Soot blackened fruit of economic glory,
the rolling steel contraption of sacred convenience
propelled from graveyards of putrefied fuel.
Flatulent streams of gaseous, stinking voidance
naught but a cockroach could ever hope to breath.


"A Buck eighty-three per gallon!
**** son, I remember when
Five dollars filled my twenty-gallon tank!
Corporate *******, gouging the sainted American soul!
How dare they abuse the Holy, Consuming Masses so!

That's not the righteous American Way."


Plucked from a tree
nurtured from a poisoned pool,
the maître de serves us with sumptuous flair
the glistening metal fruit of demanding fools
basted in Gaia's own sweet, dark blood.
With greedy flourish we consume and selfishly devour
till the piper appears demanding just payment.

Then we scamper towards the door
pointing greasy, crooked fingers,
as we scurry away with ne'er a simple gratuity.
The entire world pays for our
selfish deeds
and petty needs
for ivory seeds.
A corporate corrigendum stricken from the ledger
with a well-placed bomb, or two, or three.


"Five dollars!
Crap, that's what those haughty Europeans pay!
But I'm a proud American!
I'll yell, I'll scream, and maybe whine just a bit!
I may even e-mail that **** crooked fool in Congress.
I have rights proclaimed by God's own gift of dominion.
I am preserving what's just, only right!

The glorious American Way."


"A chicken in every ***", was once the dream of all but a few.
Now greedy spoiled children; we thoughtlessly proclaim,
"Two cars in each garage is just, and rightly due."
****** all ****** beauty that crosses our path
partial redemption lies in one simple truth.
Not all the world has yet to gain, “Our Precious Way”.
For if so, the pitiful scraps of beauty that still remain
would quickly be consumed in ******, hosted by fattened fools.


"Over ten dollars a gallon!
That's a blasted crime!
**** Politicians
their hands are bloodied black!
Twenty hours of work per week
just to fill my trusty Cadillac!

Consumption is The American Way"


Even a naked primitive, scavenging the forest floor
instructs his children better then we.
"When death's own serpent
lies coiled 'neath a beautiful fruited tree,
ignore the tempting orbs
for their price must and will be paid."

Alas, for us it may be too late.
We lay trapped within a corporate circle of death,
our children inherit a scarred and barren earth.
Will they thank us or curse our very graves,
Or even remember what once was, "Our Way?"


"OK kids, it's time for bed.
Yes little Susie, tonight's story was true
whispered from Grandfather's own lips.
Once long ago, in a glorious lost day
when fuel cost just ten dollars per unit.
Just think of that, one tenth of what it cost today.
Now go to sleep, and tighten those masks.
Oxygen cost money too, nearly five bucks per litre.
Those **** politicians, we should have learned
when we had a choice and air was still free;
memories from a faded time of make believe.

The good old, American Way."

© S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved

I awaken, shrouded by darkness and suffocating walls,
reaching for you before dreams may recall reality.
You are gone, nothing but the ghost of a sullied desire,
an echo of what once was devours my tattered soul.

So much I took for granted,
now, with great sadness I regret.

The familiar feel of you is always near, calling...
tempting me with promising lies of new faithfulness.
Memories of the calming essence upon the depths
of my very being, as I inhaled your intoxicating scent.
A corrupting tang lingers, as my lips recall the caress
of your fiery, slim form, which still, I so desire.

I cast you aside, longing for a more virtuous path.
I willingly **** myself to purgatory's questionable grace,
denying this eternal craving to beg your swift return.
For your heated embrace foretells a perilous and certain doom.

Sleeplessness reigns, I long for that which has been forsaken.
I gaze upon your empty, crumpled husk upon my ***** floor.
I tossed you there callously, a reminder of your true nature,
poisoned honey sweetening a lover's final meal.

Tobacco’s curse leaves nothing of value
only a dying, crying need for hope and redemption.

© S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved

Peter was my hero, and Wendy my first fanciful lust.
We fought villainous pirates and bloodthirsty injuns,
and when danger came near as a dark scary night
we'd grasp just one happy thought and fly away
to a brighter new day, dreamed just for us.

Such a wondrous thing, the gift of flight.
Free, unrestrained... racing the laughing crows.
It seemed so simple I just had to try,
strange how the impossible, is so attainable
within the mind of a child of five.

I turn the old phonograph way up loud,
climb upon the hassock, (added height for takeoff)
I closed my eyes intense on my one happy thought
and singing the refrain to inspire me...

"You can fly, You can fly, You can fly."

