the tree grew in rocky soil -
now its fruit is decaying.
its seeds fell into
the same rocky soil,
sprouting into trees
with the same decaying fruit.

these trees feel the decay.
they know to spread their seeds
where the soil is fertile.
and the resulting trees
will bear ripe fruits
for future generations.

Well you know whats going on-
You know yet you still sit there and
wait-

So while at it give life a thought-

not yours but the kids

-why even are we doing it?

It's survival

We look different.
Yet we are the same people.
We each desire to love and be loved.
We each desire to belong and let others know they belong.
We each have gifts, talents, strengths and weaknesses.
We each have something innate within each of us
It supports us, leads us, guides and protects us along the way.
We each desire to know, seek and find peace.
Not only for ourselves do we hope for all of this
This yearning extends to our children, grandchildren
And to all of our generations to come.
In this way, we are the same, all over the world.
May peace and joy be with you and your loved ones
This beautiful holiday season

Gazing through the window at generations of flowers in the garden of her long-departed youth.

The pendulum of time passes in consonance with the rocking of her chair until she smiles her last breath.

©

Great Grandma said it.
Grandma said it.
Dad Said it.
Mom said it.
Teachers said it.
Bosses said it.
Husband said it.
Children said it.
I said, Hell, no!

Old lady cradling a baby
make it home
"where did you get this baby " granny
"nursery " the old lady note
Solicitous for baby
she hassle alot .
Her senility got her sick
She was frail as lamp for epoch
Through the window , solos tot
watched her fade away
Fine morning she laid lifeless ,
leaving a note which elucidate
"Care and water this little tree , it will bear my blessings for gen z "

connections:
tenuous, strenuous.

beliefs stretch
farther than bombs

faith:
a word in line with desolation
mainline my vices;
daydream my lichens.

keep in line
with happier times.

protect us from ourselves

A resurgent nihilistic philosophy
A second lost generation
Disillusioned with the being of nations
Lost in their own antipathy
Confused by new sensations

A political theorist I am not
I like to wander in hills and clouds
And pick out kindred spirits in crowds
A thousand wasted battles fought
A thousand raggedy burial shrouds

The bohemians revel in their nonsense
Shall I my conceits and imaginations forsake?
Maybe a decent Lawyer I would make?
What is real and what is performance?
Which side of me shall I deem fake?

To which should I my attentions give
My unceasing love for liberty,
or a discontented bourgeoisie?
Material things I need to live
Yet still I am most lifted by poetry