someday, maybe I will be fully integrated
I see so many posts about trolling
and hate filled messages
individuals attacking art
for the sake of meanness
and bully status –
I sit on the sidelines waiting
a monster in the deep
so much rage and hostility just seething under the surface
and yet,
no one awakens the beast
I receive only kindness and pleasantries
I am beginning to think
I am only an observer here –
Reaching out, reading more
attempting to become, but alas,
I am older, harsher, and too opinionated
to be part of the fun
left out of the dark side
of Hello Poetry –

A black speckled brown thrush
warbles while sitting atop an old decrepit greying wooden fence post
off, in the distance, stands (barely)
a barn that ceased to be functional at the turn of the prior century.
Faded wood, splintering, shows exposed nail heads
rusty and oxidized… perfect to pull at a wayward summer dress
or perhaps catch and tear the skin
of the playing child lost in imagination.
Brambles climb and creep up dilapidated walls
giving the illusion that this manmade object
sprung forth from the berry bushes
as if it were mutated fruit or maybe an exposed root system.
The low constant buzz of mud wasps
diligently building nests in eves
drowns out the sounds of jets flying overhead,
the occasional tick lights gently upon untreated skin
and desperately begins clawing its way
to a hairy spot in a darkened area.
Underneath misshapen cuts of plywood
three coiled garden racers sit in the cool
waiting with infinite patience
for the tiny shrew or mouse youth
to make a mad dash
meal time comes irregular on warm May afternoons.

~
In the late 1960’s
when my mother was in high school choir
a ghost sang with them sometimes in the rehearsal room
if all the basses, tenors, and sopranos joined on que
and their tone and pitch were perfect
a mysterious songbird arrived
to harmonize with them near the ceiling
octaves above their own voices.
Mr. Dougherty, the instructor, would whoop and holler
inviting their songbird, Alice, to sing louder…
and without flaw when a tone
reverberates in each of us
a ghostly phenomenon of the normal variety rises to the ceiling
to sing inside and with us all and as a species.
In those moments our collective voices join in harmonious chorus
we become one with each other and invite the natural world
to come, and sing along.   /

moonlight on the bamboo shoots
falling stars mark sharp edges
cutting skin with blades of grass
the roots push the concrete out of socket
yellowing drought bringing out
bucket handles and flowery gloves
shoving back the strawberry runners
two by four planter boxes
rot –
brown blueberry leaves crunch
corpses of raspberry stocks bend and snap
complete lack of moisture or tending
rendering fat of homeless cats
in a vat of future soap
gifts for loved ones
never realizing the suds
were once fluffy paws
and sweet meows –
summer drags, the fifth month being the hardest
lard fest at the local poke’a’pig
barbeque, burning maple…
giant oak stands guard, devoid of leaves
only helicopter seeds wait for a breeze
my sweat soaked sleeves need that same air to flow
but, no…
we must languish in the swelter
lakes fade and long dead tree stumps
see the first light in 100 years
fighting for shade, boated fish
swish scorched fins
desperate for any reprieve –

pain takes hold again
and I sit disturbed
not understanding why
I feel like such **** –
looking at 40 years
of systematic body abuse
from the hardest drugs
to the worst foods
lack of regular exercise
mingled with attitude –
irritated joints combine
with a furrowed brow
and crooked teeth
to create an image
of despair and anguish
as I attempt again
to rebuild this mess
into a prize of humanity –
silver whiskers and a stigmatism
misshapen nostril
and a **** chin
look back from the
cracked mirror
I am inferior –
beating myself up
over a belly devoid of beer
and the ever thinning
and receding hairline
I no longer feed my ego
as it sits starving
and neglected
rejected by the woes of aging –
enraged and feeling caged
I desire to fly free with Mya
but death is no repose
only an entry into the next phase
is existence really worth the trouble –
lamenting has taken its toll
and feeling like a whiney *****
I make the quick decision
to stop this nonsense --

