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CHAPTER ONE

My geographic movements during the past year could be called “A Tale of Two Couches.” So as June draws to a close, I assume the position here again on Couch California. I am back in Hemet, the place the smug among us call Hemetucky--as if there was nothing a couple of Mint Juleps and a **** of Blue Grass wouldn’t cure. It is the year of our Lord, 2014: so far an interesting year for women. There was a woman who wore socks to bed. There was always my long-time, here today-gone tomorrow, long time companion, currently teaching somewhere remote on the Big Rez, a southwestern Navajo concentration camp near the 4 Corners.  Next, there’s my current object of affection, that fine and frisky lady from The Bronx by way of Bernalillo--currently at home in Laguna Beach, Orange County. Trixie: my main squeeze at the moment.

And now, completely out of the ******* blue this afternoon, my cell phone rings and it’s ******* Juanita--my all-time favorite woman, Juanita Mi Favorita de La Quinta--a Coachella Valley town and desert wadi, extending its lucrative winter tourist season to become a significant, year-round retirement venue and a robust service economy feeding off it.  Juanita arrived there in the late 80s, in middle of her early forties.  She was unemployed, homeless, just a suitcase to her name and a two-year old toddler in tow. Her parents were there, as was her Aunt Peggy.  Juanita was always Peggy’s favorite niece, her favorite child, actually, Peggy herself being childless, never married.  Aunt Peggy put her maternal instincts to work on Juanita Rodriguez, her Sister Rosalia’s second favorite twin daughter.

Maria, Rosalia’s first favorite daughter, Juanita’s twin sister—MARIA: lives in Newport Beach and acts as an extra in many commercial ads shot in southern California and elsewhere, an irony never without sting for Juanita. “Que lastima!” Poor Juanita: as her would-be Hollywood Movie star aspirations disintegrated over the years, along with her unrealized lower expectations to be TV star, and even those semi-glamorous modeling gigs at trade shows and fairs—the elephant’s graveyard of the acting profession—failed to materialize, and now her celebrity habitat shrunken even further, to that sporadic but consistent mockery of stardom, I refer to any would-be thespian’s ignominious one-celled visual protozoan: The Extra Call List.  And—*******-- what happens next? Juanita’s sister Maria starts getting these parts, starts getting hired by filling out a ******* postcard, starts getting paid to look good in the background. *******: no professional education or instruction, no agent, and no need to **** off both the producer, the producer’s cousin Morey, the director and the director’s wife’s huge Golden retriever, Genghis--actually a mighty handsome animal--or needing to spill $4K on that Derma-brasion, Juanita inflicted on herself last year.

Juanita, as you already know, was the second favorite daughter and the second favorite twin of the family. She became the third favorite child in her three-child family upon the arrival of her slick baby brother Nico-- the Golden Child, who grew up to be a glib Merrill-Lynch stockbroker, office and residence, Beverly Hills 90112.  (Enter forcefully into the narrative, His Nibs himself, Sir Nicodemus of Hollywood, Juanita and Maria’s baby brother Nico. He speaks: “Excuse me, stockbroker my ***, as it says in a 11 point Rockwell Boldfont, right here on my gold-leaf embossed business card: Senior Large Capital Investment Counselor.”)

No, Juanita had a hard time just treading water in that Cleveland shark tank. And though she lacked nothing in the cuteness department, she had this one fatal flaw, namely, the gift of ***** and sass and a reflex to speak truth to power. Juanita: rejected by Rosalia as a threat to her hegemony as Boss of the Girl’s Club, was cast adrift on a tempestuous childhood cruel Montserrat sea, out there on the briny deep . . .  
                

                                      



High Seas: where many a tuna has a Sorry Charlie moment: “Star-Kist don’t want no tuna with good taste; Star-Kist wants a tuna that tastes good.”

