I taught children to write cursive.
And how to drive a stick.
In fact, they learned all my baby boomer things,
Like reading (aloud and to oneself), walking,
Talking with friends (facially, in person).
They learned about winning, and all about losing, with dignity.
They learned about friendship, loyalty, honour, trust,
And perseverence.
They learned that truth, as hard as it might be, was ok.
These should not, cannot, be sidelined.

But today's child is not for these times.
They are time travellers.

Ambition is: not

valuing yourself enough --


It is a defect.

With a broad chest
a ******* tongue
beautiful feathers, a hot breath
and a forked tongue
they live on our skin

We little ***** rats in the eyes
of the screaming crowd
that rattles the fences
in the zoo, the cages
in which we are trapped

The gorillas who clear the way
the hyena who says she is helping
the peacock who dresses our hair
the dragon for our image and
the hissing of the tour manager

Don't step on their tails
and don't feed them, please
Just let their airs
explode, no more ground
beneath their feet

People's fame only

lasts a short time, that I learned --


from theatre plays.

I wish, I could just fade, into nothingness.

Not to die, not to be aware of the end, but just to fade
and become merged with the rest of the universe.
My consciousness
part of the never-ending energy.
Then, I would not witness any more suffering,
or tragedy.

I would not be concerned with human ideas of war
and ideals,
for which countries and nations are torn,
for which the cycle of death renews.
It’s no news

that each, every so often
new powers rise and the old is forgotten.


I wish, I could just go far, far away.

Leave this Earth and all its destruction,
journey to a place with no caged birds, and caged people.
I don’t want to stay
amongst the ones who are caged inside their minds
thinking they own the world
and all beyond it,
when, in fact, the only thing they own is the production
of hate.

And evil deeds could write themselves one by one
onto their skin, showing the fate
of countless souls, like a tattoo
never to fade.

If only they would.
Maybe then, young citizens could
take some time to think about the rush
to honour the ‘duty to their country’.
Gun in hand, loyalty in the other,
all for honour.

Death is the greatest teacher, for in death we are all the same,
look it in the eyes, and your life will change.
If only it changed for the better
and not made the ground wetter
with blood of the ones honouring their leader,
when their leader does not honour them.

He lives on, while their lives
Are fading,
fading
away.

A living statue

bends over, taps my shoulder:


it wants a picture.

Forlorn,
I sit and mourn
What could have been,
From the boundary, trying not to be seen.

Misanthropic.
A tiny nick
Has snuffed out my life,
Success always resting on the edge of a knife.

Melancholy,
I sit here pondering, sorry.
Should be out there fighting.
Every strike sounding like lighting.

Company,
I rushed too hurriedly,
Spurned our honour
And became connon fodder,

Because I got the plan wrong,
Sung the wrong song,
Overstretched,
Regret etched

Across my face,
Death dressed in lace,
Struggling on a sticky wicket,
I guess that is just cricket.

Spotlights, reflected

off the gold celebrity:


image on image.

Emperors on their

pedestals look over me --


into an old time.

The row of medals

divert people's attention --


from his worn-out suit.