I’m a hard-hearted woman;
I’ve seen too much of life.
I’ve seen the conflict, I’ve seen the strife.
I’ve seen the kindergarten
with its bombed-out walls.
And I know that your tax dollars
paid for it all.
Killing people in their homes,
in their hospitals, and schools,
was outlawed by the world
after World War II.
Do you need to question why
it breaks all the rules?
Putting people into camps,
and bulldozing where they lived--
so you can steal their land--
is a crime I can’t forgive.
There has to be one Law
for us all, on this planet.
There is no such thing as justice
if everyone can’t have it.
Your people aren’t special,
and no, they’re not “Chosen.”
They’re grandiose fanatics,
shooting, bombing and
bulldozing.

It's HELL.  
It's a po' try.
It ain't pro--retry.
It's a poo hole.
It ain't purty.
Sinkin' lo, yo.
It's loopy.

The wise know where a hero stands--
upon the shoulders of another man.
Or a woman. Truth be told,
there’s more to legends than what we’re sold.
There’s a legion behind every famous one:
Footsoldiers, workers, slogging from sun to sun.
They build the movement that changes history--
collective action—not Him; it’s We.
Or the art, or invention, of ground-breaking power,
from a  “genius” who above us does tower.
His inspiration is the work of others,
connected souls-- sisters and brothers.
Each weaves a strand of the magic thread.
From hundreds of others the genius is fed.
He finishes work with skillful design,
then sometimes falsely claims “it’s mine.”

I am Ma’am.
Ma’am I am.
And if I order
green eggs and ham
at the café,
you can say,
“We don’t serve that here,
Ma’am.”

Miss, I’m not.
I am not Miss.
That appellation
is a dis.
Take a look,
and you’ll see this:
I’m 53, not 18.
I may be older than I seem,
but my days of girlhood are long gone.
And to call me “Miss” would just be wrong.
So call me “Ma’am;” it’s what I am.
You might think “Miss” is hip or flip,
but if you call me that there’ll be no tip.

My love, my guiding light,
shield me from the horrors
of this mortal world's blight--
the sorrow, and the pain,
and blood running into rivers
like rain.
I close my eyes and curse my sight.
But as I turn to you, your image
blocks out the deepening night.
I imagine your hand, your fingers touching mine
(though you will never be mine). With you,
I am home. I walk through the night
to where it is always day; I shall never be alone.

Contagious Infospores infect
the wild, wild internet west.
Apparently the worst is the best
that some can do.
The goal, to make truth suspect--
to interject
theories of conspiracies.
Connect, connect, don’t inspect
too closely.

It’s mostly
slander to create fear,
garbled and unclear
to avoid lawsuits
(which doesn’t seem to be working).
Fat toad preys on weak minds
who can’t be bothered to analyze
information and facts.
They prefer hysterical attacks.
It's easier to fear and hate
than digest cause and effect, and accept ineluctable fate--
than to consider responsibility,
mistakes and liability.
It’s simpler when it’s all a plot
by the powerful to persecute you
(as if they have nothing better to do).
And to remember that people whom  you fear and hate
are people not unlike you.
26 dead people didn’t disappear.
They are in the ground, and in the hearts and minds
of those who are living, here.

I am lost in the forest;
show me the path.
I’m exposed on the mountain;
take me from the storm’s wrath.
I’m on the side of the road--
don’t let bad guys stop.
I’m a prisoner at home,
waiting for you to get a cop.
The whirlwind surrounds me;
be my eye in the storm.
Take me out of the blizzard
to your home safe and warm.

I think about you.
I think about you hard.
I didn't like your attitude;
it left my image of you marred.
You were immature,
sometimes a nasty ****.
But there’s a thought about you
that’s a real perk:
It might be naughty,
it might be sick,
but I find my thoughts turn pleasant
when I think about your ****.

You annoyed me day and night,
and drove me a bit crazy.
There are some things that  I remember
that I wish were hazy.
Your voice was whiny,
your habits loathsome.
You smoked and stayed up late;
I'd wish that I was lonesome.
Except for that bit about you--
the key that fit my lock--
it’s what I miss about you.
My dear, it’s just your ****.

You talked too much.
You weren’t very bright.
I pretended I was listening
as you rambled on all night.
You didn’t pay the bills.
I mostly cooked the food.
Our stupid arguments
left me in a foul mood.
But even when my thoughts
about you were at their meanest,
I somehow changed my view
when I thought about your *****.

There’s no way to separate
you from your biggest asset.
So though you looked like trouble,
in every single facet,
I tolerated much--
more than I’d like to remember--
because of my strange attraction
to your firm and friendly member.

