The world is sick—repeats consume,
Each generation meets its doom.
A plague of lies spreads night and day,
And leaves us slaves who must obey.

Falsehood echoes, loud and clear—
The schemers work to sow the fear,
Erasing truth with every breath,
And binding minds till spirit’s death.

Truth is Spirit—hold it tight,
Through storms of soul, through darkest night.
If mere survival is your goal,
The Dark will surely steal your soul.

It doesn't all work out right in the end
Just the good day bad day blues
Try to write some poetry
Best to avoid the news

1 prayer for Chicago
Got my walkin' shoes
Thank you, Father Greeley
God bless your clues

                        Ole!

To drag a bag of bones once more,
Right to Hell’s ever-open door.
A final "Farewell"—cold, resigned,
For souls enslaved, now work assigned!

Their minds will turn to dust in vain,
The fools will toil, yet reap no gain.
To reach the skies—an easy feat,
For free? And fight the dark? Deceit!

Who'd praise such work? Who'd pay the price?
Who'd toss a fortune—treat it nice?
A slave walks down to Hell's embrace—
There's cash to earn. He’ll find his place...

In the vastness of my space
I write messages in the bathroom mirror
I adress them to myself
Hoping the next day
There will be something
To comfort me
in the warm mist,in the breath
but the next day there is no message for me
like my finger never touched the mirror
I strech my mind
in my houses square metres
living room,kitchen,bedroom
searching the least lonely one
I sit at the couch
thinking of people who could sit there
but the hot tea in my mug
Cant warm  my heart
as it exits my eyes transformed in tears

I wore my heart like heavy armor,
Fighting shadows, none of them true.
Quixotic in my relentless fervor,
A soldier lost in skies of blue.

Life is a series of tiring verbs
as I wade through the
ashes of orchids.
I'm a vagabond with
a ragged soul
coming for you *******
a lonesome road.
I float aimless,
like an acorn in
a mountain stream.
The death of dreams smells
like autumn leaves,
lonely as driftwood.

Home is not going to be
a white door at the
end of a sidewalk.
It's bigger and broader,
and can't fit behind a
fence and walls.
It will always be the
sum of my
memories and longings.

Home is walking the streets,
hand in hand,
with our son on my shoulders.
Home is lying in
the grass with your
fingers in my beard, and hope
oozing from your blue eyes.
It's eating sushi and laughing at
our accidental touch of hands,
reaching together for
the last California roll;
avocado safe at
a sun-dappled table.

I'm drifting lost on
a southern wind.
When I'm with you again,
wherever that is,
I'll be home.

All the hard things I found out
Things fall apart
Save me from my weakest self
Save me, sacred art

Ordinary dailiness
Phone calls to my sons
Ordinary dailiness
Un pequito fun

           Please give up your guns.

Life is hard, is suffering
Try to make it through
My Irish eyes are green
But I'm Carolina blue

               Are you?