#harvest
expanded harvest
a gentle word
one act of kindness
saves the whole world
May 18
May 18, 2026 at 8:19 AM UTC
Religion
-- last call for second guesses
-- last call to change the title
right usual coordinated
sunrise, sunset, seasonal wobble
peak hot to peak cold, seed time
and harvest
Boomer me, fretfu-lless, truly touched
Reliance on another to squeeze
the blemish in the flooded shame zone
Shame on me for being broken, gone
astray on my journey through our past
have a seat, this ain't a ditty or a jingle
this is life, at the end, as seen by folks,
who have to some degree expected it
to end before plural me in this wewas-
When in time one is passed by,
when in mind one is mixed up,
thinking how small a force a worry is,
thinking how short a life in history is,
imagining magical belief redefined,
reimagining being mindful not now,
and now, breathe-ing, feeling lungs fill,
fixing the image of an inside this body
common sense of pattern and position,
a place for processing air that is everywhere,
and then in me, in spirit form, gaseous matter
wishful thinking, sorted from anxious thought,
meeting encouraging words long thought true,
or truly taught as true if you can handle truth,
everyone who asks receives, can that be true?
What is enough and enough to share, if not true
when taken as granted one ration, one share of
plenty, already here, enough and more than enough
while having intelligence from far away, of course,
as with the fool who believes the news as told today.
We, the free and the brave, we may have retold lies,
the conversion from thoughtless trust to true rest,
accepting science in consciousness, dividing faith in fact,
from faith in if-then promises put to the test and found,
plenty for the moment, mental motive reconsideration,
Pleiades sweet influence, patience perfecting prayer, waiting
to make believe I believe I have
enough for now, and hope enough to carry on, waiting
for the truth to free my fretful self from my happy person.
the praxis, the making up of certain honed points…
practice practice practice Billy Graham
boasted about wanting to preach so bad,
he had to go out in the bottoms and shout
Hellfire and brimstone at the peeping frogs.
--
Wisdom from above is not love, its peaceable
feeling, swallowing some story whole, chokes
the whole idea of why out of a child, exposed
to the way Eli Weisel made us understand a why
I can remember QUEENS FOR A DAY
WHO ONLY WANTED A TATOO REMOVED, on TV
who thinks hate is easy to untie, once tied wrong,
ah
fret not, Jung has an archetype
at the ready, slippery gnosinots
just for Granny Knots,
and another essence
for Daddy wounds.
--
Practice preaching teaching memorized,
fret not, only believe, believe, believe
relieve the misbelief by asking truth, free me
from my debts, take my transgressing mind
across the line limiting my ability to accept
answers that answer yes, take and eat, only
believe
"to have faith or confidence" thinking fine,
what is true, ask a dead man,
And faith is neither the submission of the reason,
nor is it the acceptance, simply and absolutely
upon testimony, of what reason cannot reach.
Faith is:
the being able
to cleave to a power of goodness appealing
to our higher and real self, not
to our lower and apparent self.
[Matthew Arnold, "Literature & Dogma," 1873]
And the wheels on the bus go round and round.
Fidelity of message sent forward from ever ago,
freedom from is coupled with freedom to make
believe, for the time at hand, all is as it must be.
Fret not, "
And by knowledge shall the chambers be filled with all precious and pleasant riches."
For a just man falleth seven times, and riseth up again: but the wicked shall fall into mischief.
