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Love carried on the whistling wind,
It screamed your tag initially,
Now in a wild whirling whisper when you wonder what each message spells.
Semaphore and smoke signals, carried on the winter wind as storms collide within your eyes.
Deities of chaos, went and wrote a book of words.
In shreds of insular letters written on ice, in crystal clouds.
Something like I love you.
In Sanskrit symbols, carved in old woods.
Where women run naked, who say that it's good.
And all the information thereby, carried on that whistling wind.
(c)LIVVI
~

we the people,
long have known
the write of
passages and poems,
whether bellwether,
envisionist or revisionist,
too oft have thought
this journey long,
and weight of hope and change
to another there belongs;
yet i subscribe
that we as scribes,
can right this ship,
not merely write it's wrongs;
for we it's pride
with hearts ascribe,
and note-by-note,
as carpenters and soldiers,
we its authors and its poets,
in words, in deeds,
writers, of a patriot’s song;
with deepest definition,
and inner soul reflection,
it's stanza, chorus, bridges,
we must lovingly inscribe.

~

*post script.

i know i am but one of many, who disillusioned, feel alienated, and could just as easily choose withdrawal as my reaction to our nation’s political plight. this then my belief, my plea, my hope we’ll see, withdrawal is not an option, that our words, deeds and even our writings carry weight, and bring with them hope and change to each community within which we each serve.  we are not merely writers of our history... we are authors of our destiny!  

if you are not an American, hope and pray for us, please, for we desperately need your support!!   if you are, pick up the pen... pick up the charge... be the change!!
I stepped into autumn rain-

it was cold as it wet my feet
near a rusted black mailbox.

Walking a cracked and weather-beaten driveway,
bent down-
smelled odors of dampened pavement.

Fragrances of autumn when rain showers or pours,
reflect stark distinctions-
from when the weather is warm and dry.

Can't stop wondering, if we're headed toward
a rainy season. That wouldn't bother me as long as
rain-
pattering on surfaces of gray and
blackened asphalt roads and country drives,
spoke of new beginnings-
through observant eyes.

Rain on green grass-
cultivates an aroma of roots and earth.

Pounding down-
picking up steadier momentum,
as it splatters ground.

Soil christened,
by millions of clear teardrops-
streaking faces of clouds above,

rolling down-
refreshing and purifying
deepest roots, buried in dirt.

Everything appears so fresh-
seasons of reinvention,
on the surface of sidewalks and blacktops

represent-
slates wiped clean.

I breathe in-
this autumn air, surrendering
sighs of relief-
as I ponder deliberate ruminations

while listening to autumn rains.
Hey ,
he's the old man
with a pair of mental scissors
Snipping away at the
picture perfect reality
he perceives as the truth
Hey ,
she's the old lady
hard of hearing
who clings to the unreality
that all is as it should be
Hey ,
they are the reasons given
for all the good intentions
that do more harm than good
Hey , hey ,
. . . . hey ,
It is you reading these words
in all your disguises
that are trimming the truth
to make it fit
inside the lies
Hey ,
It is me lastly ,
snip , snip , snip . . .
snip .
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