We wish, we wished, we knew,

how the peace we make lingers,

magical thinking must not work,
but we were reared to really pray,

unceasingly, never failing to expect
to have, even as we uttered our amen,

peace enough to share,
by our own will
making our agreement amenable
in spirit,
and truth, as two parts
of all that ever may be, you and me,

in the way life happens where you and me live.

It is written, any judgement begun, where
ideas form words
to hold them in common, any truth
can be tested by its effect on a satisfied mind,

so when I say, spirit, you assume I speak of nothing
tangible in the natural, just something like a will
we let be today's good
in our local mind,
at the time,
to make us think,
before we use pre judged worths,

a dime, or a penny, today, ain't worth a wooden nickel,

-- I just remembered

when I was thirteen… Coke machines in Texas
sold bottled Cokes in six ounce bottles, for a Nickel,
and two empties garnered six cents, enough
for a soda pop and a piece of bubble gum.

That's how much things change in the space
of one measured neighborly Jubillee.

Whittling kindling is what honed knives are for,
I watched old men do it, and found it works,

look ahead to a winter fire easy to revive,
with shavings from summer whittle sessions,

making peace where none was when I woke up,
the whole world under old war rules running on,

but, while Jubilees are, done while considering,
just imagined, how debt erasure functions,
allows us freedom from
wrong reasons past.
We have all seen the size of Earth,
we all know our only neighbors are here.
We are a chosen planet, not a chosen people.
And on this planet, good people, make useful peace.

I invite you to the greenfield,
At the corner of hope and love.
It rests upon the hill,
Overlooking a lake of blue water.

We will be in the company of
A solitary nut tree, heavy with fruit,
An old picnic table carved with scattered letters,
And a chorus of bees whispering to wild pink and yellow flowers.

A beautiful sunset will cast its light across the greenfield,
While the sky shifts in confusion—orange, red, and pink.
A blue butterfly dances, delighting in the gentle breeze.

A playful squirrel nibbles on nuts,
While a nest of birds sing in anticipation of visitors.
Together, we shall let nature read our minds,
Feel our hearts, and speak our words
Through its muted language.

Hussein Dekmak

We can not outrun a donut rolling downward..
That’s why losing weight is an uphill struggle.

But donuts can’t run up a hill, only fall behind.

The hill I will die on,
Is that most battlefields aren’t worth dying on.
Some people see a mob,
And grab their pitchforks and their torches,
Without even understanding,
What they’re fighting for.
Perhaps they love the bloodshed,
Perhaps they love the gore,
Perhaps they feel righteous indignation,
And are adamant to settle the score.
It could be some primal need to fight,
Or some could be sure that they’re right.
Either way, I don’t see the point,
I understand that sometimes a war is just,
Most times, it feels like a bust.
A waste of money,
A waste of time,
A waste of precious human lives.
All for what? Some measly land?
How greed corrupts the righteous hands.
So the hill I will die on,
Is that some battles aren’t worth fighting,
That they aren’t worth the pain.
The lives they ruin,
The families they break,
The friendships covered in contusions,
The human souls that are broken and bruised.
All for what?

The wagon rode, laden with dreams,
Of clear happiness and fairy love.
His path was hilly, full of trees.
But he rode brightly inspite of.

The wagon rode and galloped slowly
Without any troubles and fears.
The sun shined to him tenderly
And forest gave him pure cheers.

The wagon rode and breathed a peace.
He went so breezily and calm.
It seemed that nobody again,
Never and never do him harm.

The wagon rode on tiny rocks.
And now he have to started home.
His home is sunless and no cheers.
His home is gloomy catacomb.

Up on the hill there's a plastic tree,

Are you here with me?

Is it another dream,

Or are you close to me?


Let’s set out at sea,

Spree to where you're close to me.

Cause you are my love,

My medicine that turns me into a dove.


When you're close to me,

In the submarine,

Does anyone know, love?

Or is this another dream?


If you can't get what you want,

Then come with me.

Close to me,

Like the plastic tree.


Up on the hill sits a manatee,

Drifted far from the sea.

Sitting with the plastic tree,

Are you here with me?


Just looking out for the day,

Just a dream but wont you stay?

Cause when there's a plastic tree,

You're close to me.

~for Jill~

“from your messages”
elsewhere scribed, a
confession that your comments
be challenges like cool
well water drawn, a
fresh mix and minx,
a two flavored scoop
on a waffle (or sugar) cone,
mmm call mine, flavors of
inspiration and aspirations

it’s 2:46am, one would think
that a deadrose would know
better behavior, but up is up,
and down down down-come
tumbling words, as usual,
each screeching hoarsely

“pick me, pick me!”

uncover your note of appreciation,
side splitting laugh in shame and shock,
that spellcheck has altered intent,
one day, likely a  cause of a war,
or e v e n a new poem

peddle a rose
became
“pedal a rose,”
invitingly nonsensical,
my point exactly

but the awake-too-late idiot,
can’t stop me now ~ urgency
has mastered my     common
sensibility, thus        commanded
me to write and shine

somewhere nearby,(1)
babies be borning,
and flippers of coins,
old humans too,
be expiring on the
sell-by-date
some surrounded,
yet all surrendering

Angels sent to
both sides now,
to ferry them
back home,
their adventures
completed or a
preface begun

Oh
for the ferryman
to ferry them
across rivers whistling
hello my darlings,
to a new home,
with a clean
writing tablet
to inscribe their
owned
future or past,
making their case
for a future or a
memorized posterity

I am dancing on the edge
of that first category,
dancing tap before that ——,
unwilling to cross over
and the angel sent
with collection papers,
mine and JoeBideen,
can’t touch us yet,
while in the middle
of our latest composition
(ya didn’t know?)

where in the world
has this to do with
pedaling roses?

the angels offer enticements,
write like the great ones,
sit at the feet of Leonard & Sylvia,
get introduced to the author of
“Leaves of Grass,”

who will amend and correct
(using spellcheck)
your own new scriptures

for rules From Above,
are carefully careless,
and don’t care about
impossibility so
leap with me,
onto a bicycle of roses,
each pedal a petal,
each tire of woven stems,

our destination is
everywhere, our purpose
to bring scent to those
who still have need to
breathe, and those’d who have
ceased
being needy
forever

filling nostrils
with colors of roses,
and finding poems
on the floor, full writ,
purposely scribbled
and scripted for just
a jilly one,
(just like
this
one)

just lacking a title,
just lacking a name,
customed for a single
customer, now a custodian
of a new born baby
poem
ready to be fedex’d
to its new owner
and deposited in
the this bank here,
right here

so thank you for
revealing my
inadvertent typo,
and aiding in my
quest to bring it to
a new life,
but must petal on,
for new babies are
being born and need
wrapping in a
a bed sheets of white petals,
fresh happily donated from
living roses!

3:19am