Have I not trusted, have I not enough and enough to share, how have my transgressions become missed
chances lost in all my yesteryears jeering me on,
loser, loser, good for nothing *** none who rely on me,
have hope in truth for their faith in my supply of plenty,
drawn from true luck in fact, conceivably drawn from breaths taken and put to living uses in our shared pasts
Scribbling nonsense stirring up old word based faith,
finding myself a lazy person expecting wisdom truly
freeing me from fretting about money in 2026, when
thousands are suffering under monstrous powers
thousands are without enough of all that ought be free
for the asking, according to the religions at work among
the poor who accept hope
as the substance
faith can make feel thinkable,
realizable peaceably thought through
-- some time later that one day…
Giving and receiving, being fooled and fooling
for a while reconceiving how hope makes faith,
and faith keeps the faithful performing, in hope,
taking time that is mine to make use of or waste,
asking all that wisdom is to make use of my asking
as if asking while thinking it is vain to ask again, if
having asked and thought long the rhema logic, if
all things work together, as I must say I do believe,
all things working at scales I mentally can grasp, if
I have use of these magnificent letters to hold thought,
at what if or wonder if stages, leaving be the evidence,
not falsely so called, in seed stage curiosity, idle amenable
agreeable weform reformed under all that we have learned,
about the literal truth, the letter that lets us think together,
fret not because of evil men, yet we fret for our children,
why have we no whole idea of we, the people of earth
?
---- okeh, I was poor
long enough to know it
Look at me, I say to me, see me be
what I think I am to any not me being
logos y nada mas, mere mind in order or chaos,
what work does meditation on the difference make,
spoken word, written word, put to the task of reasoning,
asking my child self if I believe in Jesus, as a sent messenger,
or if I have long held as true a telling of a made belief, pretend
I am sure I do not know how to eliminate the weight of debt
that the society I was born into allowed and my ignorance
kept me innocent to this degree, I trusted the authority,
I trusted the grownups I was entrusted to by parents even more
restricted in what they could have known for sure and certain,
-- the anointing and the explanation, now it all is artifice, unless
ah we agree, me and my two sides of rationality, artfully hoping
to make some semblance of balanced acceptance and expectation.
Under the practice of asking in my core thought process, if truth
can make my troubling cogitations make a single hair white or black,
can my acceptance of a stored story's moral worth, make a false a true?
Have I not defended the faith I accepted when I was very broken, badly
formed fit for no honest labor nor any winning awarded peace in rest and love,
I am near tears to think of this, to look at the rhema spoken, tithes paid,
services rendered, all apparently amounting to this state, altered or otherwise
alone, am I, aware I am not the only writer writing to myself, to hold the whole
idea that magic thinking is just what I have believed believing in miracle freedom
from cares and worries, freedom from ******* to creditors who I know are evil
at the core where usury, long known to be evil, is causing this fretting in me,
I feel the claws of a trap I was enticed into by ignorance on my part, and I am sore
discouraged from saying I believe I have been made free from my transgressions,
my misteps my misbeliefs my misconceptions held as true enough to say I have believed
asking brings true answers, not art, not more than heart can think or ask, but useful
when feeling need to be set free from contracts within the conqueror's privilege,
as when I went into a bubble of made believers made to make a liar rich and trusted
as I live and breathe, the spirit in the spoken words told me in my meditations, only believe
by my will, filled with hoped for faith,
indeed, hoping against hope
for some today, far worse
conditions
in refugee camps and homeless shelters, here, I sit,
under mortgage
and fear and disappointment
from true hopes not only deferred but pretty much crushed,
sick at heart am I, not lying
to myself, not able
to say -- unless I redefine the terms, enough
and enough
to share that does good, enough good,
to take away such despair, such grief
there is in the interconnected minds
of mankind who have been led astray, life,
in truth
breathing answers to distant prayers, sighing amen,
give us this day our reason
to continue, give the hopeless hope,
and make the mistaken debts be taken out
of the way, help
for today where help is needed
in full measure, today,
help the helpless, help the unworthy
on any economic scale, help the sick hording proud ones
unbelieve any lies about truth we all have been prone to tell.
Honed most me,
tov ra' friction in my shame,
shame that I have become helpless, shame
beautifully intricately knotted recoknown
that I am not nearly so helpless, as many,
many I have seen afar off
on our televisions,
made plain, seen afar off
in legendary cedar nations ruined
by the powers that have made science evil.