wrinkled forehead and a passing sigh
the boy has given her reason for irritation
I watch the unfolding scene, helpless
everyone knows what it takes to get along
but the young free-loading adult
has yet to apply knowledge practically
so once again we find ourselves
bound by hostile energy
as raised voices and flailing extremities
become the new after work norm –
a soft kiss and passing pleasantries
are exchanged between us
prior to a kitchen visit
and bad feelings towards laziness
for its own sake…
his attitude and effort lacking
our anger and discontent growing
all the while I quietly pray
he gets it while we can still be friends –
another trip down the driveway
another day with a growing sense of dread
am I going to have to yell again
beg again
cry again
over what should be common practice
and not the fight that will have him homeless –
we sit on the bed discussing options
as we are unwilling to simply give up
blood ties and strong family bonds
mingle with tears of frustration
as we ask the question to the universe
for the umpteenth time,
“what can we try next?”
to get a 19 year old know-it-all
lazy ***
to be part of a functioning household
or at the very least
pay his own way –

~


for years innumerable
  this generational mystery persisted
     even when the heat radiated down
          and not a shadow would pass

                 the slightest rumbles

not the rumbles of a drifting shelf
    or the slipping of a plate far away
         but something similarly natural
                 and soothing

                  cozy and nestled in a cradle
                   kits slept against grey skin
                   edges softened and worn
                   offering the perfect bassinette
                   to another family of foxes

a strong wind tipped a tree
     crumbling mountain found a canyon below
          the snows came and ice stretched deep
                 separating basalt and sedimentary
                      I felt myself falling apart

It was after this harshest of winters
     I began to notice different sounds...

the constant steady clicking
       of a raven cracking filberts
             upon my exposed bones

the trickling of a nearby stream
   carrying away pieces of my body
        rolling them smooth
               sending them to lands
                    I would never see
            
and the foxes

each early spring and late summer
      they would return to my womb
               bring forth new life
                     from the belly of a stone

I have lost count….
     how many babies have I held
              how many soft toes have explored my veins
                    how many light yips from the depths
                             have lulled me to sleep
                                          when strong winds blow
                                                 and the trees begin to lean    /

It was down on the farm,
24 little girls shinning
in the early summer sun. I stood
over their tiny green bodies
gently showering soft new growth.
A feeling began to swell, of pride,
as I was growing, again, the cure for cancer
in the field of a dear friend.
Holding the hose in one hand,
and the spray wand in the other
so as to not allow dragging
across these ever important bodies,
I look across the field of 87 and consider the varieties
the four of us have chosen
for grow 2015.
The Willamette Valley is warm
and my toes sink into lovingly treated soil,
organically fed, with an eye to long-term
sustainability, as the co-op recognizes
we are part of the land we love.
The slightest tinge of yellow catches my eye
perhaps the little Shishkaberry
needs Epson salts.

She showed me my own heart
And gave me peace of mind
I knew we would never part

Right from the very start
We were two of a kind
She showed me my own heart

Unlike putting the horse before the cart
I had a paper to sign
I knew we would never part

I fell for her like with a tranquilizer dart
Stuck straight into my spine
She showed me my own heart

From our first walk through the grocery mart
Our arms intertwined
She showed me my own heart
I knew we would never part

wormwood visions
the nibiru hype train
prepares to leave the station
once again
taking the prepper squad
and doomer crew
out to look again
at the vastness of space –
april forecasts
200 mile per hour
straight line winds
2016 the year of destruction
same as 2012
or Y2K
or the bicentennial
the age old crisis
of an incoming body
ready to destroy humanity
for the umpteenth time –
6000 to 8000
biblical years of existence
150,000 year old cave art
made by co-magnum
breeding with Neanderthal
looking to heavens
at the rogue planet
or failed dwarf star –
another checking of the packs
another inventory of the ammunition
one more sideways glance
into the southern skies
seeking validation
and maybe a little more warning
than what the powers that be
will give the population at large –
probably nothing will happen
the odds are this is just a story
like the devil or Santa Claus
just a way to control those foolish
or unsettled enough
to buy in
most likely this year will pass
without a celestial event
designed to alter mankind
push us to the next evolutionary jump
force us to become a single people
working to survive
the electric and magnetized
universe –

I pulled him in the little wagon
the dry grass was browned by the sunshine
his joyful squeal egged me on and I ran faster
the uneven ground was deceptive
and one wheel caught a hidden old gopher hole
the wagon bounced high and flipped
as I let go I saw a different expression on his face
one of terror and uncertainty…
the wagon flew towards the old red house
as I tumbled to the ground
I looked back to see tears trolling down his cheeks
but of laughter, not pain
when finally he could catch his breath
he simply uttered,
“can we go again?”