Finally, Juanita is rescued, taken aboard the Good/Soul Aunt Peggy—that wayward bark Elisabeta Rodriguez, home-ported in Southside, Chicago, Illinois—the rescue at sea performed in classy, rather low-key manner; no Andrea Doria drama, but understated:

{Camera One, Helicopter above, zooms over turbulent ocean surface. Peggy, an oasis of calm, aboard the raft Kon Tiki with Thor Heyerdahl and his crew, floats by, whispering, “Going my way, Honey? Climb aboard. Have a homemade oatmeal cookie and a small glass tumbler of Jack Daniels.” Okay, no, that’s not fair. Sure Aunt Peggy drank, but never got round to offering you a drink until you were well into your 30s. Let’s just say she offered you a warm glass of milk, the mother’s milk deprived you by your mother, her sister Rosalia. Dear Aunt Peggy: a seasoned survivor herself, flawed by early childhood deafness and grotesque speech.  Yet, she had refused to settle for life in an asylum. She made a go at life.  She learned; she prospered; she flourished. And when the time came, she was there for you in the Coachella Desert, there for her feisty niece Juanita Ann.  Aunt Peggy: a loving spirit personified, became Juanita’s special confidant and counselor, her personal cheer squad of one. Juanita, of course, a former cheerleader herself--an early hint of greatness to be sure, a highlight, perhaps the highlight of her life, shown off every Halloween, still celebrated at American high schools each Fall. She is the Principal’s secretary at a huge suburban high school in Indio. Each Halloween, if the date falls on a school day, Juanita arrives for work wearing that scrupulously preserved, vintage 1966 cheerleader uniform, looking real foxy still, snug now in all the right places. Eternal Truth: Juanita has always and will always be good looking. Life with Juanita is perpetual “ooh la-la.”

So, I am on the couch that afternoon, reading more of Gramsci’s prison notebooks, specifically the philosophy he calls “Praxis.”  Completely out of the ******* blue, Juanita calls me on a RESTRICTED phone, as I said, Juanita, a torch I’ve kept burning for years, flaring up like a refinery flame--oil still very much in the present energy mix--hope springing eternal as they say, and instantly my mission in life is rekindling our lost love. Juanita’s conceived her mission prior to her phone call:  using me to keep her son from being whacked by the local Eme--the Mexican Mafia—that ethnic-pride social club that the RICO-squad-- using family tree socio-grams and other expensively-printed graphics, the one RICO keeps trying to convince us is some sort of organized crime conspiracy. The Mexican Mafia: like everything else practical and utilitarian in this world: THAT’S ITALIAN! And, if you are starting to sense a bit of ethnic chauvinism on, between & below the lines, you are barking up the right tree.
                                                           ­     
      
                                                            
(AUTHOR’S POST-SCRIPT EDIT: And, an ad for dog food right here? Not the best choice of sponsors, perhaps, at the moment. Juanita was far off from the ****** ***** that start looking not half-bad at 2:30 in the glazy morning, not anywhere near those beasts you find lingering in the airport bars you usually frequent near closing time on Saturday nights. No, I remind you that Juanita was all “ooh la-la.” In my next printing—and my Lord, there have been so many, haven’t there, Paulie “Eat-a-Bag-of-****” Muldoon? I will change out the Alpo ad, plugging in a spot for Aunt Jemima pancake syrup or Betty Crocker whipped cream, you know, something more apropos.)

Juanita, I really must hand it to you. You showed the greatest staying power, year after year as I moved further and further away from La Quinta, California. Juanita: you embraced what was good in me, ignored my flaws and strengthened me with your love for so many years. As far as you and Peggy, I guess it was a case of the “apple not falling far from the tree” one of many endearing Midwestern metaphors you taught me.  Peggy taught you, taught you to be kind and then you taught me. No matter what bizarre venue I pulled out of my ***, you showed above-average staying power, continued to visit me wherever I went, Casa Grande & Buckeye, Arizona, Appalachia, West Virginia, and even Italy, when I thought I’d try Europe again after so many years.  With each move, each time, Juanita renewed her commitment to the relationship. Meanwhile, I continued to test her, quantifying her dedication, undermining her sense of mission to disprove my worldview on the expendability of women. Surely, you know that one: the unreliability of women, women who disappear without saying goodbye. That old deeply etched conviction to never get attached to a woman, any woman, based on the empirical fact that women have been known to suddenly die, a fact seared into my still tender metal by the surprise death of my mother on 11 January 1962.

