No god ever spoke to me.
Not because I never tried!
There were times I cried
And begged to hear a word.
Nothing seemed to be heard.
There was no imperious voice
With avoiding not being a choice.
There was no burning bush;
Nor gentle or heavy push
One direction or the other.

It remained for me to get together
With some paid hack with a book
Who preferred not to look at me
Because he wanted to deal with
Easier sins than I could offer
Then, I was to add to his coffer
For rebuilding his den of thieves
But that couldn't relieve my worry
Or my problems. Maybe the Muslims
Could chant from their book of mysteries.

But no, I had already read their history
And large hunks of their sacred poems.
I recognize double-talk when I see them.
I got plenty of that in my upbringing.
I can still hear the songs they were singing
About eyes on sparrows and loving
But the poor are still naked and dying.
The poor are all nationalities and colors
And they lay in the gutters together
As the godly brothers pass; spit at them
And demand they get up and move away
And take their misery to another doorway.

I, the unhearing, could find no endearing
Reason to put on costumes and dance
To some four thousand year old romance
About gypsies and witches promising
To keep on doing what I was doing
And I would see the kingdom of heaven
Or maybe even six or seven, to suit belief.
Meanwhile here I am on this reef, at sea
With no deity to talk to me and explain
Why none of the miracles remain today
But have been washed away by time.
Or did they ever really exist at all?
Me? I’m still awaiting that divine call;
For my schefflera to catch on fire, or
To receive from god a Western Union wire.

The Devil’s in the details
which is how we lose
as the preachers picks our pockets
from the upstairs pews.

Politicians keep bragging
about the lines they drew
to obstruct democracy
and steal our money
like their rich friends
wanted them to do.

Perhaps we should take comfort in our insignificance. The universe is indifferent. It neither needs or care for our existence. All the reason we need to care about one another is that our existence is so transient. It is most likely we will not revisit this or any other life, so why not treasure those by our side, and be kind to strangers for that reason alone.

A good man is soon out of company.

The woman he lives with
believes he is a fool
and having seen no sign of his cure
she feels insecure.

He is weak and so acts good,
she rues in bitter mood.

Goodness buys him no good place anywhere.

People interpret his grace his kindness
as his meekness.

He leaves his seat for others
but is never offered a seat
with sellers he is nice
but parts paying the worst price
being never vocal with claim
favors seldom find his name.

Yet in goodness only
his heart loves to dwell
and on the humble bed
he sleeps well.

There is a wrinkle
in my heart,
blood flow slowed
to naught,
chest tightening
in anxious observation,
facing
a thousand people
suffering
loudly and silently
at the same time.

This is the frame of mind
that breaks the branch
that reaches for hands
which never come.

Heroes never fly by
the midday sky
to swoop in
and save the children
from their depression.

This is my obsession
the passion of pain
painted in prose
and poetry,
me pathetically
trying to reach humanity.

I should take it more seriously.
Yet, foolishly I continue rhyming.

It is out of love
not callousness
that I continue this
poetic struggle.

We raised ours hand with others
And shared the grand hurrah.
We marched with them if we could
Amazed at what we saw.
Sisters and brothers, mothers and fathers
Half a million in the demonstration
A solemn gathering of protest
In the capitol of a grieving nation.

We came together, raised our voice
In major cities, and small towns.
This time we would not allow
The corporations to shout us down.
We carried signs that told the truth
In a fewest words we could write
That enough was enough and this was
A battle we had just begun to fight.

We shouted our children deserved
Not to die in their childhood school
And demanded that the government
Changed their wrongheaded rules.
We let them know across the land
The many of us were voting soon
And we would throw them out if they
Didn’t dance to a different tune.

We told them it was time they knew
That we saw through their faults
And that this country needed to
Outlaw weapons of mass assault.
We let them know we were through
With what they called leadership
That we would gladly send them home,
A much needed one-way trip.

People retreat
further and further
into religions,
politics,
consumerism,
or chemicals
to avoid
confronting
painful truths.

Frequently,
I watch people
who try
consciously
or
unconsciously
to become
copies
of others.

They pursue
the same goals,
settle in
the same
lifestyle,
and
measure themselves
with the same ruler,
never realizing
they are so much more
than the cog
they behave like.

These are strange messages,
in a sweet and deep
conversation;

Thoughts I speak
from fingertips
to myself,
and maybe
someone else,
as I dance
in and out of
other peoples
perspective,

aware that I
cannot connect
a hundred percent
to them
but I can get closer
then most others
ever get.

This comes from
a lifetime
of listening
and reading.

I find wonder in the warmth
of human connections.
They lessen
the coldness
of this
dark reality.

Which is why
it helps me
to see
strangers
happy in love
no matter what
their orientation
may be.

It is a rough winter,
and I worry;
Not for me,
cause there is no need
to hurry,
but for the tall thin
black homeless man
who sleeps on
the strip mall
sidewalk
next to his bike
and black
plastic
bags of stuff.

These are
biting temperatures,
artic cold
and I know
many have froze
in the past.
I fear this
winter weather
will claim
the strange man’s
exposed skin
and limbs
while he is sleeping.

But in keeping
with my tight schedule,
a full day
of driving,
exercising,
then working
and driving again,
I do not bother him.
I do not talk
to the rail thin
brown skin
man who is sleeping
on the sidewalks tonight.
I just selfishly follow
the patterns of my life,
only pausing in retrospect
to write a small poem
that doesn’t help
the homeless man
who might
freeze to death
tonight.