I sat on the grass reading a book of poetry
Relating different passages to my own life
Attempting to put myself in the shoes of the author
Reading and re-reading each and every line
Recognizing some deeper truth behind the words
Experiencing a kinship with this style of expression

I had to try my hand at this style of expression
Begin my journey into writing poetry
Make it a part of my life
Just as was the way with this author
But how to come up with a first line
How does one choose which words……..

I began searching for the best words
To encompass my type of personal expression
In order to create ‘Sam specific’ poetry
Something that would take on its own life
And become more than just the work of an author
For those in need, an actual life-line

But I had to begin with just a single line
Built of the greatest most impactful words
This would be the only way to release my expression
And truly encompass poetry
Make it the most important part of my life
Re-create myself as a successful author

But I was no real author
Just a man seeking the perfect starting line
A hunter carefully tracking special words
To give life to my joyful expression
Wishing only to give someone else what I received from poetry
Wishing to share this part of my life

I had never felt this way in my whole life
The way in which the language was used by the author
How cleverly crafted each single line
The purposeful choice of certain words
Creating a fully formed expression
Laid forth within the walls of poetry

My routes of expression changed with the addition of written words
Each line brought me closer to the dream of becoming an author
I knew that my life would be forever filled with poetry

I open a blank word document
or grab up a pencil and pad
and it happens
every time….
poetry –
maybe I heard a statement
a week ago in passing
or read an article
that inspired
a smell or touch
a sound or the quiet
whatever my surroundings
poetry –
I see deer in the morning
clung to by the fog
seeking the most tender
new shoots,
Venus rising in the east
pre-sunbreak,
an inadvertent flip
of my lovely wife's hair…
poetry –
I wouldn’t turn it off if I could
such is my lot
and I accept it
some folks love math
are driven to be engineers
some need to teach
for me,
my passion is
poetry –
there is little forethought
less editing
half the time
I can’t even remember
what I wrote
for I am compelled
driven and pushed
for more than 25 years
to write
poetry –

insanity reigns
as aborted fetuses
are sold to secret labs
for cell experimentation –
fore-runners from the right
cry out into the darkness
screaming profanities
at poor would be mothers –
politicized uteruses
stand at the precipice
of human rights activists
endless need for debate –
all laws are applied to bodies
all bodies are under the yoke
of both local or state
and federal governmental whim –
frenzied followers puffed up faces
holler about the unborn
desiring every fertilized egg
to be another slave to Capitalism –
**** victims cower  and
pregnant sufferers of ******
rock gently back and forth on the cold floor
holding bellies tight with both arms
tears running freely down sad and lonely faces
somewhere in Louisiana …
option less, they birth unwanted children
abuse and neglect them
beat and mistreat
spawn of filth
like good little constituents –

it pounds with the fervor
of 100 million idiots
screaming in unison
make America great again…
as if greatness
were so trivial
as to be allowed reentry
into the fattest nation
globally –
making America great again
like in the 1950’s
when racism and bigotry
were right as rain
where white is might
and Jesus stood with the nation….
for shame
make America great again
like when industry had children
working 15 hour days
for pennies
while toxifying the land, air, and rivers
beating the poor into submission
with clubs
and immigrating based on skin color
for shame….
make America great
again…….
like slavery?
manifest destiny?
corporate empire?
world police?
Like Donald Trump as President?


making America great starts by accepting
each other
as equals.
Period.