1962. It was already an insecure world, to wit:  The Cuban Missile Crisis. Nikita Khrushchev, in his time both Dr. No and Dr. Evil, namely the Premier whom we Baby Boomers saw as Boogey Man of All Time (Although Putin is showing potential, lately)—the Kennedy ****** (what else could you call it?). All these events scary, whether or not I got the chronology right . . . I remained on high alert for any threat to my delicate adolescent psyche.  My mother-Rosa Teresa Sekaquaptewa-died at 2 o’clock in the morning, screaming in agony while apologizing to my father for not having his dinner on the table when he walked in from work that prior afternoon. She’d already been in bed since noon, attended by two of my aunts--both my father’s sisters--who loved their Hopi sister-in-law, Rosa.  Also present was Lafcadio Smirnoff, M.D.--last of the house call medicine men--a dapper, mustachioed, swarthy gentleman, misdiagnosing her abdominal pain as a 24-hour virus, while she bled out internally for at least eight more hours, her whimpers alternated with screams, well into the wee hours of the morning.

I was upstairs in that dormer bedroom listening to her die. An hour later, Father Numb-nuts of Our Lady of Lourdes Parish teleported in, beaming directly into my bedroom from the parish rectory.  Father Seamus Numb-nuts, an illuminated Burning Bush . . . not quite the bush I ‘d conjured at other times, so many times alone with Gwen Wong, ******* Playmate of the Year, 1961, one of Hefner’s hot centerfolds. No, give me a ******* break, you momo! Whacking off is the last thing on a libidinous, adolescent guinea’s brain when his mama is being tortured and killed by God. Even Alexander Portnoy, Philip Roth’s early avatar would have drawn the wanking line at that unforgettable moment.

No, perhaps what I’d had in mind was The Burning Bush Golf Course where so much of Fletcher Kneble’s political mischief and government shenanigans got cooked up. You remember his books, some of the Cold War’s finest: Seven Days in May, Vanished, etc.

Or better yet, perhaps the greatest political slogan of the 20th century: “STAY OUT THE BUSHES!” Thank you, Jesse. “Thank you, Reverend Jackson,” I slip into my Excellence in Broadcasting mode, my very own private Limbaugh. Announcing my on- air arrival is El Rushbo’s unmistakable, totally recognizable bass line bumper, courtesy of Chrissie Hynde’s Pretenders band mate, guitarist Tony Butler: Dum, dum, dum-dum, Da-dum, dum-dum-dum-dum-da-dum-dum. Single, “My City Was Gone” by The Pretenders
Rush Limbaugh Song– YouTube www.youtube.com/watch?v=SScW9r0y3c4

I become Reverend Jackson. I emerge from the vapors, an obscure abyss of deep family pangs and disappointments, ever-diminishing public relevance and fade to black (no pun intended) and media oblivion. The only thing left is that line:  “STAY OUT THE BUSHES!” You will always own that line, Jesse--true political genius (to wit: Rainbow Coalition) Jackson that you are, despite El Rush-Bo’s virulent anti-Black animus, his predilection to mock you, Al Sharpton, Corey Booker, Barack “Hussein” Obama, and any other professional ***** in America. Isn’t it time someone came right out and tagged Mr. Limbaugh as the Father Coughlin of our time.

Meanwhile back in The Bronx, enter another man of the cloth:  It’s Seamus Numb-nuts, making one of his many well-documented spectral visitations, his splendiferous miracles and wonders. How much longer will the Vatican ignore this humble Bronx priest, this epitome of Sainthood; this reverent man, lacking only the stigmata for a unanimous consent vote? Quote the Numb-nuts: “God Works in Mysterious Ways.” An old standard to be sure, but a lovely, all-purpose bromide for explaining why evil exists in our world. Needless to say, I was underwhelmed; I lost God at that moment, consequently shooting myself in the foot--metaphorically-speaking-condemning myself to an unshielded life, life OUT THE BUSHES!  I went forth into the world without God, without that handy divine crutch, that Andy Devine metaphor for when one’s legs grow weary: a puff of smoke, a reverb twang and a nasty frog croaking “Hi-ya, Kids. Hi-ya, Hi-ya. Hi-ya.”

