My heart is filled with overwhelming peace
in spite of what the doctor's tests reveal;
a sense of love and caring will not cease.

For one whose life had been one of dis-ease,
where dreams died off, existence seemed unreal,
my heart is filled with overwhelming peace.

There's been no letting go, no caged release
of pent-up terror, prayers, nor appeals.
A sense of love and caring will not cease.

The demons fought for years have been appeased,
their hellish hounds no longer nip my heels.
My heart is filled with overwhelming peace.

Embraced by those whom I expected least;
misunderstandings cauterized and healed.
A sense of love and caring will not cease.

My chosen family, listen, if you please:
Concerned I am, but fear's not what I feel.
My heart is filled with overwhelming peace;
a sense of love and caring will not cease.

Hanging a warning
sign on Tampa Bay's bullpen:
"Flammable Solids".

better coat the truth
with humor as a jester
than to be sincere,
thoughtful, civil, generous...
and be vilified for it

if there is nothing human
about humanity
what's to save

it's not the pandemic
that keeps us separate
it's the dehumanization
and the demonization
the demoralization
we heap upon each other

no poet
can survive the lack
of friction
between their lives
and the lives of others

this artificial suspension
of everyday life
wrapping ourselves
in tight-lipped tolerance
or inflamed outrage
does nothing
but extend the isolation

the flimsy rope bridges
that cross the chasms
of derision
sway in the winds
of anarchy

those still able
and are willing
to communicate


must.

What brings peace must first
break down resistance, comfort;
old habits die hard.

She's cuddled beside me
in the front seat of the truck
as we watch the moon
rippled upon the waves,
bundled beneath the comforter
which once covered our bed.
She's so, so warm...
last week we'd have begged for fever
to fog the windows as we slept.
At least tonight's kinder;
we can crack the windows with the doors locked
so the warm, gentle breeze
can run its fingers through our hair
and remind us of times
when this was a luxury.
Another two days
before the check comes in;
we'll get her a couple good meals.
God knows she deserves that.

For better, for worse,
richer, poorer...
we both grew up poor,
knew what buzz-saw hunger felt like.
We got to know the better
for a few years,
did okay even when
we both got sick the first time.
The cancer, though...
that was the beginning of the end
of better.
We both lived through it,
if you want to call
what we do now living.
Nothing special about us;
the story's been told a
couple million times
in the last five or six years.
You hear about the before
and the after...
but rarely, the during
as the slow juggling of
one or two bills
becomes more and more manic
as one by one
another is added
until
         inevitably
one by one
they're
dropped.
The choices are easier for a while
as you're pulled down Maslow's pyramid;
food or internet,
a roof over your head
or paying the power bill late.
Thought we'd actually make it when
I got the second job;
then she lost hers
and the unemployment ran out.
You know, I worked two full-time jobs
and played out weekends
when I was 20,
and lasted almost a year
until I fell over.
You know...
I'm not 20 anymore.
I just couldn't do it for very long.
That's when the choices got tough.
Gas to get to work...or food.
Medicine...or food.
Rent...or food.
One morning, I opened my eyes
with my heart thrashing,
a salmon in the bear's jaws.
Disability payments the same
as two weeks' take home pay.
Last time I checked,
there's still four weeks and a third
in a month.
The landlady did what she could
as long as she could.
She's got bills to juggle, too.
We found a nice little efficiency.
We found a nice room.
We found a crack-house motel.
We found it better to find
a parking spot for the truck,
and here we are.
The rent's only the cost of the plate
and a few gallons of gas;
in the words of the rental agents, cozy,
with the best view the fuel will allow.
We huddle, helpless
to douse the fire in her body,
no place to take her
and no way to get her there
until the check comes
in a couple of days.
I'd have gladly died
to spare her this;
now, that'd be the coward's way.
I pray that my heart outlives her
so that she doesn't die alone
in the front seat of a God-forsaken truck
on a deserted beach
in what once
was Paradise.

One cat chirps;
one rumbles.
I am surrounded
with contentment.

when a young Ghost
is more substantial
than an old man,
the living must accede
to the un-dead child

And now, our prompt (optional, as always). Today, I challenge you to write a lune. This is a sort of English-language haiku. While the haiku is a three-line poem with a 5-7-5 syllable count, the lune is a three-line poem with a 5-3-5 syllable count. There’s also a variant based on word-count, instead of syllable count, where the poem still has three lines, but the first line has five words, the second line has three words, and the third line has five words again. Either kind will do, and you can write a one-lune poem, or write a poem consisting of multiple stanzas of lunes. Happy writing!

She sang him a song
of suppressed supplication.
He smiled to hear her;
oblivious to lyrics,
assumed she found happiness.

Ginger candy bits
slowly build fire in my mouth,
quench fire in belly.

There is a deep honor befriending an elder;
returning the blessings that we've been bestowed.
Also a frisson of fear we have held, for
we pray we are gifted with honor, not owed .

when poems die and all words dry on dusty
tongue    when eyes exhausted can no longer
see    when water's song is still and tired
rivers stop their run    when life's been zested
and no juice is left    when every day
is one thing after one more ******* thing
all it takes is one small drop of love
sent by a stranger, friend...perhaps a god

You will have my words;
a cozy throw of a thought
to wrap about me.

April 1st begins National Poetry Month,  and napowrimo.net posts a daily prompt during the entire month.  Anyone else want to join me in giving it a run?  I did half a month last year before my computer blew up, so I'm looking to finish the month this time.  It was a kewl learning experience, and I got more good poetry from it than I expected.  Please message me if you 'd like to come along.  I am setting up an HP community for all poets who care to try.