flashes of the past crash into my mass
blasted and scratched, hide chapped,
I clap and shout at the memory
I approve of myself –
Old images of self-worth re-birth
And my fading girth is better for the earth
Large ***** pass gasses collapsing the greenhouse, but
I approve of myself –
Internal health and immeasurable wealth
As if the Delphi oracle imparted me
with love for self
growing stealth
with approval of myself –
affirmation nation retaliating against
infatuation with concentration camp
regurgitation
my patience wears thin and yet still
I approve of myself –
Granting panic stricken epidemic victims
Injections of insulin and bicarbonate soda
So the right wing harm bringers
Will no longer harbinger orangutans
Oh! the will of man…
Planning to land a dodge ram on the spam factory
Rectally cramming grandfather clock hands
Scamming bands of Ayn Rand fans
I approve of myself –
Derailed writings without direction
Making up things like “latterly”
…..better to just end it----
I approve of myself
And much of this message

engaging the clutch
smoothly transitioning through the gears
easing the accelerator
speeding into a new experience
dust trail follows behind
holding the past
in a fuzzy grasp
clinging
to lost ideals
fading in the rearview
unknown curves lie ahead
dangerous slides
rocky passes
potholes
filled with potheads
trading progress
for papers
pushing through the normal modes
I find myself in uncharted territory
new lands
strange formations
exciting prospects
prophetic
seeking unridden waves
and buried caverns
I explore my new surroundings
as a university graduate

nervous energy mingles with excited anticipation
forms filled and references collected
applications and sample writings
placed elegantly into
the large manila envelope
properly addressed
and postage applied
the waiting game commences –
did I do everything
was everything checked
bubbles filled
number two pencil only
am I good enough
can I make it
will I succeed
do I dare take the step
dip an aged toe into cool waters –
balanced attacks often
lead to lackluster victories
trophy-less athletes
line unattended playing fields
with honorable mentions
going only to the fallen
band geeks –
seeking a Masters
for fun and education
professor Temple
at the helm
leading poetry writing classes
for the incarcerated masses
lucky enough to receive call-out passes…
glass cleaner flashing crass
as the white board mocks me
asking simply,
“have you graduated yet?”

rattling prattlers straddling the erector set
injecting discontent in unarmed encampments
antagonizingly protagonisic double fister
resists the insistent reminiscers lists
of misplaced catfish….
switching grisly wrists braces
the faceless rapists playlists
include only pop hits from 1996….
You finish this  --

Opened my eyes with a tremendous start
Racing in my chest, bursting forth my heart
Longingly searching filled with desire
Mind in a blur like the house on fire
This is the feeling of all of her love
Flying around me on wings of a dove

In dreams I hear soft cooing of a dove
moved by the song to a place of warm love
basking in the glow, bright winter fire
closed eyes to memory of desire
I opened them again with such a start
I thought the shock might stop my poor ole heart

Throwing a wedge of oak on the fire
A loud knock at the door gave me a start
My blood boiled with fleeting desire
in the distance the wingbeats of a dove
sent my hands flying up to clutch my heart
noise at the door could only be my love

But the sounds I heard were not of my love
but slapping frenzy of a dying dove
looking at her body, still beating heart
knowing only the pain of desire
inside I knew this could be a new start
only if I was to fan the fire

but I lacked the drive, need, or desire
to pick up, care for, the poor wingless dove
instead kicked it over by the fire
another stick, for the fire to start
but the motion stuck me deep in my heart
and I knew this was no way to show love

Picking it up, I pressed it to my heart
And prayed with all my heartfelt desire
Asking the creator “save this poor dove”
Then, all at once, I felt some movement start
I looked at its body, light of fire
I had the power to save lives with love

T, is the way time beats on me
And I
Is for the way I internalize this line
M
Is very, very macho, malignant, and much maligned
E is for every extra entity erupting forth from England proper
Time
Is just a thing that stops my life
And time
Is just the thing that will take my wife
Oh time drags on and on and
Time
Takes everyone and
T
I
M
E
Can’t you see and just believe me
T, is for the way I tread on it
And I
Is just a little indiscriminate
M will show the rest
That M truly is the best and E
Is entrenched in Roger Eberts egg salad sandwich on Easter
Time
Is just a way to stop
Traf-fic
And time
Can make your mind act
So frantic
Time takes not one prisoner
And time creates an arthritic finger
Just go figure time will shrink you when your bigger
Time
Has so many applica-tions
And time
Works best for
Mummy preserva-tion
Time is tricky and can be so sticky
When you quickly have to move
Mrs Brisbee
Time is fleeting non discrete and
It completely ticks intrinsically
TIME!

