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a teeny tiny
whited-out blank space,
the tenuous boundary that separates,
higher man from untamed beast,
so powerful when respected,
the crowning hallmark of human acclamation
we all do wear by right of birth and breathe


you see it right?

that invisible peaceful white
spatial, tiny yet palatial dot that separates
us from rack and ruin,
the mighty differential pause between

in civility and incivility

come not to preach or harangue,
my counsel kept within the
between beats of a mournful drum,
respectfully and slowly banged

each silent separation a prayerful plea,
the inserted peacekeepers of our spoken words,
employ well those powerful pauses that refresh
the speaker and the listener so well

leave behind your
self-righteous disbelief in others' beliefs,
that morphs into no toleration,
an arrogant surety,
that surely the ****-ytical results of
your thoughtful processes,
inevitability correct and brook no resistance

the shrill strumpets
of either side
confidently worship at no church
but to the false gods
of their own mirrored reflection,
who smiles back approvingly
at those who scream the loudest...

outlaw the outrage of your rage,
come to my white clothed table,
put aside the wrath of overbearing,
represent your disparate conclusions
with harmonious, breathable pauses
to reflect and respect
our distinctive and distinguished differences

no one ever lost a reasoned argument
that began with a considered, well tempered

good morning

what has this to do with
only love poetry?


*well, everything...for you must love thy neighbor
as you love yourself
Feb. 2017
Old man….
bent but not broken
forgetful yet wise
the fire burns brightly
in your rheumy blue eyes

Old maid….
bent but still standing
alone yet longing to care
with gnarled palsied hands
she desires to share

Old age….
a curse and a blessing
relentless but gentle
its light slowly fades
like a flickering candle

Old folks….*
Living but dying
feeble yet strong
like hot glowing embers
they can’t last for too long
Love is patient
Love is kind
It does not envy
It does not boast
It is not proud
It does not dishonor others
It is not self-seeking
It is not easily angered
It keeps no record of wrongs
Love does not delight in evil
but rejoices with the truth, it
Always protects
Always trusts
Always hopes
Always perseveres.
1 Corinthians 13 is endlessly quoted, and endlessly ignored by those espousing to be people of God.
Like so many
Lemmings
they rush to southern climes for
greener pastures
year round golf a
Slower pace
Cheaper prices and
Tropical temperatures

Leathery
Tanned
Unnaturally taut and
Sun-spotted
they crowd the local haunts and
Clog the highways.

At best they tolerate whoever is not
Pensioned or
Privileged

At worst they ban the
Underage
Unfortunates
from their gated communities  
and social gatherings

The pendulum has swung from a time
when the Old were at the
Mercy of the Young
to the present
when Youth is
Oppressed by Senescence

Once democracy’s backbone they now wax
Conservative having obtained their
Slice of the pie

Now there is no pie
Mother Earth has been trampled to death and the
Toiling hands of those who
Stoke the fires of industry are
Blistered and discouraged
You don't have to be old in years to belong to this culture; and even if you are old in years, you don't have to adopt this lifestyle.
Nine years and still
we cradle our grief
carefully close,
like groceries
in paper bags.

Eventually the milk
will make its way
into the refrigerator;
the canned goods
will find their home
on pantry shelves.

Most things find
their proper place.

Eventually the hummingbirds
will ricochet against scorched air,
their delicate beaks stabbing
like needles into the feeder filled
with red nectar on the back porch.

Eventually our child
will make her way
back to us. Perhaps.

But I’ve heard
that shooting
****** feels
like being
buried under
an avalanche
of cotton *****.

For now it’s another
week, another month,
another trip to Safeway.

We drive home and wonder
why it is always snowing.
Behind a curtain of snow,
brake lights pulse, turning
the color of cotton candy,
dissolving into ghosts.

And with each turn,
the groceries shift
in the seat behind us.
From the spot where
our daughter used to sit,
there is a rustling sound—

a murmur of words
crossed off yet another list,
a language we’ve budgeted
for but cannot afford to hear.
 Mar 2017 Joel M Frye
Rai
My heart beats.
In moments that I don't try to understand
There you are once more,
Breathing in your darkness
Clawing the walls
Screaming for recognition.
I always thought I could walk away from this place.
I turn from you
Not anticipating
Unable to analyse
You said goodbye so many times
Once when you took your poetic knife and sliced my heart apart,
Blood dripping like rain
A mess to be cleared
And so it was.
Then when you left
And you left
And you left a space.
You walked away
One message,
One word,
One X ,
At a time.
Nothing was left.
Except the faint and faded sound of your breathe upon the screen.
And the silent scream of your torn soul aching.
Connections made
Ripped,
Jaggered
Edges.
Raw yet forgotten in time
Forgive me,
If only unconsciously.
In a moment
I feel you
In between a space.
Between the beats of my heart
And the breath upon my screen
Connections are so easily made and more easily severed
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