I pray my muse will bear a heavy weight,
as cantilevered dreams of fifty years
come crumbling down, the poor-grade aggregate
made up of childish vision, youthful fears,
watered gruel of faith, reality
intended to cement what cinder-blocks
of present living I stacked shiftlessly
on half a slab collapses.  Time now mocks
my thoughtless, grandiose designs; its tide
sweeps what I'd have my future hold away
in universal undertow.  Aside
from inspiration, vision, words at play,
my muse has double duty to be borne:
a reason I should wake up every morn.

Brown leaves sway in cold
breeze, which cuts through passers-by
beneath a bleak sun.

Slender, sinuous
strand sending succor, support,
soothing struggling soul.

A special day; have
a drink on me, if you can.
I've had enough, thanks.

Would I could live by
what I write and what I see
each minute, each day.

In eyes of the young,
with every gray hair I fade,
insignificant.

Fingerprints of comfort
cover the knife which
bears passion's blood.

The house of my soul
has many rooms,
foundation poured
over many lifetimes,
the layout determined
by some master architect.
Each room has
its own view
of the world.
Cannot say I've changed;
can say
as ages pass,
the rooms inhabited
are not the same.

Ewer ice blew as disguise of springs,
***** mined reams at knight.
Ache hiss Swede as ta sum worse do
Tacit mined hay a rite.

I had a friend;
we journeyed life together.
Down a dark and winding road
we made our merry way.
The trail was long,
with many holes and pitfalls.
We took our bumps and bruises
and we swallowed our dismay.

I had a friend;
we spent our evening hours
playing our guitars and singing
songs both old and new.
And at night's end
we'd shake our hands and promise
our friendship would endure
and we would always see it through

     But time has a mystic power,
     it turns saplings into trees;
     and its river made a canyon -
     separates my friend and me.

I had a friend;
helped me through tribulations,
and I would be there when
he needed company.
But life goes on,
and our two trails soon parted;
left nothing for each other
but songs and a memory.

    For time has a mystic power,
    it turns saplings into trees;
    and its river made a canyon -
    separates my friend and me.

That friend I had,
out of touch for more than twenty years...
I saw him yesterday
in a little place downtown.
His looks had changed,
perhaps a little paler
in his softly padded bed
with his friends all hangin' round.

     For time has a mystic power,
     it turns saplings into trees;
     and its river made a canyon -
     separates my friend and me.

     For time has a mystic power,
     it turns saplings into trees;
     and its river made a canyon -
     separates my friend and me.

I think that I have never known
A hashtag lovely as a poem.

come, let usmeet again
and 
        rest
               between gusts
of karmic storms
    h        i
w    i    l   ng us through
         r
this time around

we who see                centuries

behind subtle )direct( glances
within nuanced phrase
and recycled archaic wisdom
in children of Indigo
young crones and old men

crossing d i  m   e     n     s      i       o        n         a          l planes
electrons and optical cable,
light transmitting light
around what planet
we know in our
present
reality.

You are light itself;
you are blessed, you are blessing.
Peace always with you.

sharp are the feelings
velveted in subtle sheaths
of songs and poems

Why is it
when I drink Coke,
I get dysPepsia?

Enough deceiving.
Stand upright and face yourself.
Change what needs changing.

"Is that all there is?"
The eternal question answered:
"Is that all you've found?"

Every poet a
taxidermist, preserving
their beings with words.

Time heals no wounds; hard,
sharp, brittle, leaving shards to
fester and erupt.

When the future
holds no promise,
the past will ******.

Perception beggars
comprehension; chosen words'
loveliness stuns thought.

I ran around town
all day, and you couldn't leave
me one ******* plum???

Cooked two meals at once;
"do the large while it is small".
Clean house bit by bit.

vision so vital
to all a poet is;
silent beauty whispers
its miracles only
to those listening.

the poet cursed
with eyes and ears
the clamor of
a living, dying world
inundates
their soul

finding refuge
from the deluge
in a quiet stream of stanzas

never realizing the blessing
of the eye of the poet

until all the words have dried

A candle burns for all of you today;
marshalls its unflinching flame, braces
for the quick sharp blast of sudden breath
as the dark inhales a strand of smoke.

I know the darkness but I am no prince,
just another faceless futile serf
scratching out a meager sustenance
from the barren, stony soil of conscience.

The field lay fallow far too long a time
and weedy evil sprouted, flourished, nourished
by the rocks which trip me, send me sprawling
on the ground where you once grew as flowers,

wild with color, scent - a spot of peace
planted with no purpose but to please.
Each of you would bloom in your own time,
bringing me to roll and thrash on you;

trampling blossoms, stomping on your stems
and walking off elated by perfume,
unthinking of the crushed and damaged leaves
and unconcerned to cultivate your growth.

An undeserved damnation of indifference
damped your fragrance, dried your colors bright
and left your stalks to rustle in the wind
which whistles, cold and steady through my life.

Day by day I **** and dig up stones,
sow my seeds, pray for grace and rain
and light a candle every Sunday morn
with cursed darkness weighting every stride.

Deep within
the source of
the last dry
agonizing tear
I knew beyond
all protests
to the contrary
that you would
tire of me
long before
I tired
of
you.

Thanks to all who read
my work, who shared and followed.
Made an old heart glad.

Another evening
darning the hole in my soul
stretched on a dead bulb.

Flourescent hope is
tapped by reality; picking
shards out of my skin.

Just another morning
unwilling bones
crack their way out of bed
begging for caffeine
to wash down
a heaping bowl
of matte-gray sameness.

your tears are ninjas
tearing my still-beating heart
straight out of my chest

Definition of
an American poet:
living a half-mile
from the canyon's cliff, but still
insists he lives on the edge.

Trumpets scream out in
agony for a man too
terrified to speak.