   Andy's Gang - Pasta Fazooli vs. Froggy the Gremlin - YouTube
► 3:55► 3:55
www.youtube.com/watch?v=H35odPm7b3w Aug 8, 2012 - Uploaded by jmgilsinger
Froggy the Gremlin -Tuba ... Andy Devine (Aug 24, 1952)

Life for me became lonely and purposeless. And probably explains my susceptibility to military discipline and a subsequent career in clandestine government service. In 1968--the very day I turned nineteen, September 25th of that year—that fateful day when I should have shot myself in the foot—literally not metaphorically--earning that coveted 4-F physical rejection, a draft deferment to be desired, that 4-F classification of unfitness for duty, a necessary loophole in U.S. conscript service law.  The Draft: last used during that great commonwealth Cold War purge, that culling out of the unwashed, uneducated children of immigrants, that cut-rate, discount, lower socio-economic ***** bank—the only bank where after you make a deposit, you lose interest, to wit: most Black, Hispanic and Poor White Trash parents.  We were cannon fodder, many of us got to be planted at Arlington and other holy American shrines, still wrapped in black or olive drab leak-proof body bags, doing our generational bit to strengthen the gene pool left behind. A debt, some would say, we owed the country and, given the sorry state of the global wicket, increasingly an obligation to the species. And if I had to predict an outcome, Fascism in America will arrive riding the white horse of the environmental, anti-nuclear Bolsheviks. One could argue that Communism has moved so far left on the political spectrum that it’s now the far right.  Concoct a legislative policy goal, accomplish it legally as the bill becomes Law, signed by the President, endorsed and blessed by The U.S. Supreme Court, the highest court in the land.

To wit: “Three generations of imbeciles is enough?” declared Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr., an Associate Supreme Court Justice at the time, buttressing a majority argument harnessing the power of U.S. law as a legal means of purifying the race.  When euthanasia failed to win over American hearts and mind, the Federal Government played the war card again and again. Vietnam: undeclared and therefore unconstitutional--except for that Gulf of Tonkin ******* resolution. Vietnam: a cost-plus eugenics project, if ever there was one, although responsive, of course, to the needs of the Military-Industrial Complex.  ******* Ike: he warned us against Fascism in America. As usual, we ignored the man in charge.

Eugenics? Why didn’t the government just put all the retards on the stand, as John Frankenheimer did in Judgment at Nuremberg, a crafty Maximilian Schell humiliating a feeble-minded Montgomery Clift?  Why not, make everyone face a public tribunal, forcing all of us to testify in court, exposing our many substandard and borderline substandard cerebral deficits?  Why not force everyone to demonstrate just how ******* dumb we are, using some clever intelligence test, something l
louis rams Oct 2012
(10/13/12)

At the beginning of “64” - I packed up my uniform
And walked out the door- it was the beginning of
The Vietnam war.
By August of that same year
President  Johnson started the draft
Under protests and jeers.

Then he made it a full scale war
And sent our soldiers to Vietnam shores.
The Beatniks in Greenwich village
With their long hair, beards, and
Flip flop sandals - wrote their poetry
About this undeclared war, and why
Our men were going to those shores.

This created a new generation called ‘HIPPIES”
The hippie generation was groups of protesters
Against everything that they found wrong
The draft , the war , pollution
And loved to stay high with ***, hashish
Coke and acid (lsd) which kept them blasted.

This also created the “ flower children”
Who like the hippies loved to be high
And on certain flowers they would fly.
But they spoke of loving one another
And gave out flowers as a sign of peace
Which to the president was a relief.

