Všechny cesty vedou do Říma
tak proč mě tak překvapila
ta pohlednice zpozdilá,
s fotkou Kolosea
a s italskou známkou,
k výročí jubilea,
s inkoustovou kaňkou
místo jména, podpisu
P.S. už neodepisuj

Of what purpose are wings to a caged bird?
Of what use is the light of dawn when her voice is hardly heard
and albeit sweet, alone she can't make the dawn a chorus?
of what use are her claws without moist and wormy soils to scratch
what's the point of waking early with no worms to catch?
of what use are her eyes when she can't watch
the big blue sky, of what use are thick canopies where she won't nest?
why does she sing? Is it a melody, is it a dirge?
Does she need a cage mate with whom she's forced to merge
while her bone and blood mate wanders somewhere in search
of the one who left him before their first eggs could hatch?
Of what help is, to a caged bird, a friend?
Is it just to share the agony that won't end
or help hurtfully peck the little bars that won't bend?
To a caged bird of what purpose are feathers,
one that suffers a cold heart courtesy of iron tethers?
why should she be warm when she misses comfort of her home
the comfort of intricately weaved grass and loving family
the warmth radiated when living with her own species happily?
Does a caged bird need loyalty when there are bars to enforce,
those charmingly curved to ensure her freedom's loss?
Tell me...
Of what purpose are wings to a caged bird?

I create my own jealousy,
       and load my own gun,
I make my own bed,
       I never shoot
and
      I never sleep,
I’m a stagnancy
of
imperfections,

the cement is dry now,
I’m sorry,
but you can't leave

do what you want to do
why
a white lie
click
tie around neck
bring madness to the world
help
bring love to our hearts

based on the song by Bruce Cockburn

Maybe the poet is old,
But they won't do as they're told
Maybe the poet is young
But her words you should not shun,
Maybe the poet is free
Are you blind and do not see?
Maybe the poet's a Slave
But those white flags won't be waved!
Maybe the poet is saved
Maybe the poet's a knave
But he'll shout unto the grave!

Black or white,  or coffee brown
His words will stay... they'll stick around
Tan or beige, russet red
You will recall what's been said
It will play all through your head
She will *speak until she's she's dead!

Maybe the poet is rich
And is sitting by a beach
Maybe the poet is poor
But her words you'll hear for sure
Maybe ill with no cure
Though she's dead she will endure
Homeless woman, wealthy man
They won't do as you have planned
They won't play on with the band
They'll be strong and take a stand

They'll holler til you understand!

They won't have a TV show
Won't be on your radio
But the word of mouth will go
Be it fast or be it slow

They may be killed, they may be shot
They will speak TRUTH!
THEY CAN'T BE BOUGHT!
Ignominy may be their lot

But they will produce some thought!

Maybe the voice of The Spirit
In which case you'd better hear it!
You may not touch it. Can't get near it.

Please don't expect applause
Don't find rejection odd...

For it is the Words of God.


SoulSurvivor
(C) 7/16/2016

Leaves scratched
on their arduous journey
to the forest floor

She was the one pool
where I would happily drown,

you're perfect,
don't change a thing,

but two
simple sentences
resonate within me

"Are you satisfied?"

"No, you haven't kissed me."

A glimpse into the mirror
reveals fresh creases crossing
over the corners of my mouth—
lines written in immutable ink;
I try not to linger

crumbling upon a bed
scarcely bearing its title,
strewn with lonely sheets;
I bundle them against my chest
using rougher hands than I had left