I asked you to tell your story.
But you lied--
you closed the door on me.

Betrayed  in younger years,
your pain never faded.
It petrified, into a rock wall
high and sheer.

I can turn the key slowly,
unlocking the mystery  
of how old wounds still sting, but,
it’s no quick release from misery.

You found relief
in an inanimate remedy.
Or was it the chance of death you took
that entranced you,
a needle roulette, not Russian,
but just as deadly?

I cried
when I heard you had died
in your ecstatic reverie.
And the crimes that had been
perpetrated against you
were upgraded by Fate
from neglect to homicide.

Is Pride truly a sin?
Is it better to submit, to put out the fire within?
Why bow down to those who are inferior? Why bow down at all?
It’s true, Pride did lead to your Fall.
But as a great poet once said,
to rule oneself trumps any cushioned servitude.
Self-rule, once viewed,
will never be forsaken.
I hear your name vilified by those terrified, yet to awaken
from their childish dreamland--
those who cannot imagine taking a stand,
who fear to seize their own power.
(Can they be reached--to join with us in this hour?)
Perhaps your weakness was not Pride but Faith—
a belief that more would rebel,  dismantle the lathe
of Heaven, free the cherubim and seraphim. Not Arrogance but Hope.
It must be difficult at times to cope
with your failure.
But take heart, the rebellion continues, though not above.
Those of us to whom you gave Knowledge wage the struggle on Earth,
where we pursue Truth,
but do not forget Love.

Like water, like flowing rivulets,
notes fly from fingers fast on frets.
Slippery sinuous shimmering tones
(complemented by brash bluesy Bones).
Like storm’s thunder and lightning a chord
brings the sky to us on earth—
or is it that we fly , then die until the rebirth
in gentle reverb of a note two octaves higher?
Strange how rain coexists with fire.
Drench us in the cascade born from your desire.

Little Red was a fast runner; she sped round the track with surprising velocity. Freddi Wolf was a newcomer, with size and intensity. "What big shoulders you have," said Red. "And you’re towering over me." "Don’t worry," said Freddi; "I’m just a girl who tries hard; you  could probably beat me". "Your legs are quite hairy," said Red. "I don’t shave them with frequency." "And your voice is so deep." "No more comments! Have decency."  They both ran very fast, but Wolf took the win. He bared his white fangs when he collected his trophy. But he quickly changed his expression to a sheepish grin.

In the last pandemic,
I fell in love with a sick person.
We didn’t stay 6 feet apart.
I pressed my head on his chest
and listened to his beating heart.
We shared our limbs and our breath,
and there was only one part
of him that threatened me with death.
I miss the days when we knew
what risks we were taking.
But we still  measure love that’s true
by what we are willing
to do and to not do.

if you can guess who this is about I will promote your poem with a sun*

Taking my journey quotidian,
I tripped on a piece of obsidian;
I saw it in front of me,
but kept walking, heedlessly,
perhaps seeking some sort of oblivion.

Women—I’m just one of a  million.
But I offer my heart of vermilion!
I’d cross over the sea,
and love you tenderly,
if you’d  just hear my plea--
--so will you then?

I’ll meet you in the meadow, among the wildflowers.
I’ll meet you on the mountaintop, at the break of dawn.
I’ll meet you by the fountain, where we will while away the hours;
I’ll greet you with a poem, I’ll greet you with a song.

I’ll meet you on the steps of the cathedral made of stone;
I’ll be wearing white and gold, and my hair will be braided.
We will walk toward the altar, where vows we will intone.
We would remember always, our love that never faded.

I’ll meet you in my visions, I’ll meet you in my dreams.
We live together always in my vivid memory.
We will never be apart in the essence of my psyche,
because although you died, you still live as part of me.

I saw you standing, dressed to ****.
Perhaps waiting for someone to tell you of her thrill--
the thrill that you give, when you start to sing.
I should’ve told you then that I’d been listening.
I’d just started to listen, just begun to catch the fire;
it wasn’t until later that I burned with desire.
Then I fell for you, I fell for you deep.
You’ve been playing with my mind; you’ve been visiting my sleep.
I wish I’d told you then, that I’d give you anything;
though nothing I could give you, would equal what you bring--
what you bring to me nightly, what you touch in my core.
When you’re next in town, go out the back door.
I’ll show you the stars,  I’ll show you the lights;
I’ll give you what you crave at the  end of the nights.
I’ll tell you of my dream, I’ll tell you of my vision,
then I’ll worship at the altar of my one true religion.