They all started painting this “53 Chevy impala”
With the words “ flower power”.
Now the “ flower children and hippie movement
Was in full swing, and everyone was doing their own thing.

They had  Greenwich village under their control
And not one coffee shop would ever be sold.
Every coffee shop had a poetry night
And going there was such a delight.

Then in AUGUST of “69”
The WOODSTOCK festival was on the rise
Over half a million people drove to that farmland
And set up tents , hammocks, sleeping bags and such
And the police found it was much to much
So they had no choice but to see it through
Because there was nothing else that they could do.

The WOODSTOCK  festival had become world wide
And to this day it still thrives.

© L . RAMS
DO YOU REMEMBER THOSE DAYS
I have often wondered what would have been
What could have been with you
Had it been a different place and time
If we had similar views

The paths we cross they all have reasons
Sometimes it's hard to figure why
We touch each others lives in some way
Then we say goodbye

Feelings were strong and very real
perhaps not strong enough
To cross those invisible borders
Chasing after love

Perhaps we should just smile and reminisce
The season that we shared
Keep the good, cast away the sad
Leave the feelings undeclared
© 2010 Neva Flores - Changefulstorm
Changefulstorm Poetry - http://www.changefulstormpoetry.blogspot.com
Changefulstorm - Categorian - http://user.adme.in/blog/browse/u/Changefulstorm
Lawrence Hall Dec 2016
Millennials at Work and War

Scorn not the snowflake who stands watch for us

Now thrown into the existential struggle
Surrendering their youth and taking up life
They muster in the fields and factories
And in their elders’ undeclared, shadowy wars
Uniformed in an unappreciated sense
Of duty and dignity while scorned by those
Who take their ease upon the couches of sloth
And fling cheap mockery at millennials
Who take up tools and work and love of life
Sometimes to die in deserts still unmapped
While generals dismiss their casualties as light
Despised as snowflakes by keyboard commandos
Who never got closer to any war
Than a John Wayne ketchup-****** movie.
Some work long double shifts through university
In a sawmill, shop, or fast foodery
Only to be dismissed as slacker layabouts,
But expected to trust those who condemn them
For not being the greatest generation
As defined by those who never served at all
And while being criticized they will grab
A quick cup of coffee for the night shift
Staffing the hospitals and police patrols
That keep their sneering critics alive and safe
They drive the trucks, they man the ships, they work
They drill for oil, these useless millennials
While idlers lounge long in the coffee shops
And YooToob computered jokes about them
Millennials have no time for coloring books
Or comfort animals or revolution
For they are weary with study and work
The best of them make no demands, but, sure
A little respect, hard-earned, would be nice
If only the scripted singer-songwriters
Would pack up the tired old stereotypes
And see millennials as they truly are
But darkness falls – they must go back to work
On the eleven-seven, the graveyard shift
They do not burn draft cards or Medicare cards
Instead through work they illuminate this world
And build it up with continued sacrifice

Scorn not the snowflake who stands watch for us
jonni inferno Feb 2018
follow me
if you can
thru tortured paths
and wintered lands
where the sun is lost
the moon unknown
beyond this dark
encroaching gloam

follow me
if you dare
where voices speak
in whispered layers
of external wars
undeclared
where twisting turning
bodies play
on silken sails
on captured waves

follow me
if you would know
where silver rivers
sometimes flow
and flying angels
falling lay
sweetly laughing
in their gentle way

follow me
if you wish
and play in childhood's
autumn mist
where paper dragons
fill the air
and broken hearts
still beating share
a love for passion's
written snare

follow me
and I will show
how wounded heart
now mended grows
where many paths
once hidden glow
and light the way
to where I go


