I’m drawn from the forge
of truth, red hot and anvil ready.
I’ve chased my heart to the
depths of the oceans
and heard the songs of the denizens.
Distant stars will fade before
my well of feeling
will run dry. Chains on my
hands, blindness in my eyes
yet I write and see all.
I soar across the heavens
though tethered to the earth.
I walk on hot coals while
singing sweetly. I talk to
the moon and the man talks back.
I sip mint juleps while basking on
the sun. I’ve done all this
and none of this. The poet is
free, a universe of the unknown awaits.

Words flow
inundate the page,
a swirling flood, turbulence
on the flat sheet.
I am attacked, the vice
of indecision clamps
my mind, the pressure
intense, the pain spiritual.
The battle rages, the
vultures circle, I succumb.
Suddenly, all is quiet,
I’m alone on the page
surrounded by the
remnants of the conflict.
I rise and collect the words
laying them in lines like
casualties after the battle.
But, now, the words come
alive. They sing the song
of truth. I lie down
exhausted and sleep.
The words surround
me and keep me warm.

Words and the page,
wind and the waves.
Words move my hand,
a hand invisible moves
the waves. Words reduce
my store of feelings,
the tides reclaim the shore.
For the poet, ebb and flow
are his world. Inspiration is
there, then gone. Happiness
then depression. Kindness
then selfishness. The great
sin, self gratification.
When you write for you,
inspiration is wasted.
You are just a pass thru,
an instrument of communication.
All poetry is meant for someone else.
Poetry is like the wind
Over the water, it should disrupt
the tranquility while soothing the soul.

I look to the moon, my pen ready.
Nothing comes, the urge, the pain,
Help! The moon laughs, ridicules
my thoughts. This moon, subject of
the great poets of yore, demeans
and discourages my efforts. I turn
to my heart, full with words and feeling.
Where have you been it asks.
I’ve been to the moon I answer.
And, what did you find it asks?
Nothing, I answer. My words are
your words it says. No need to look
elsewhere. Always from my heart...

Life is grinning, smiling, hugging, kissing.
Suddenly it’s sweating, coughing, hurting.
The light’s so bright, an alien specter with
the voice of an angel speaks to me.
A latex hand grasps mine.
I drift off, I dream of wonderful, I dream
of dread, I dream of doom. Then, there are
no dreams. I’m wrapped in a sheet,
transported to a refrigerated trailer
with other souls awaiting their fate,
fire or ground, either way, in a box.
I ache for those who witness this every day....

Begging....


Bound by chains, my souls screams
at the sun for burning light, then at
the trees for blocking light.
Is what burns gone, or just
consumed by the greedy light?
Who stores the screams of the
begging souls, tormented by the
loss of sight? The sky collects but
oceans store in the deep, so deep
the screams aren’t heard
and the monsters of the sea feed
and rise to torture the world
with fears of the unknown.
Once fear is instilled they return to
the deep to feed again.
The oceans get revenge,
baiting humans. Humans beg
and the monsters return and feed.

Loss/Gain...

I’ve lost gasses
I’ve gained unhelpful rhetoric
I’ve lost glaciers
I’ve gained ocean levels
I’ve lost clean air
I’ve gained coal production
I’ve lost clean water
I’ve gained more waste
Gains plus losses equal
devastation for this planet.
Who can save us, only
us can save us...
Where is the will to survive?