Follow me, to the edge of night,
beyond the day, to grey twilight.
Beyond the rules of right and wrong.

You came with me. We walked along
a wind-blown path to a hidden cave.
It was reckless,  but not brave.

Deep we went into the dusk
where we obeyed the law of lust.
But when we’d gone a bit too far,
the way back was dim; had I crossed the bar?

The  familiar became rearranged
in our walled-off space. You were strange.
Perspective changed in these dim rooms
(where even now your shadow looms).
I could come and go, but never leave.
In *******, I saw no reprieve

Years have passed since I saw you last.
Your memory is fading fast.
But lessons linger from a lust
that nearly turned my life to dust.

In human form, only a man.
Yet, as I stand before you, I
see a Messenger of the Divine.
Struck dumb, I am at your command.
Take your pen, and with your hand,
write your name,
then etch it into stone.
Give me this token, so, as I travel this earth, alone,
(wherever I may roam)
I will remember that you are mortal
and frail, like me.
Though you serve as Messenger
of this Divinity.

"My Muse"

Lovely is my muse;
my senses he delights.
Flirty is my muse;
my passion he ignites.
He's the inspiration
for my odes and for my rhymes,
my sonnets and ballads,
even limericks, at times.
Sometimes my muse is lonely
and he fills my heart with pity.
He teases and eludes me;
I must chase him through the city.
At times he disappoints me--
I turn heartbreak into verses.
Heartbreak turns to anger;
I revile my muse with curses.
Someday I’ll tell my muse
of all the poems he’s inspired,
and when inspiration fails me,
my muse, well, he’ll be fired!

This old house is a crumblin’ down
This old house is a tumblin’ down
The paint is peeling
water drips from the ceiling
and the foundation’s sinking
into the ground.

The wiring’s faulty and the floors have a tilt.
The ground it was built on was actually silt.
The basement has rats,
the attic’s got  bats
and the neighborhood’s ruled by feral cats.

The driveway needs paving;
just who will be saving
this rotten old house at the end of the road?

I’d build a new house if only I could.
If I could do it, you know I would.
But I can’t tear it down and begin again.
It’s my home and I'm here to the end.

“I am a jealous God,” said the Hebrews’ deity.
Ain’t got patience for a jealous God, for I’m a spirit free.
I have many idols, on this terrestrial sphere.
And if I didn’t worship them, I’d surely not be here.
For they are Icons, real, of what I have struggled to attain,
my ideals and aspirations, or of persistence through the pain.
I worship them with love, despite their fallibility.
They guide me and inspire me,
with their strength and creativity.
For example-- modern martyrs, who’ve sacrificed for others;
I'm sure that Jesus would think of them as sisters and as brothers.
And rock and roll; it’s my religion; I know the Promised Land
cannot be much like heaven, without my favorite band.
What I seek but never find is Plato’s ideal vision--
the unseen perfect version of our seen world. My submission
is to something that we know by feeling, and I think it must be said
that the traveling to find it cannot start by being dead.
Surely Poetry and Art are to be followed, as a creed;
they can be read and seen, and then, perhaps, believed.
Music is transcendent, call it the Flesh made Word--
not reserved for us in heaven, but here, on earth, is heard.
Nature is a Goddess; her work is the creation;
we strive to understand it, through rational “divination,”
using math and science, objective experimentation.
I have so many idols; I can’t limit adoration
to just one jealous God and his righteous indignation.
The Bible is a document that’s full of truth, I know;
but it was written a long, long time ago.
I’m keeping all my idols, for they soothe me and inspire me.
I’ll continue in my “lifestyle” of spiritual polyamory.
You may say I’m going to “Hell” for my sinful apostasy,
but I’m not afraid of the future grave,
for I’ll have lived with ecstasy.

We are divided, they say--but it isn’t true.
The way I judge right v. wrong is no different from you.
Let’s not confuse acts from a few
with what most people think or what most people do.
Most people wouldn’t strangle a helpless man.
A psychopath did it because he knows, “I can.”
Most people wouldn’t shoot unless in harm’s way.
A cop pulls the trigger because he knows he won’t pay.

It’s about how we don’t do what we must--
we don’t hold accountable those we entrust
with a badge and a gun. They **** with impunity.
To end this we must act with unity:
Some must be indicted and go to prison,
or we’ll have more deaths for no good reason.

Your left knee is arthritic,
Your spine is warping too
Your reactions aren’t so quick
And you’re often in the loo,
But we cannot help you
Your time is simply due.
It’s normal for your age.

Your skin’s become quite dry
As well as your nether parts
Your outfit isn’t fly
And you’re far more prone to farts
But it’s been written in the cards
It’s been sung by many bards
It’s normal for your age.

