Strolling, the clouds
Are rolling, they abound
And surely they've found
A purely new sound

But towns have found that clouds come down
In rain, to panes
Their windows are loud

With respect, they see
That without them, they'd be
Lost in the toss
Of a barren dirt sea

Lying there
Nose at the bottom
Of the door
Sleeping
I wonder what he smells
The grass
Or the bush that was just trimmed
Or the neighbor's Jack Russell
After all, they are good friends
Dog park stories and
Funny expressions
Times when his tennis ball
Was the only thing in the world
His goal to catch it
Bring it back
He would do that for a week straight
If he could
Maybe he's sad that I had to trim his fur
Because now his tail
Just isn't as fluffy
Being a golden retriever
Is tough

I held her hair for her, and
Found poetry in the back of
Her head where more
Careful lovers
Have eyes.

I cursed the alcohol making
Her cheeks and heart wet with
Painful thoughts without
Root in reality,
But none of

My prayers could turn the
Wine to water, as grapes
Became teardrops in
Her blood.
So I carried

Her to my bed. On the
Side of my king sized
Compassion for old, old pain, I
Sat down and was
Silent until her

Heart followed my lead,
And my hand found the
Poetry, stroking it
Like a parent
Until

It no longer rhymed
Or made any sort of
Sad sense
At
All.

I JUST WANT MINE QUEEN BACK!!!!
True love
Shalt never die!!!

POEM 10

I remember walking the Trail of Tears
wrapped in diseased laced blankets
under small pox filled nights.
I witnessed the first ‘Holocaust’
of middle passage genocide
and untold body count
of African lives.
All of this is the moral fabric
of today’s American values.

I saw a sticker the other day,
as I walked my small town
and it has given me some hope.
“Stop Thinking Like Americans
Start Thinking About Humanity.”
It was posted on a street light,
right there on Main Street.

And I thought,
if this view point can be found here
in Small town USA,
think of what might happen
if it were also found
in all the big cities!?

Maybe we still can find our humanity.

Aztec Warrior 6.13.15

Felt the pretense behind closed eyes,
  composed vibrations of rhetoric              
   freelancing in executing ignis fatuus

drank the kool-aid of your own grandeur
   a punch drunk conviction's onus
   in false pretenses of a  mislead head trip

a study in contradiction's convulsions
    simmered of half past lucid judgement,
   junctures of reality submersed
      in cloudy formations
        impervious to reasoning*

...a saga written upon piqued skies of indifference