.
http://oi61.tinypic.com/dc573k.jpg
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added link to pic/poem
Styles  May 2014
Freestyle002
Styles May 2014
Current affairs, making family disappear.
Blood thicker than water; I can't see that from over here.
Haters show hate, to hide their fears, hide their faults by dissing piers.
Their hands weak so they dis their peers.
Weak-minded; Diss-impaired.
Test the truth and get dared
Like something that's undeclared.
Put a ring around your rosey,
Then I’m taking a chair.
The kingdom come;
The dynasty is aire.
Senor Negativo Aug 2012
Spring blossoms gentle acceptance
Of vagaries of desperation
Like variegated autumnal leaves
From the core of the stone of floods
Undeclared truths
Affirmative requests

There is chaos as a whole
In the expanse of the unending.
Fear fades mystically.
Death and boredom leave your lungs ...
There. Exists
Justice and pleasure... .
.... thoughts of living, laugh in the face of Death.

all the thoughts of failures
Conglomerate and are cast away
Into a deep trench
the soothing currents lull
Sinking green verdure.
Embraced by the biosphere
And forming a reef,
Thereby even your failures succeed.

Even now your image is being painted on the dull white canvas of my love.

Violent storms may rend the world
scattering lesser unions,
There is endurance in our madness...

Laughter, the golden bird, with bejewelled feathers,
Leads to the oasis of truth, in this desert of deceit
Reciprocation of sensation
Every intention to remain

And the rapidly ascending choir of broken angels sing the song which massacres despair.

And the body I wish to settle
Caressed by the deepest dark of night
Birth of the morning
The genesis of pleasant daydreams
Calm, hope ...
..... And a sense of success
Blue morning justice cascades
With dispelled illusions, and realized wishes.
Everyday upon wakening
I discard hate
As love, is mildly colored supple flesh
Withdrawn and plunged, into the crack of a stoney heart

Space infinitum opens before us,
On the petals of the lotus
Space through which two beings connect
No matter the distance.

We know that beneath this dull white nightmare
Dwells a vibrant black dream,
That is neither evil or good,
But just is.

On the workbench of despair,
Disassembled hearts are heaped.
In this pile I dwelled for an age of pain,
Until you plucked me from the pile
And made me whole again.
Dorothy A Aug 2012
I am constantly reminded of that popular Bible verse in I Corinthians 13: And now abide faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these is love. It is a verse that I highly cling to in faith and hope, something that I truly love to hear and ponder upon. Otherwise, I could easily give in to despair and cynicism, as it is prevalent in this world like a cancer. A good combination of a good dose of faith, hope and love is surely the medicinal treatment required for the cure.

Whether you adhere to this Biblical statement and belief, or absolutely do not, anyone can understand that we need faith, hope, and love to rely on. No matter what our walk is in life, whether we are Christians or of another religion—or have no belief in God or the spiritual life whatsoever—we all must have faith, hope, and love. Must!

Our very lives, and the world, depend on it.  

The religious aspect aside, who can exist without these three, without faith hope and love? Take the sun, for example. Even the staunchest atheist has faith that, without fail, the sun will reappear on the horizon, each and every morning, dispelling the darkness of night as the earth revolves around the sun. It’s like an undeclared promise, a brilliant, seemingly miraculous occurrence that should never cease to fill us with awe.

Until we take hold of these thoughts, how soon we do forget.  

Can you imagine if you woke up tomorrow and you never saw the sun again? Never? What would it be like if there was nothing but bleak darkness as we looked up into the sky for its beautiful blue canvas and infinite greatness? Our meager light bulbs and man-made lamps would pale in comparison to the blotted out light—the desert in the sky. Life would cease to be, and the thought of it seems almost incomprehensible—the utter void, the earth’s destruction, the deathliness, the icy cold and chaos. How we often take such things for granted! And the life-sustaining sun is only one of the countless things that we often take for granted as we dwell upon this magnificent earth. One may use his or her own analogy to compare.  

Along with faith to spur it on, who can survive without hope?  Hope reminds you it is still there when you cannot envision it there or feel its presence. It offers fresh, new pathways when your hopes have been dashed, and urges you to move on from false hopes that are imposters to the real deal.