The minds we must imagine have been twisted
into commodities we imagine we could sell if we
knew how the entertaining empires pay for words
explaining visions we must sympathize with, without
any hope to make one severed limb regrow.
____________
A brief friend,
among the many there have been,
this one was destined
to become rich, not me,
he was a gambling man, fretted to death
unless my debt did get disgiven, ungiven for gotten gain,
enough, shout it to the heavens,
enough, be reasonable,
think how we are shattered
and broken and reasoning, asking why would we lie
to our children about God,
why would any wisdom suggest that on Earth
as seen from Saturn, or Voyager, war insures peace?
The truth that frees,
the spectacle spectator,
the specialist speculation
All in on peaceable test, one more time
all in on gentle test,
all in on gone and done.
All in agreement just said amen.
All in opposition just sorta grinned,
and gave us the push we simply hoped for.
Apr 16
Apr 16, 2026 at 7:02 PM UTC
Reapeth the withered with a tear laden cheek, plucketh the ripe with a laugh of pride,
his own lass , would daughter second be known,
such care he hath cherished , for the soil and its sown.
from the foul of weather-weed, to the stare of corvid eyes,
canst he protect and flourish his land,
but gets stabbed by a dagger , of the papers he signed,
with the count, with the lender ,
with the crown , with the dealer.
Mar 12
Mar 12, 2026 at 4:02 AM UTC
I asked,
“What if the sun is a colossal gummy?”
amber and tremulous,
suspended in the citrus-blue cathedral of sky.
He said,
“It would have been harvested.”
I imagined ladders piercing the stratosphere,
men with golden shears
clipping the day from its stem,
wrapping it in waxed parchment,
placing it in crates labeled perishable.
I asked,
“What do you think it tastes like?”
He closed his eyes,
smiling faintly,
and said,
“Warm and gooey, tropical…”
He tilted his head, letting the words roll off his tongue,
“like pineapple, orange, and mango.”
The flavor dripped into my mind,
sticky sunlight running over my wrists,
clouds dissolving like spun sugar,
the horizon melting into nectar.
Perhaps that is why evenings bruise so tenderly.
Someone has taken a bite,
pressed teeth into the radiant rind,
left crescents of absence across the sky.
And we, small orchard-keepers of wonder,
stand barefoot in the grass,
palms lifted,
waiting for sweetness to drip back into our mouths.
If the sun were a gummy,
we would call it abundance,
we would call it hunger,
we would call it childhood,
sticky with astonishment.
But it remains unharvested tonight,
burning and benevolent,
a sugared god of citrine fire,
flavoring our shadows with gold.
And I like to think
that somewhere inside its molten heart
is a pulp of mango-bright hope
refusing to be bitten.
Mar 2
Mar 2, 2026 at 9:29 AM UTC
I watch fruit wither
In the garden without you
There is no harvest
Sep 8, 2025
Sep 8, 2025 at 10:22 AM UTC
When the lands have run dry,
And the fruits have shriveled up
When the breeze makes you shiver
And the bees are laid to rest
I Remember our December
The warmth of candle lit conversation
And our anticipation
I sowed the seeds of our regret
After the frost, to forget.
And in the spring came the crop.
Then the memories came flooding in
A beautiful harvest, but one only I got to see
Far too late
Too much for me to bare, it lays rotting.
Baron and defeated
And then the cycle continues
Each year, the fields more fruitful than the last
And each year I let it rot away.
Fragile memories never looked back.
I reminisce on what could have been
And then a little dove, flew through my window
To remind me of what was
I tended to the harvest that year.
I cherished every fruit, handling it with care
Looking back on each memory we shared.
Each a hard lesson to learn from
The love is gone but not forgotten
Now each year I collect
No longer neglecting the fields
Using my yields to learn and grow
But always knowing, how I'll miss you so
Jul 28, 2025
Jul 28, 2025 at 3:47 AM UTC
The 101 slopes like a spine bent too long.
Camarillo yawns wide in the morning hush,
valley stretching slow, hills bare-shouldered,
fields glistening, half-asleep, half-prayer.