I leap...
And for barely an instant in time I really do feel the sky.
Then gravity's reality crashes me hard to the floor.
Just in time to hear them laughing,
my evil older brothers watching at the door.
They had a great time with their haughty jest
I still hear of it today, but that's OK.

We were just kids and they lacked understanding.
For I was in training; practice for a not too distant date.
Honing my inner mind to create the improbable,
even the impossible, making it all seem real.

Today the refrain is no longer needed,
nor the hassock upon which to stand.
With old age comes a far grander experience.

Leaving all trials and tribulations upon the ground
I sit back, close my eyes, silence the world around.
Reaching out with sure confidence for the sky
with that child of five's, unrestrained inner eye.

Thanks to Peter and Wendy and my early lust
those heckling crows are left far behind
in vapor trails of my receding dust.

"I can fly, I can fly
I really can fly!"


© S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved

(an almost lipogram)

It is missing!
Just as a lost paramour
or a forlorn suitor of a now hollow past,
causing a lack of all glamour.

My lass’s familiar touch hiding
astray in murky clouds of a dulling rainbow,
my writing turns to a wan pallid world
as I scour my mind to supplant this loss.

Assailing yon dragon with quill in hand
I spurn my awaiting angst,
stalking as Orion’s own conspirator
disavowing all doubts of my own ability.

Sallying forth I do not tarry.
Words assault a wall of lofty doubts
born of naught but a foolish phobia.
Scaling mighty ramparts,
my anima’s flight attacks a radiant moon.

Until, with a final onslaught
my thoughts find laconic catharsis.
As twilight’s shroud is found approaching,
with a concluding flourish of a now
worn writing tool,
my lost lass of misty pasts...

returns.

©  S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved

I am but a meager man
a mere weaver of words.

My writing cloaks insidious intent
to hide from reality’s fearful eyes;
deceiving with facetious transgression.
My just reward for such sullied repute-
shades drawn tight lest my rueful deeds be known

I remain hidden from a cruel world
behind callus words of my own fancy.

Verbose ranting of cryptic escapades
I grease my fist to ram down your gullet,
withdrawing the emotion I desire.
Recherché locution; gossamer strands
of melodies to soothe your tattered soul

*While my own inner depths
Echo emptiness and raging solitude.

Descanting rhythm to shroud what I am
only fools believe the self-proclaimed bard;
for I will conceal what is pertinent.
Illuminating only the mundane
with flamboyancy of ordered disdain

I am exactly what I am; all I may ever be;
a reputed poet of ill repute-

just meager ol me.

©  S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved

I once read a poem.
At least it was called a poem by the poet who penned it.
It certainly stirred a hot cauldron of controversy.
Evoking the elite establishment of hallowed
writing circles to shout their disdain,
to cry out their contempt for such audacity.

"This is not poetry," was the hue that arose,
"it is nothing but prosaic, plagiarized drivel;
written thousands of times across the aeons by
those who have lost, have gained, or ever hoped for."

Perhaps some of us were tainted by the sin of
envy for this unheralded poet and for what he
had achieved with such rudimentary text.
At the time, I also spoke to the crime of the author's intent.
My own aspersions were raised by his act of describing
such incredible possibilities with such simple words,
such purity of condensed thought.

Alas I see now, it was the very simplicity of
the poem that blinded us all to its wondrous truth.
Elementary words which could envision glorious unexplored
mountain peaks, and the assurance of their height's
attainment with nothing more than a steady, faithful pace.
Hopeful words, filled with such grandiose power.
Capable of birthing new life solely from the
pure belief in their profound truth.

This great work of art was forgotten till this night,
as I sit here in a futile attempt to grasp words from intangible air.
Chasing and forcing them into a meager
attempt to share some small piece of wisdom
for two young hearts beginning this journey together ...
two whom I care for as you.

But, lacking as I am, I fear I must
expropriate this forgotten poet's verse.
Offering it to you humbly as my own,
stealing these words even as he stole them before me.
Simple words, distilling all the grand descriptions of all
the illustrious poets, bards, and romantics throughout the ages.

Proclaim it to each other as ecstasy bursts forth,
for its wondrous spell is then truly manifest.
Declare it over sorrow's shared tears,
for its healing sway is miraculous.
Whisper it over anger's destructive rage.
It has the power to quell the thunder.

Speak it as a vow, never to become merely words.
It must be proclaimed with the passion and soul of a poet.
Welling up from the deepest depths of the heart,
and the truest regions of the mind.
For these mere words encompass all.
Believe them as they are intended,
for these words are truly everything.

"I LOVE YOU"!

© S.Loeding All Rights Reserved