What is your favorite word?
A word that hugs
A word that heals
A word that thinks
A word that feels.

And if your favorite word
Is in a song
Is it so common or so rare
That you would choose
Not to share?

Big or bold
Soft or loud
Will your word
Move a crowd?

Above all words
Above the sky
Above our purpose
That will not die,
Our words should live
And stand alone
Fragile as breath
Yet strong as stone.

Immortal as a shining star
Words showcase
Who we really are.

Some folks are afraid to use
The f-word; I am certainly not.
If YOU are, then think about
What's happening, and give it a shot.

Assaults on democratic rule
In America we must deplore.
This has never happened here
To such an extent ever before.

The f-word here is "fascism."
Just watch as it undermines
Our rights and freedoms in frightening ways.
Be aware of the tell-tale signs:

A ruler who wants total power
All to himself and stifles dissent,
And one who expects loyalty
From ALL, or he is never content;

A ruler who constantly lies and expects
Close supporters to spread his lies;
Who acts like a powerful despot whom
Folks are afraid to criticize;

A country where many people fear
Going to work, to stores, or to school
Because the government hunts them down
In ways that are unfair and cruel;

A ruler who supports the practice
Of scapegoating and demonization,
And gives extremist groups the right
To justify discrimination;

A place where freedoms are threatened by
A far-right governing apparatus,
And where the ruler is elevated
To practically a god-like status;

A ruler who uses violence
To help him achieve political goals
And always insists he's right, though all
His arguments are full of holes;

A dictatorial ruler who wants
Total control of the higher courts
And tries to force the media
To hide the truth in news reports;

And one who pits the people against
One another and has his squads
Who carry out his reign of terror--
Many of whom are thugs or frauds.

People will always say, "No way!
Fascism couldn't happen here!"
And live their lives ignoring the signs
As rights continue to disappear.

“The hell it can’t!” is what I say.
Look at the signs; learn from the past.
The once-so vivid colors of
Democracy are fading fast.

-by Bob B (7-1-25)

Three yellow birds
have died in a cage
Canaries in the coal mine
kept miners from their wage
“Got to get down there
I’ve got a family to feed
That’s more important to me
than the air that I need
I don’t care about the danger
It’s too late for me
In another year
I won’t be around to see
more birds dying
on account of me
Just open up the mine
and let me be”



And put Vincent’s drawings
where all can see

All ears
done making up stories
just to forgive, unfreeze

not be left with I should have’s
hoping, waiting, it carves
“Glad I did” a gesture that loves

All scream
done holding the steam
just to hear myself, dream

stop myself from thinking
forced myself, I’m feeling
accepting, moments that sting

When the midnight oil has waned,
and the candles waxed,
puddles of sage-scented sandalwood
pooled on oaken tableaus,
the scent of sulfur and kerosene
all that remains to show that something,
anything,
had burned here.
-
When the moon has hidden his face,
to shine upon some distant galaxy,
forgetting the steady, long-loved sun,
the tides pulled out and away,
no longer holding the sand,
leaving it to shiver in the damp of forgotten froth.
-
When the camp fire dies,
and the last of the hopeful dancing embers
shrivel,
their pirouettes curling into gray streams
of unrequited smoke,
fresh logs lay dreaming of pyres,
as orange fades to black,
marshmallows piled, unroasted,
in bags that won't be opened.
-
what is left,
once everything has died,
but... to make new light.

I lay shackled
in this desolate room of mine.
Even now,
a lingering drop of a beat remains.

Even the sight of air
that resembles you—
makes my core outlandish
and unfamiliar.

Vanishing all my obligations,
as if they were only dreams.

And yet,
I ask for nothing
but freedom
from the curse that has befallen me.

I’ll wait—
I’ll long—
I’ll dream—
of the day I see the smile
on your face again.

I saw
in the streets —
dead people
walking;
(tiptoeing...)
They’re
not deceased,
nor are they
alive.

I saw
in the streets —
that desperate
hustle;
(grinding...)
They’re
not hungry,
nor are they
satisfied.

I saw
in the streets —
the filthy rich
and the poor;
(begging...)
They’re
not affluent,
nor are they
the *******.

I watched,
and wondered —
am I
one of them
too?

I saw
in the streets —
the appetite
for more;
(hungry...)
They’re
not content,
nor are they
dissatisfied.

I saw
in the streets —
dead people
walking;
(tiptoeing...)
They’re
not deceased,
nor are they
alive.

No one’s
screaming,
but I still
hear the
sirens —
As they
pick up
the dead
people
walking.

legs perched, dangling aimlessly on the windowsills of my eyelids
pantomimed loss dampened behind bubble wrapped sockets
tip toes traipsing through an expansive field of visions
spotty with irises, blooming occlusions

calcium deposits in my skull,
fractured eggshells I've trampled on
great feed for a peckish soul
starving for sustenance I don't know by sight
blindly ambling, praying to be guided by faith
finger wagging at the wind, searching for east
sand swept up blows back in my face

through communion commotion becomes consecrated
discombobulated coagulation,
blood dried to my touch
wellspring abated,
vagabond wandering the ether
in spiritual deserts, I fight for my life

He crawled through seven weeks,
her voicemail still unplayed
burned letters on the stovetop,
and brushed the ash away.

The mattress holds her perfume,
her hair still haunts the sheet.
It lingers just to gut him,
then breaks beneath the heat.

"I gave you what I carried,
a key, a ring, a name.
You marked it as a chapter,
the ending never came."

Streetlights blink and stutter,
pulse yellow, white, then blue.
They gnaw beneath the ribcage
and press on every bruise.

He heard her laughter echo
through gutter sweat and smoke;
coins scatter on the concrete,
a rimshot to the joke.

He cut this trail in whiskey
left dents along the floor,
no battle flag, no anthem,
just shrapnel from the war.

Her glance, a flint and trigger,
still burns behind the eyes.
Not love, not even fury,
just silence split with lies.

The bottle knew its ending;
its glitter salts the ground.
No sirens in the alley,
all bodies have been found.

He slips the lock in shadow
and drifts beneath the gray.
The gospel wilts by morning.
He never meant to stay.