Lemon trees blink slow, bruised gold in the mist.
Figtrees call a name behind a rusted gate.
Sagebrush whispers gossip through chainlink,
its breath full of stories that outlive the tellers.
To the east, the nursery stirs,
plastic sheeting *****
row tags flutter in the wind.
A thermos, abandoned, rests by a wheelbarrow.
Mud boots, discarded,
stand like sentinels
against the wood plank wall.
No footsteps follow.
I never asked where they went.
Matilija poppies raise their paper-white heads,
and the raspberries, furred with morning dew,
shiver, just slightly,
as if remembering friends
they were no longer allowed to say.
A coffee roaster hummed somewhere distant,
low and steady, warming the wind.
That scent I never could shake,
burnt and sweet.
I could almost belong here again,
but it’s not mine without them.
I worked inside this valley with my back.
With my knees.
With the same hands,
now soft on the wheel,
muscle memory steering roads
as if nothing ever left,
as if the ghosts still ride along.
I pass a strawberry field, stitched in silence,
no voices rising in laughter today,
no corrido escaping from a shirt pocket radio,
no teasing between the furrows,
no calloused hands tossing tools,
only the soft ticking of irrigation
and the hush of work
that now waits for no one.
This silence has been swept, labeled,
nothing out of place but sadness.
I was here with them,
but only as a pair of eyes,
that never opened wide enough.
The strip mall stands like a broken promise,
painted stucco, faded western wear,
alongside roadside markets
missing the opening crew.
Still, the hills lean in to listen,
velvet green with memory,
quiet as folded hands.
Even now, under this sun,
the dust knows who knelt here.
Who sang into the rows,
who fled before sundown,
their names erased from the ledger
but carved into the earth.
And in soil’s hush,
their names still root and rise.
Jun 19, 2025
Jun 19, 2025 at 5:24 PM UTC
Reach high into the air, towards the trees
bearing the fruits of your labor.
You have tended them with care for so long,
and now they are heavy. Laden with new growth,
they are begging to be lightened. Reap the benefits
and harvest the rewards of your hard work.
You deserve to imbibe on the nectar of your toil.
Mar 7, 2025
Mar 7, 2025 at 7:55 PM UTC
i am attached to my past in a spiritual manner
i gather and gather but never get better
books flooding my head
words meant to mend
the intricacies of my fringed best chasing beautiful butterflies by the river bent
do you see the same visions?
do you see the same distance?
you seem closer in my head
do you deem me different?
do you dream of someone else instead?
let me know, to let me grow
unfold and grow again
let me know, to sow again
harvest and make amends
Feb 19, 2025
Feb 19, 2025 at 1:41 PM UTC
Goddess of harvests
calls out from wheat fields waving —
Heavy clouds marching
Dec 9, 2024
Dec 9, 2024 at 11:19 AM UTC
Planted in spring,
Golden kernels sown,
Roots anchored deep in the earth,
Blossoms unfurl,
The fields stretch wide,
Full of divinity and splendor,
Through long days and steady focus,
Obstacles met, paths cleared ahead,
The work now bears fruit,
Autumn brings the harvest,
A bounty gathered with care,
Golden stalks bend low,
Swaying in a quiet rhythm,
Leaves rustle in the wind,
The sky fills with fading light,
We gather in fields of gold,
Nature’s work is fulfilled,
A cycle now complete.
Nov 16, 2024
Nov 16, 2024 at 5:22 PM UTC
The season I decided
I didn't want to
Rip dead grass from the ground
And plate it like a fine meal
But sow new seeds
And look forward
***** where the greener pasture is,
I'll grow it myself.
Nov 5, 2024
Nov 5, 2024 at 11:17 AM UTC
Rising from the
womb of the Earth
something is being
stirred inside me.
Could there be anything
more sensually satisfying
than a stew
laced with the
romance of
crushed roses?
