When I die, don’t look for me in the stars,
Look for me in my words.
Look for me in the books that line the shelves,
The letter “R” and the letter “E—"
And in every word you see them,
Please think of me.

Look for me where I’ve walked
And where I’ve never been.
Look for me in sadness, and I’ll be there...
But look for me in joy, too, won’t you?
Since they’re both so beautiful,
And both so true.

When I die, come look for me here;
Words won’t just disappear.

it hurts in the heart
when heroes are have-nots
after giving their all,
what’s left that they’ve got?
how many more vets will fill their cupboards with clocks?
how many more lives will pay the exorbitant cost
since health ain’t free or sold at loss,
it seems it was long lost
in that place where the war was.

now we find folks forgot
how foes brought fights fought,
take for granted what they’ve got,
giving big deeds little thought
when honor is selfishly half-sought,

selfless?
it is not.

we’ve seen what that’s wrought;
far from the peace we sought
a figurative hell but its cold, not hot
it ain’t literal, but still its critical
and truly despicable,
to treat lifesavers worse than criminals.

Some things are learned,
but never taught
so now and then,
spare searching thoughts.
you think its work; but it’s really not.
So take advantage, ‘fore chance is gone.
hit your limit, and go beyond;
you’re never short, going long.
you have the right to prove doubt wrong.
we came from one; so every one belongs
the poor, the rich, the old, the young.

you cannot lead those you leave behind.
there’s a detriment to that design;
a colour outside of lines.
where mindless fools make fools lose minds
and in a sad state; they've sacrifice saints.
estranged, to a stranger they pray.
solemnly, some will say:

‘we’ve simply gone astray,
somewhere along the way’

but when wiser ways breed better days,
it’ll be known without seeing or saying it.
the truth will grow without need for feeding it.
felt in your bones and you’ll even be bleeding it;
it won’t be a boast to believe in it.

these simple self-reflections
spot ego-built deceptions.
as intermittent intellectual intervention
pares prideful, porous perception;
rescinding regression, it’s purely progressive.
and in immaculate conception,
loose leaved lines’ll lay
layered with lessons;
words weaved tired, but tested;
learned, not suggested.
wisdom writ better
than the best of them.
not rested,
’til the rest of them
appreciate what was given in
by heroes that have come and gone,
how hard done heroes have been honored wrong;
they were our foundation all along.

you see, it’s soldiers’ shoulders we stand upon

He is here, at home,

wherever he is absent --


though still known by us.

to all my siblings i never met and never will meet
to all the people who never got to find themselves
who lived and died under a name other than their own
to everyone whose fate was decided at the hateful hands of others
or their own hands in hopeless sorrow
to those who spearheaded change
and to those who never knew another like them

i'll keep living for you
i love you

Dump my body on the steps of Capitol Hill
They know what they did

Know that I didn’t go silently
Know that I was biting, scratching, fighting the whole way down

Seek justice, not vengeance
Vengeance is only for my soul to reap
Do not give them any peace
Rest should not come to them, for it will not come to me

If it was one, pay them some heed, it takes a great effort to break me
If it was many, shame them forever
Only cowards and fools need a mob to succeed

Take time to mourn,
There is great power in feeling
Then rise up, up,
And fight like hell for the living

Some days on back I sat on a pub’s oak stool
and drew in the musty smell of its past,
its scent of old leather and spilled beer that pooled
under the floorboards in a sticky mass.

An old man came in and pulled up a chair
and he scratched at his stubbly beard.
His grey eyes had fixed me in a granite stare
and rumbled ‘til his raspy throat cleared.

He said, “The word ‘nostalgia’ comes from Greek stems.
It means the pain of homecoming.
We look to the past through a cataract lens
at a ‘home’ that’s made out of nothing.”

I asked, “You can’t go back to your home again?”
He shook his head, a woolen wisp of a sigh.
“That home exists in the land of pretend,”
he softly exhaled in laconic reply.

And then he stood and slipped away home
while the strains of “Jerusalem” played.
I sat in my cloud of memories alone,
from fog emerged in the present to stay.

Black smoke obscured my view
Unable to see
Invisible hands out of the blue,
Demanding I cease to be.

Like leaves in autumn dangle,
My memories on the verge of descent
Words spoken weave a web of tangle
Leaving only me to repent.

Trees rustle,calling me home
Black shadows followed, darker than coal.
Isolated I stood but never alone.
In remembrance of the faces that time stole.

Now you dwell inside the rhythm of my breaths,
As close to us as we are to ourselves,
Even though your days were brief,
Your spirit was live awake and complete.

Is it a swan song?
Plea for help, etched on a bench
Carved into my mind