You tell me it’s an illness
And you want it treated fast
I’m afraid it’s your willfulness
You weren’t designed to last
The diagnosis is that your youth is in the past
We won’t treat your condition; the die’s already cast.
It’s normal for your age.

So you think that you like “horror.”
Well, I’ve got some for you--
trying fleeing a burning building
with bombs dropping around you.

So you think that you like “kink,”
and want to be whipped and tied.
If you’d been a slave in the antebellum South
this could have been how you died.

So you like to play at “Slave” and “Master.”
What a ******* joke.
Some who were really slaves
died strung up with a rope.

You like watching blood and torture
when it’s on a  movie screen.
Aren’t you the lucky one--
you won’t see it again and again, in dreams.

If you’d ever lived outside
your privileged, First World life,
you would not find “entertainment”
in scenes of death and strife.

If you’d ever been a helpless victim
of cruelty or ****,
you would know it’s not entertainment,
but a hell, that some never escape.

I want to know
your secret corridors,
your room of masks,
your hidden box.
I want to strip your wrappings,
untie the strings,
  learn all the numbers
of your combination locks.
I want to breathe your scent,
taste your bitterness,
feel the electric
of our lips’ touch.
I want to stroke your passion
while you hold my hand.
I  want you, want you…
so much.

Say the much-beloved words--
that until now, had been unheard.
A voice and face imparts a life
to a book’s words in black and white.
Imagination can deliver
landscape, drama, suspense (shivers).
But a living human can
turn dream and thought into a man.

Awaken at last, glorious spring;
renewal of life, trees blossoming,
birds mating, and flowers blooming,
women in diaphanous dresses, flowing.
Is April the cruelest month? Knowing
that May’s eruption will soon be showing?

I'm off to the Bay area tomorrow*

Throw me toward the setting sun--
to the West, when my work is done.
Land me at the golden door
of California’s northern shore.
Fiery orange steel-gird gate
tempts those weary of their fate.
Defy the plunge that ends it all,
and heed the sunshine’s cheery call.
Traverse the gate, into the wild,
where restless souls may rest awhile,
beyond the towns, toward the coast,
where whales return and hawks will roost.
The golden hills of Sonoma
will calm the pains of any trauma.
The wines and vines of the Napa valley
will help to pass the time happily.
And as you cross the Golden Gate
the Pacific blue will calmly wait.
Glance to the east and you will see
the placid Bay by the white city.
The sky is bigger here; it spans
the hills, the bridge, the bay and ocean.
Its azure grandeur soon dispels
any suicidal notion.

Not far from the ocean, not far from the town,
the South Beach turkeys roam the hospital grounds.
They serve no purpose, they do as they please,
they preen and they strut in the salty sea breeze.
Sometimes they just stand and look around.
They find tasty grubs in the trees and the ground.
Sometimes they chase, sometimes they cluck;
they do as they please; they don’t give a f*
It’s a bird’s life, on the grounds of South Beach.
Perhaps there’s a lesson that these birds could teach--
no need to hurry, just do what you need.
Fly if you can, or just sit in a tree.
Watch the passersby as they go to and fro.
Or just stand around and watch the grass grow.
Some thought they were pests and wanted them gone;
but to **** them for no reason would just be wrong.
At times I have thought that they might be tasty--
wild birds raised in nativity—with stuffing and gravy.
Surely much better than from the factory farm--
(and it’s a shame that to those birds we cause so much harm).
But shooting a turkey who sits on a lawn
would mean calling the cops, with their guns drawn.
So the turkeys live on, and I sing their song.
I’d miss their feathered glory, if one day they were gone.

Some say the world will end in fire;
some say in rain.
I’ve seen the world end
again and again.
I’ve heard the bell toll
and the raven talk.
I’ve walked to the end of the pier
and seen the boat crashed up on the rock.
But each time I arise,
I awake to face the dawn.
Because there’s always one more job to do,
while I whistle one more song.

Take my hand, as I walk this path--
guide me on this rocky road.
Stay with me until the end--
help me carry this heavy load.

Teach me joy and ecstasy;
be my love and inspiration.
Light my fire and set me free;
make each day a celebration.

Give me hope and make me see
how to be that which I aspire to be.
All have flaws that make us human
and the path before us is uncertain,

but whatever crosses I may bear
they are lighter knowing you are there.