I certainly cannot live without hope, nor could another living soul.  Having no hope at all feels like a living death, one I know of firsthand much too well. Inside of me—in my own being—when it seemed that the sun in my soul, with all its nurturing and guiding light, had entirely disappeared from within me—I experienced that vastly void, and dark, bottomless pit. In complete horror and pain, I felt my life would always be this way.  I liken it to having your lungs being ripped away from you, the wind ****** out of your spirit.

Oh, it is a dooming, crushing thing to have no hope!

But the thought of having not a shred of hope was something that I just could not bear nor accept. Thank God, it was an illusion, not really gone for good. It is the very fuel to propel rockets of dreams and goals, and it works hand in hand with faith and love. I believe wholeheartedly that hope is there for anyone’s access, no matter how low life seems. For like that eternal sun in the sky—sometimes seemingly doused out by menacing clouds—a temporary mirage, no doubt—hope is an invincible, precious and extraordinary gift, one that outshines despair by a thousandfold.    

Imagine if there was no love. Many of us think love is an illusion, a ***** trick to avoid. People often were supposed to love us, but failed. Surely, we can often fool ourselves into thinking something is love, when later we find that it is clearly not. Often, we feel burned when we show our vulnerable selves, simply on our quest to love and be loved.

But we want love nonetheless. We have to have it.

Love is as messy as life is. Hate often seems triumphant as we turn on the news. It seems to outshine love, and we grow weary by the cruelties we witness through the screen or from firsthand experience.  And by taking a good look in the mirror, we often question how loving we really are, for our guilt is reflected back at us for how we have failed others in a lack of love. Sometimes, we are just too scared to love. Sometimes, we just don’t want to make the effort. But love is still the greatest of all. There is no way this earth could spin well without it. What would be the need of it's ordered structure if not for such a high attainment as love?

Like I Corinthians says, if I have all knowledge or have faith, but have no love, it as if I have nothing—nothing at all. How many people have been taught that they are not worthy?

Again, like that sun, love covers everyone—encounters all at different times of reach—even those who are seemingly incapable of its power.  

And yet again, what if love had simply gone away for good, like faith and hope? Like that sun in the sky? What if hate truly reigned and ruled the earth?

But the battle is never over, and love must always fight on.  These can't just be words that I am saying to fill up space. I truly fight to believe this!

Again, that sun in the sky represents love to me, as well as it does faith and hope. It is warming and enriching. It is a pathway out of the restful night and into the ongoing world. Like it is a living entity, it doesn’t demand our constant attention, and nestles itself into the clouds before it makes its entrance once again, takes yet another bow.  It continually feeds the plants, which feed the people and the animals. And to imagine that this greater-than-life ball of fire is capable of creating rainfall that sustains life, too.  What a glorious contradiction!

With my poetic mind always churning, and the imagery flowing, I share these thoughts to you. Faith, hope, and love—I am truly amazed!
Timmy Shanti  Aug 2012
escapada
Timmy Shanti Aug 2012
Fandango we danced
was second to last
or was it tango?
we all are too clumsy
to move
too rigid
to see
things without limits
we need
no gimmicks
just a direction
or a simple question
to be answered
prevent brain cancer
become decent dancers
to get to know
there’s nowhere to go
if we don’t want to
but when we are about to
we need some fuel
to fill our engines
with pride
the heart and the mind
are never
good friends
in the world of dollars
blue collars
dark on the inside
breaking their stride
to fight
the poor
not the poverty
so unfair
but it’s the reality
of our lives
human hives
ideology of the masses
ruling classes
thy neighbour to despise
catch them by surprise
rot one from within
soon to take ‘em in
lose someone you love
to understand
there’s an undeclared war
that we can’t bystand
take part
start
to act, preach, teach, bleach
dye, cry
find an ally
before long
our song
will be that of joy
tactics we employ
are peaceful
spare no enemy
**** one - get one free
the tree
of life
having tea at five
some things never change
we are acting strange
conceived in liberty
created to be loved
but still in puberty
continuously starved
of little things we need
there’s just too much greed
open your heart
take my hand
for a start
we all have one goal
Sweet Lord
help us all!
22.10.2010

— The End —