gotta, no gonna be like
aesop and his fable
slap a moral
on the table
talk about
old slow poke
tortise on his hike
up against a speed freak
hare  

zikes

this is harder that
it seems
like interpereting dreams

better yet
start again
find a new refrain
gotta make an original
stain
gotta use my incredible brain
bring a new flavour
new story to savour
not some tired old jam
not for this poetry slam

so here goes
follow the flow
stay in the know

don't be a facsimile
a sad printed copy
take the high road
and write a new load
of originality

be one with totality
up at the mountains peak
where the angels speak
to those,
who have time
to listen.

one word, one world
glows and glistens
that word be, free
that word be LOVE
and love be liberty
to a soul broken

so the morale of
the day
freely give love away
as truth,
not a carnival token

the wise old woman
(yeah that be me)
now has spoken.

done now with
her word spin
done now

gotta go do
as she say
take some action

go give a nobody
a kind reaction
some hugular compaction

be a friend
to the friendless
the possiblities
endless
let charity
have a say
be brave this day

go on now
be on your way



-fin

She was made of a language
no one could hear
and hand written in perfect cursive
by the scripture of the stars
and made from the sea and salt
of an ocean lost in a tear
and the color of blood
gave her lips all
of its crimson and rage
and she was there
when dreams took their first step
out into the void of the time of nothing
and she weaved his heart
from the poetry of leaves
and his bones from the past
before death had a cloak or a reason
and his flesh from
the soft skin of her kisses
and she tied the string of his heart
to the beat of her own
and no matter the story
or time of eternity
they would find one another
in the pages and between the covers
of the dreams they would have
and the life they would share
as they would invent
and discover and write
and rewrite the books of love
in the language no ears could hear
or eyes could see
but ever heart would feel
in between their first and last beat

In the face
of radical Christianity,
a devout pagan stands.

Where religion
aspires to govern,
spirituality
must voice its protest.

"One nation, under God..."
turns out to be
easily divisible.

All is not forgiven
when wrapped
in flag and cross.

This poem a futile gesture,
message lost amidst
the knee-jerks.

So long
as speech is free,
it must be said.

Jesus was a
great, holy man;
Herod was the governor.

For God's sake...
stop trying to turn
Jesus
into Herod.

Have to dig up some
grave humor once in a while
to know I'm alive.

Blade grazes skin in horizontal hatred
teaching lessons in guilt and lies
crying truth that won't break the surface
which hides the tar that seeps
through a soul unseen

Prtty, Prtty smile
on a Prtty, Prtty girl

and the lines break surface tension
'twas all the glue would hold

Every turn a reflection in karma and self-loathing
perceived as an undeserved consequence
of a past that holds no regrets

One layer breaks free
and he fails to see her cracks
through the scars he was forced to stitch alone
with the rusted skewers of time

A second pass and the blade runs clean
as idle threats yield no change
a liar demanding truth of the one who gives it freely
as it has always been

Only seeing lies oneself would tell
unable and unwilling to realize
that the truth remains true
even when seen through one's own lies

Beaten into submission
that reeks of forced pity
only covers the truth
with lies that make one feel like

A Prtty, Prtty girl
with a Prtty, Prtty smile