arms stretched for miles
matching the horizon
head tilted back
blond ringlets fly
little printed dress
caught in her breeze
spins in unison
seemingly infinite …
falling onto her back
a resounding thud brings a giggle
preceding a roll onto her belly
the sun warmed field grass
pillows her gently
glancing at miniature daisies
she begins to braid
long green stems twirl and twist
leaving white petals in a perfect circle
dotted with sun colored centers
careful examination
brings a smile
and a squeal of glee
as she places her crown
delicately on soft curls
princess daisy chain rules the meadow –

slowly, I watch the second hand journey
around
and around
each minute taking me one step closer to death
each tick another lost instance
one more opportunity gone
eyes cross and vision blurs
at the mindless spinning
never ending swirl
capturing perfectly
the uselessness of this time
I am a babysitter
for grown men.
Working in prison
is all about time
line-movements
CB calls
and the eternal counting of bodies
every minute accounted for
each body forever monitored
authorized areas only –
I find myself doing time
not necessarily ‘hard’
but consistent…
I watch new guys enter the program
as old guys leave with degrees
the revolving door of college inside
yet, I remain constant as the tide
or the rising and setting sun
I am a voluntary lifer
a small, but important club.

glossy thick succulent leaf
collecting dust behind bars
and walls of brick and concrete
pushing forth delicate pink blooms
in a place void of color
sans the blue gear
of the incarcerated man
variegated patterns
soft red lines weave
amongst the dark green meadow
as if streams after a spring torrent
were breaking new paths though fields of green
seeking a river or creek
a transporter to grant them every droplets wish
a trip to the ocean
varying stages of bloom
crispy dried
and new buds barely escaping
just offering the slightest breath of color
gifting the drab yellow walls
a splash of hope
tinged with pink –

insistent banging
hot air on cold steel
keeping pace with the second hand
replacing the drum track
placed on the education floor –
sliding iron door
electric lock
shocked at the space
misplaced faces race against the case
chasing freedom thought computer tutorials
and changing attitudes
challenging inner platitudes
shrewdly scouring the ‘self’ for shreds –
surpassed expectations mitigated by short-sighted controllers
crushing spirits while building for retirement
smiling on break, sharing war stories
without consideration for rehabilitation
only condemnation –
watching light-bulb moments
day after day
inspired by other’s achievement
I sit awestruck
the stories of prison might as well have unicorns
for the reality they express
from my desk
this cesspool
smells like fresh beginnings and wider horizons
these dregs of society
move me to be the best version of myself
as they seek only to be considered by society
as equal and accepted –

at the moment of our birth

       a prediction about our death is made

                                and it always
            
                                                 comes to pass –

I looked out east this morning
The early light of day was painting the landscape
Much to my surprise the foothills of my beloved Cascades
Glowed with a lovely purple hue
Instantly my eyes filled with tears
As freedom was dying all around me
And the victims themselves
Clamored for more police-state oversight –
Was faint at first, a distant ringing
Like church bells in the neighboring township
The sound bounced aimlessly off the valley walls
Yet each time it struck my ears
My eyes filled and I caught a sob
Deep in my throat
Dylan called them the “chimes of freedom”
But I think they are ghosts of a bygone era
Haunting those of us who remember the dream –
Fascism and dissent rule the evening news
And no one is listening to the wise old bluesmen
When grandmamma is 38 with a “**** it” attitude
And the police shoot unarmed minorities in well-lit streets
Leading with bleeding is seeding discord only
public outcry is for Kayne instead of Kazakhstan
and the CIA led ***** trade
is giving narcotics anonymous new parade routes
truth hurts, like an arthritic hand
gnarled and twisted
in the freedom mist
….better get **** drunk
And reminisce about blissfulness –

