the art of war

death...
my heart breaks for you
what a terrible burden
we place in your hands

and for what?

pride?

faith?

country?

who is killing who
is killing who is killing

who made the enemy the enemy
of my brother
and my brother the enemy
of my brother
and my brother the enemy

in what womb was the cord cut
that once connected us all
in what field did hate start the fire
that turned the world
into “us” and “them”

from what heart did the cold blood
first flow into the finger
that squeezed the trigger
that drew first blood

whose life was lost
to the first brush stroke
of the art of war

I saw her
the girl you talked about
I heard her voice
with the slight tremble
and a rumbling hope

she still had spitfire in her words
and starlight in her eyes
she wasn’t lost
not really

she may have had more questions
than answers in her head
but give her time

sometimes the questions
don’t need to find answers right away
or maybe even ever

sometimes they just need to be asked
they need to bloom and find wings
and wander and float off into the sky
sometimes its more about the wondering
the exploring of both
the inside and outside world

questions of the mind
mending doubts of the heart
a burning in the soul
to be cooled by a passing wind
a kind smile
a gentle hand
to hold in the darkness
so it knows it is not alone

it is often the silent conversations
that offer the most light
when the words that need
to be heard
do not need to be spoken
as they are already
being sung by the stars above
and we already know
the song by heart

love is an art that can be shared
between two strangers
that never touch each other
but still hold each other’s hearts

maybe for only a slight moment
maybe an entire life

two voices shouting
into the void of despair
declaring I will not go quietly
I will not live silently
I will live and fight
for something worth living for
something that will make death weep
when it whispers my name

I may lose my way
I may feel hopeless
and defeated
from time to time

but I will not give in
I will not give up
I will make my fist into a grenade
I will make my heart
into something larger than a fist
and I will live my life
by finding
and practicing the art of love

and that girl
the one you talked about
her voice with the slight tremble
and a rumbling hope
she is closer than you think
when you find her again
when you see her again
tell her thanks

sometimes
sometimes I forget
that I’m not alone
and even the slightest of moments
can last a lifetime