Slowly, wrapping
around my tongue,
savouring each bite,
I feast with each nibble
peppered heat
spiced with the
woody caress
of cinnamon;
An invitation
to pause in
pleasure
Soft apricots
pulsing with
sweet nectar
explode with
the essence of
The Goddess
sending a wave
of warm bliss
into the cauldron
of my belly.
Satiated,
tasting the
last kiss of
Summers rich
harvest, I rest.
Oct 11, 2024
Oct 11, 2024 at 5:02 PM UTC
I felt the harvest
Though I was in the mountains
The forest was ripe
Aug 21, 2024
Aug 21, 2024 at 12:55 PM UTC
Fed by summer heat
The foolish spring garden grew
far beyond its plot
So frightening its bounty
the harvest rots on the vine
Aug 20, 2024
Aug 20, 2024 at 7:16 PM UTC
in a darkened, smoky room
getting lost amongst the swell
third eye spies my walking doom
an angel, staring straight from hell
black eyeliner, matching attire
Designer, destined
to set souls on fire
destination heaven
no designated driver
begging for attention
I had to feed the pyre
she enjoys the tension
in it for the chase
I'm here on propension
could be any race
like a Disney princess
twice the grit and charm
every piece a twin set
she takes me by the arm
tells me I should drink this
hands me something fizzy
I downed it in an instant
started to get dizzy
and I can't remember
what she said her name was
something like Amber..
Erica.. Blair .. uhh. .
as her face was melting
she told me to sit down
but the stool kept bending
and I'm on the wood now
she's bent over double
tried to pick me up
but I'm seeing double
I might be in trouble
battle with the stairwell
I had to hold her hand
asked her what she did, she said
you wouldn't understand
I asked again, that was when
she let go of my hand
small miracle I didn't fall
'cause I could barely stand
somehow made it to the back seat
asked her where we're going
she just closed the door and said
you're better off not knowing
Oct 30, 2023
Oct 30, 2023 at 10:58 PM UTC
Grief arrives like a mist across the fields.
Bees brave the morning chill to work the last of the marjoram.
The suprise swallow nest, above the shop door, is empty.
There's a metal taste in my mouth.
It's like the tea I used to get from the Friends stall at my local hospital.
Left.
Over-stewed.
Late Summer throws her gifts at us with outrageous generosity.
Plenty beyond reason
Harvest beyond measure.
Aug 17, 2023
Aug 17, 2023 at 5:43 AM UTC
green bean
don’t be so mean
just come clean
I know you want to be seen
hiding under the leaves
don’t be such a tease
your song has been sung
it’s time to please
my tongue
Jul 12, 2023
Jul 12, 2023 at 7:47 AM UTC
Amber Moon, so full
please be still,
do not continue to rise
for the strength of your pull
will command the tears
to break free from the
lonely corners of my eyes
Amber Moon,
stay where you are
don't let our distance
make me reach too far,
While getting sleepy
on the sand,
the eve lays you to rest
upon the palm of my hand
Amber Moon,
the sweet harvest
that feeds my soul
the mystery of
your orange glow
never grows old
Sep 11, 2022
Sep 11, 2022 at 11:54 AM UTC
And if I grow, the harvest will be mine and only mine
Because I am my own and you are yours.
The soil does not reap the rewards of the roots which brought forth spring bloom nor autumn crop.
The cloud which carried rainfall does not demand praise for the leaves it fed.
The sun does seek praise for the flower its rays coaxed heavenward
And you will not take credit for my soul and it’s abundance.
That is between me and my creator.
Dec 7, 2021
Dec 7, 2021 at 5:19 PM UTC
With bated breaths
We exhale into crisp days
Cinnamon scented winds
Will carry tidings of cozy nights
As the trees drape themselves
In silks of red and gold,
Beacons in the foggy nights,
Wearing their best attire
In celebration of the harvest moon
©KNL
Oct 6, 2021
Oct 6, 2021 at 1:41 AM UTC