This poison pill
is not the hill
I wish to
plant my
flag upon.

This dull blade
that bade me bath
in the bloodbath
that warlords make
for the sake
of profits
is not the tool
I would like
to use to fuel
my creative life.

This crushing
weight
of unwieldy hate
is not the force
I would choose,
and yet
unfettered fools
debase and abuse
themselves
and all of us
for their wealth.

They seek to conquer
with sick implements
of destruction,
such impediments
to the betterment
of our human
condition.

Art’s armament
is not adequate
to defeat them,
and I do not know
if I alone
or all of us
can beat them,

but I will not
concede to their greed
and be what they need
to feed their profit machine.

Never was
this broken
curtain
a calamity
to all of us.

Raggedy
and full
of dust
it still
shaded us,

and once
in a while
it would
make me smile
as I watched
the weird light
run right through
the holes
and shine on
little specks
of floating particles
that dance
in the dry air.

I was a fool
before I met you.
I’ll be a fool
until I die.
But all the moves
I made to get to you
are the dances
that kept me alive.

It don’t matter
how we got here.
It don’t matter
where we’re going.
It only matters
what we do now
while we are growing.

The summer showers
are so cleansing,
waves of rain
keep me moving,
shift the sands
and earth beneath me,
and their rhythm
keeps me grooving.

It don’t matter
how we got here.
It don’t matter
where we’re going.
It only matters
what we do now
while we are growing.

I don’t claim
to be an angel,
and I’m too lazy
to be a saint,
but the shame
they tried to
paint me with
didn’t fit
this portrait.

It don’t matter
how we got here.
It don’t matter
where we’re going.
It only matters
what we do now
while we are growing.

I was born
a broken bloom
rising with
the crescent moon,
and I hope I
was a boon
blessed gift
shared with
all of you.

It don’t matter
how we got here.
It don’t matter
where we’re going.
It only matters
what we do now
while we are growing.

I know a troll
who took
a leisurely stroll
with a goblin
and a knoll.

They didn’t
have a planned
place to go,
so, they
just went
with the flow.

Past the pleasant groves
where pixies played
and children
dreamed one day
they would
be able to stay,

beyond the
wood nymphs
adobe,
admiring
those virgins
unclothed,
then stopping
to get know
their cousin
in the river
bed below.

It was
I nice little walk.
Until, they were
stopped,
by an over eager,
righteous believer,
knight errant
on an errand
for his local liege.

He had no need
to give these three
a lick of grief,
but being oh so
brave and noble,
felt untitled
to act with
unbridled
arrogance.

So, the three
traveling hence
returned
from whence
they came,
but the knight
was never heard
from ever again.

Life is a dance
of many
interconnected
beings,
things
that move and swing
in and out
of being,

and in-between
this cosmic scene
we have been
always moving.

Every movement
an expression
of our true intent.
Even when
we intend
to deceive
we are already
affected by
the webs
we
and other beings
have been weaving.

The lines
we have been
perceiving
are patterns
we have been
creating and following,
flowing
without knowing,
we are going,
but still growing
some glowing
personal meaning.

The nightmare,
the place where
she kept me
in deep despair,

I do not go there
anymore.

The sharp shark shadows
that used to follow,
the cold hollow
shallow hallways
where I felt no hope,

do not remain.

I still feel
a tinge
of past pains,

but I do not
have to live
in that same space.

I know where
I come from,
the storm of
a raging mom
who is not capable
of growing,

so I am moving on.

There will be
no healthy
reconciliation,
no fantasy
family
reunion
and forgiving,
no grand
finale
happy ending.

There will
only be me
living.

Tuesday morning at Four A.M.
Gramma Smith turns over in bed,
Awake too early once again.
Her replaced hip complains
And a cramp hides behind her knee
And must be stretched and sent away

Fifteen minutes of not finding comfort
Informs her that it’s time to get up.
Legs hanging over the edge of the bed,
She searches the darkness for strength,
Knowing the minute she stands upright
Her back will seize and shriek with pain.

It only lasts a little while
Then settles into a bearable ache
As she shambles to the Loo
Before she can embarrass herself
With leakage she cannot control
The way she could when young.

Dry and on her feet again
She finds the way to her desk,
Blinking in the sudden light
From two lamps that fight each other
To chase away the shadows
That would make it hard to see.

Picking up her favorite pen
She starts to write a verse.
It grows quickly as she settles in
The chair that knows her shape so well,
And ink flows at a satisfying pace
To catch the words that tumble out.

But what she writes is this:

     Where are all the butterflies
     And Humming Birds of my youth.
     Where are the lacy Sweet Peas
     And the taste of lemonade.

     Where has all the music gone
     And groups of words that soar.
     Where are all the Chickadees
     And fleecy clouds at dawn.

She lays her pen aside and sighs.
The glamour that was living, pales
And leaves a morose gray behind.
Her words are serviceable at best,
And all the new ideas are old.
So she gets up and limps away

To where the kitchen still respects her touch,
And french toast is a panacea for her soul.
She searches for the words that would not come
And sips hot cocoa in vain hope
That there will be a reason to go on
And so the gun stays safely in the drawer.
                         ljm

Sometimes,
we pick the scabs
of old scars,
pushdown
on the brown
and bluish bruise
that brands us
just to get in touch
with what
made us
who we are.

Sometimes,
we go too far
or stop just short of
where we were sort of
supposed to go
to show those who know
similar scars.

Sometimes,
we break ourselves,
crack our backs
on a torture rack
that we brought back
from the dirt an ash
of burnt out sorrows.

Why,
behave that way,
shaving days of pain
away
just to bring them
back in again?

I cannot say for certain.
I am only working
with what I got,
cutting the edges
taking bets on
what I lost
in exchange for
the chance to be
a boon to humanity,
king soother
with a little blasphemy,
witty repeater
of past artistry
as I string together
the broken chords
that still tether
struggling hearts
to the similar parts
of each other.

Hope is the last lost lover,
a seed sinking in
the times we live in,

a once sparkling
body of bountiful water
where the seas bring
life overflowing.

Hope is the opposite
of the cryptic
countdown
passing present sorrows
in favor of
the savoring of love.

Hope is the face of
a departed friend,
even in knowing
we will not
see them again,
we still feel
the shimmering
in the distance
of their solar
compassion
remembered.

Hope is a tragedy
for its passing
and lacking
its lovely illumination,
the void of it
is devastation.

Hope is a prayer
in the name of love
for the betterment
of all of us,
till death takes
its final toll.

It is a lonely god
who counts the ticks
on eternity’s
broken clock,

as time’s terrible
tidal forces
force him on
in a world
where all other
old gods
are long gone.

What a horrible place
where the last
of his race
lay in the waste
of human destruction.

The lone survivor,
late in life light shiner,
bruised body
who tried to
teach humanity.

His shadow sees
as much as he,
yet rests coolly,
while that immortal body
burns with sorrow.

Mushroom clouds
of bitter smoke
that choke the broke
cord of hope,

temperatures rising
as he is realizing
there will be
no great fantasy
or redemption
of humanity,
just a worried wanderer
who walks
on wavy ground
where no
joys are found.