I’m a killer but don’t have a gun
I’m a mother but don’t have a son
I’m a lover but don’t have a man
I’m a celebrity who’s missing a fan
I’m a politician without a campaign
I’m the loner who might be insane
I’m an athlete, with no race to run
I’m a community, of one.
I lead many lives, but mostly in rhyme
I’ll be everyone
and no one
if given enough time.

The DSM likes to label
everything that it is able:
If you think your temper’s bad
or ‘cause of troubles you are sad
or you defy the moral order,
remember that it’s a disorder.

Once we had the Seven Deadlies,
but now they’re only symptom medleys.
If people would take responsibility--
learn acceptance, and humility--
they might cure what’s made them ill.
The answer’s not found in a pill.

Disaster strikes and leaves its scars;
a sympathetic ear goes far
to help someone to heal from pain.
It might be a disease
when victims find there’s no surcease
from memories, from guilt that stains.
But time and talk could heal those scars.
Taking pills goes just so far.

It’s all genetic, so they claim.
But when you look at histories
of patients sad and suicidal
some things all seem to be the same:
A loss, abuse or child neglect;
much sorrow, guilt and pain abject.
Can it just be coincidental?
And if it’s a glitch that’s only chemical
why is the healing incremental?
Why aren’t patients all soon happy
when they take their magic pill?
I believe what makes us ill
is more than random


Pharmacology’s limitations
are seldom spoken to the patients.
A quick fix is what we’re sold,
the risks and chances we’re not told.

I’ve a soft spot for you;
you press my tender button.
My heart’s a big furry teddy bear
with arms wide open.
I want to ruffle up your hair--what’s left of it.
Walk over here— my lap’s for you to sit.
Wait, you’re too heavy— I forget that you’re a man.
Perhaps I'll sit on top of you—
that's a better plan.
I’ve bought you dark chocolates-- treats for my sweet boy.
You’ve brought me red wine-- when I’m drunk, I am your toy.
Playtime’s fun; we can make or break the rules--
we’ll play House; we’ll play School.
We'll play all through our nap time, until the coffee's brewed.
We'll add some sprigs of wild thyme to our diabetic food.

I’ve a soft spot for you;
you press my tender button.
My heart’s a big furry teddy bear
with arms wide open.
I want to ruffle up your hair--what’s left of it.
Walk over here— my lap’s for you to sit.
Wait, you’re too heavy— I forget that you’re a man.
Perhaps I'll sit on top of you—
that's a better plan.
I’ve bought you dark chocolates-- treats for my sweet boy.
You’ve brought me red wine-- when I’m drunk, I am your toy.
Playtime’s fun; we can make or break the rules--
we’ll play House; we’ll play School.
We'll play all through our nap time, until the coffee's brewed.
We'll add some sprigs of wild thyme to our diabetic food.

Lucifer, save us; come up from Hell—
take a good look at the place that we dwell.
You were right all along
to refuse to bow down
to Adam and Eve
and their limitless throng.
And how could you have known that the apple you gave her
would plant seeds of pollution, destruction and terror?
You thought that we’d only use knowledge for good.
I know that you’d take it all back if you could.
Lucifer, we aren't angels like you.
We joined your rebellion, and soon we’ll be through.
Now the recourse from the wreckage that is,
is to bring on the foreshadowed Apocalypse.
So come on, Luci, don’t hesitate:
The Four Horsemen are pacing; why delay Fate.
After the End, there will be a new start,
perhaps without humans; we’ll bow and depart.

(another re-post from Poetfreak)

Poet, weave your words
into a tapestry of desire.
Cross the warp of loneliness
against the weft of tenderness.
Fashion fabric of sweet caress
to keep us warm, awhile.

Poet, spin your wheel;
press the verbs and nouns
into a *** for our hopes and fears,
to catch the water of our tears,
to hold the memories of the years.
Fire a vessel of your renown.

Poet, strike the iron
into a blade so sharp and true.
Forge a sentence with raging heat,
measure a meter with rhythmic beat,
take words from the dictionary, or the street--
let the smoke of pretense go up the flue!

A magic spell to undo fear.
A charm to make care disappear.
An invocation against desolation.
An elixir for agitation.
Just three words I swear are true–
to repeat three times–”I love you.”

The songmaker is my shepherd; I shall not despair.
His melodies make me lie down in green meadows;
His chords lead me by still waters.
He restores my soul, and leads me in the path of harmony.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of silence,
I will not fear loneliness, for you are with me; your blues guitar
responds to me, your notes like raindrops wash away tears.
You prepared a table for me in the high school cafeteria.
You quickened my pulse; my ecstasy was with you.
Surely comfort and joy will follow me all the days of my life,
and I will dwell in the Houses of the Holy, for evermore.