Who are you talking to
Mr Einstein?  To the little
Child; to this old man?  
So much hocus pocus-
When all you had to say
was Shazamm.  That I
Could understand.  Yes
Everything is; and I am-
In the blink of an-eye- one
Word.  How could it be
That it is so  Yes even as
A little child I knew that.
That there is magic here

If you cannot be outraged into disbelief
No matter how evil the matter reported
How can you believe in a Good God?
Do you not say to yourself what kind
Of a god allows this-Not Mine!  Does
A loving parent no matter how liberal
Ever knowingly allow his child to do
A grave injury to his fellow people?
I think not.  Freedom has its limits
That our true nature is grateful for.
Let me ask would you prefer that
There were no Holocaust deniers or
That there we no Holocaust.  I know
The Argument that we must Keep
Evil in our memory so as prevent it
Ever happening again.  How does
The saying go: No news is good news-
But it doesn't sell papers. I am not
Against fiction just glad that it is
Fiction.  But you say: What of the
Truth?  When Pilot asked Jesus
What is the the truth? Jesus made no
Answer except by His silence.  Yes
Silence is Golden. He did not answer
Neither should you or I.  I know this.
Bu we know in our hearts what Love
Would have  Be.  Thy Kingdom come
Thy will be done on Earth as in Heaven
That is Our prayers that it be so Forever
Oh God  Help Us to Lift up our hearts.


And When have we ever been prevented
From doing wrong by hearing about it
.its just
Plain wrong.

Green to the eye
begets the visage: life-
Startlingly simple,
a color tells it all.

So ‘tis with the note
and the morning earth is smelly-
I ask,
by what happy accident
is everything made plain?

Like a dog bearing its belly
or a moth sleeping in daylight-
the unapparent thing of life
these words just cannot say.

Abandoned murals across the boarder, the walls still painted by war. The scrap yard a pile of torn limbs, needles embedded in phalanges divorcing finger from nail the soil still grieves .

Infants don't see the sun.
Autumn leaves, with fleeting lives.
a thousands hills with wooden crosses rooted in, What is beneath?

An old man sighs before the last breath departs
Chasing a wind of memories escaping dark pasts. Hands mirror fire remnants, scatter across the vast lands with red tears immersing the white grass .

Don't fear the pain,

use it,

keep it there,

beside you,

and maybe,

just maybe,

it will give you the words to say in a poem,

or the notes to play in a song,

for sometimes

it is flying with what hurts,

that gives us the colors to paint with.
                                                                                        Jon York    2018

Still water
resting
at the
bottom
of a
Pacific ocean
tide
pool,

reflections
of you
in my
mind
in the
Sunday
morning
light.

sometimes
I can imagine
I hear you
laughter
carried in
harmony
to me
on a
a salt-kissed
circling
wind.

and I
sit for
a moment
and smile.

I always
smile.

it is
a giving
thing that
you do.

your gentle
manner
of truth
and innocence.

I can always
feel it
there in
you eyes...

you are


where
good  poets
go to
die.