Were I to have a queen,
I would adorn her
lavishly,
South African Diamonds
littered with Brazilian Emerald
and Oriental Topaz,
but I don’t, so I give her
onyx and garnets –
Were I to have a queen
She would dine, exquisitely
Caviar and Champaign
Filet Mignon with delicate wild sprigs
Hand-crafted sorbets sprinkled with fresh ground cocoa
but that is not the case,
so we eat frozen burritos and fruity pebbles –
Were I to have a queen
her fines would be worldly
Chinese silks and English cobbled shoes
flowing lace with ruffled fringe
cotton and satin depending on conditions
but I am just a regular guy
and offer flannel and polyester blends –
Were I to have a queen
she would never want for attention
I would constantly remind her of her beauty and grace
express endlessly my undying love and adoration
offer my hand at each puddle and open every door
but I do not have a queen,
I have a wife that I treat this way –

quiet moonlight
slipped effortlessly
through the tent door
creeping at first
with a slow and steady motion
soon filling the space
with soft white light –
she lay sleeping
unaware of the attack
light covered her body
giving her skin a glowing hue
broken up
only by the tattered edge
of an old afghan –
slight concern
crossed her brow
shifting muscles
attempting to hide
a face plagued
sleep interrupted
rest destroyed
by the softest
and quietest
of assailants –
I lay in stillness
admiring the struggle
knowing the ease in which
I could zip up the flap
gently place the quilt
just over her eyes
but my own selfishness
prevents me
as I have never watched
her sleep disturbed
by quiet moonlight –

regional dissidence marked by ****** exchanges
tempered anger lends itself to psychotic episodes
and the children lay in gulley’s attempting to remain hidden –
shattered glass crashes onto unpaved streets
complete with ditches dug to expedite waste removal
as the filth of a nation runs freer than the citizenry –
enter technological gods bringing stories of prosperity
visions of democracy and unity begin to shape in the heart and minds
or so they tell themselves so sleep will find them –
battered emotions bubble to the surface of faces
pressed hard against stained glass doorways
fleeting images of food strewn tables and shoes un-holed
dance across impoverished and diseased brains
incapable of self-supporting, they line tourists spots
holding shabby signs and juggling rocks for pennies
brandished with the gentleman who claims slave freedom –
desert boarders separate families languishing for acknowledgement
true Americans generationally linked to the very soil
toil in agricultural hell as whites get fat
on the backs of today’s slave system  
immigrant workers bury loved ones on the edges of factory farms
saying Catholic prayers to a corporate god
most well known for being the root of child molestation –
cartel kingpins hire babies to mule ******
DEA agents load them into vans destined for the inner city
As the forever war against minorities takes yet another turn –

rag tag *** hag grocery bag in drag
maxed credit and bragging about having a stag party
farty party girls in shart coated pantyhose blow wasted kisses
to fisters in trousers bumping mump victims blisters
hitting wristers like the Williams sisters
coyote trickster with a brand new mix tape waits
with his **** taped to his own leg like Ricky Lake
on her fist date
another Cosby **** escape hot-plated shared space
I’m no racist cause my skin is white and pasty
I’m tasty and **** like Britney sans the braces insatiable
and my testicles are reckless needing spectacles
done wrecked the hull Captain Pickard
and a test-tube girl –

Realizing my emotional connectedness,
I lay, flat backed, on rich dark soil
soaking the energy into myself
of the land that birthed me.
Engorged on unity
the song of the larks
speak openly of insect movements
and hungry and crying children;
the slight rustle of a deer mouse
breaks the trance,
only to send me spiraling
into ***** holes with furry floors
and a pile of babies
nourished on mother’s milk.
Ultra-violet rays penetrate deep
and my reddening skin swells
as the cosmos attempts to infiltrate
and expand me beyond my body…
I explode.
Flashing tree bodies blur
as I, propelled forth, recognize
this is flight…
glancing to the left I see feathered wings
beating frantically
altering ever so gently our trajectory
I settle on a nest edge.
Regaining my senses,
I look atop an old snag
to see the focused eye
of the hawk looking back at me,
we share the moment
as we share the forest.

soft scents of drying lavender send me reeling
                    my eyes close to an image
                                    her smile

delicate shoots of fresh spring green
                     hold our bodies
                                     we smile

geese speak to the shifting seasons
                       our laugher matches their song
                                        I smile

morning mist lays thick upon the valley floor
                        shortening days bring yellowed leaf
                                         she smiles

thin rays pass folded curtain
                        morning sunshine plays across her freckles
                                           I smile