Freedom is just a word that we use every day.
We use it when we study, we use it when we play.

For many folks a word’s a word that shows up on a page.
For other folks the word’s a cause that made a war to rage

To be free to shop, to play, to exercise free speech,
please stop and think then realize why that’s within our reach.

Americans have traveled to protect our native shores.
They’ve fought and bled and died for us in countless foreign wars.

They never stop to wonder why whenever duty calls,
they stopped their lives, grabbed their packs and marched to duties halls

To have such friends, who care so much, for all that we hold dear,
you’d think we’d pause and contemplate that word we often hear.

Freedom is a battle cry from soldiers young and old.
They fought for us, they died for us, their stories seldom told.

When we see the word on printed page let’s think about what’s free
and think of those who paid the price from sea to shining sea.

depression creeps in
like a thief in the night,
not looking for gold,
only your sanity.
It’s vice clamps your mind
It’s hands turn the *****, I
scream at the pain, the pressure,
my mind explodes into fragments
and collects in the abyss of
uncertainty. Where, when
I no longer know. I grasp
to stop the fall, I pray to Him to
save me. Anybody, anything!
Suddenly, an angel in white.
Things will be alright.
He holds the magic wand,
One ***** of the needle
And I’m saved.

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....

Chickadee
Flies from limb to limb
A lost soul


Life is a search,
a journey, a quest
for a destination,
an arrival. I wander,
I wonder why I keep
looking for an end
and all I find are
beginnings. I search
the world for a
place to stop,
but, every stop is
a start, I search my
mind for a final thought
but every possibility
presents a possibility.
every opportunity
begins an opportunity
My mind aches for the
satisfaction of finality,
but the goal is replete
with new wants and desires.
I resolve to the truth and
the message from fate.
“The key to the end is mine.
The turn of the key is mine.
Be very careful what
you wish and look for.
The end is abrupt and final.
Isn’t arrival better”?

The arrow flies, the target’*****
but truth escapes the assault.
Truth seeks openness, the
space between opinion and
reality.

Opinion lives in the political world
while reality lives in the real world,
where numbers are not just figures
on a chart but loved ones missed
and missing.

Truth today isn’t a matter of
conscience but a matter of
convenience. Convenient to
the political moment while
the conscience of reality begs
for straight talk and honest truth.

The arrow hit us, the victims.
We suffer epidemics of both
crippling illness and debilitating
spin. The cure for both is the truth.

The tent of love is fragile, but a refuge from
the world of storm that swirls about it’s ropes and stakes.
The supports strain and squeal, warn of failure
but the show goes on, in spite of the warnings.
Then, love, under siege from the storm seeks refuge.
Stop the show! Call in the clowns! If the clowns come in
the storm will vanish. I deny it’s there. If so, then
who is the clown? What happens when the tent collapses,
the show stops and the clowns don’t appear?  I am
alone amidst the  props I thought were real.
I was real, love was real but for now it’s
over until the next show.

The sea is angry
Spinning white caps on my bow
Stay the course or die

My ears hear the sound
but my eyes see
only the motion of her lips.
Her voice is like music
drawing me in like the doomed ships of lore.
We kiss, that great dam of emotion bursts,
A tsunami of passion floods my being,
I am swept out of reality
and into the moment.
But the moment is fleeting, the passion recedes
yet the music continues
to, once again, draw me to that shore of mystery.

The Name...

Lini Solo Altimari, a name I read once in an obit.
I have no idea who she was only that her
life ended at 25 years. Did someone love her
and now they sob alone, tormented by
what might have been? Did she have dreams
that she pursued only to have death step in?
Her name has haunted me for decades. Maybe
I knew her in another life. Maybe I loved her
and shared her dreams.
We go through life with a small circle, a small
group we think we know. All we know is
the surface, what’s deep is always a secret.
But a name in a obit captures us for a reason.
Perhaps this life isn’t our first. Perhaps deja vu
is a real peek into our past. Perhaps, someday
someone will read our name in an obit
and pause to wonder why it seems so familiar.

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.

Life’s a mountain
the path is steep
the path is rough.
He is at he top, the
one for which life is
worth while. I stumble on
rocks, I bleed from thorns,
as did he for me. Yet my faith
is weak, my resolve is shaken.
I fall again, his hand is there,
he picks me up, lifts my
eyes to the prize. But I fall again,  
but my faith is weak, I tumble down
my gains all lost.life wins, once again.

A title conferred or imposed? One person steps on to the stage, in the spotlight, opens his heart and pours out his innermost hopes and fears. He craves approval but is guarded with the courage that some in the audience may not be receptive to his message. His message is pure and will not change regardless of criticism.
Then, there’s the next person who steps onto the stag but the lights are down. The audience hears his message but wonders if it’s real as seeing is believing. Hiding behind anonymity is cowardly.  In the shadows criticism strikes at the heart of some alter ego and not at the soul of the performer. He leaves the stage never knowing if his message has impacted the minds of his audience as they know not where to direct criticism or praise. It’s been said that”life is a stage”. Can one perform in the dark? Is our faith in ourselves and the empathy of others that weak? OK, turn on the lights...

It’s winter, but the lack of flowers
darken the day. Flowers are fresh
and new, and represent
all that is good in this world.
They give us hope, like new babies
crying out the message
that there is hope, I’m here!
How do we renew when
we are stalked daily?
How do we hope when
we are expected to decide between
truth and lies constantly?
How do we believe when
the icons we were presented
as children have morphed into
some bizarre character in an
off broadway play?
How do we function when media
says stay home but the next
channel says go out?
Am I centered, am I alone?
Is death just outside my front door?
I don’t know anymore. I’ve lost my
vision for tomorrow. Is it there?
I need help, if there is any...

The pain racks my body
Like thunder fractures the silence.
I long to separate and
observe from afar.
But pain claws me down
and laughs at my feeble attempt.
Like a demon from hell, it’s grip
is the grip of past sins.
The price is atonement for sins
yet committed.

What are my sins oh specter
that has command of my soul?
Did my desires overwhelm my needs?
Was my treatment of others
cruel or self serving? Did I
destroy rather than build?
Tell me, release me to the silence
and to eternal darkness.

But the pain persists.
The agony settles over me
like fog on the sea. I can’t even
plead, my voice is consumed.
The specter just laughs, “ your pain
is mine and I feed on your agony”.

Fallen, crushed by fears
my tears soak the earth,
my cries unheard,
my pleads ignored, then a voice
from the bowels of history
covers me with a blanket
of calm. My tears rise from  
the earth like flowers. They
cover me with the song of life,
the smell of youth, the hope
of a new beginning. all from
the sound of his voice...
Thank you Andrea B.

What is freedom?
Word in a book?
Free to be classed.
Have or have not.
In the yoke of the have’s.
In the panic of the have nots.
Wages for our labors?
Gift from the haves?
A vote that doesn’t count.
Majority rules, no
connections rule.
We are swept along
in the current of their agenda.
We flounder, we grasp,
no rescue, just trying to survive.
Surviving is existing,
in a system that expects loss
and embraces inequality.
Free to be less than equal.
Is second class equal?
Only the haves are equal.
The have nots are necessary
for the excesses of the haves.
Free to be necessary.
We, have nots, have many freedoms,
All within the yoke of the haves.
Yes, freedom is just a word in a book.

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.

Think of life, see the trees.
The struggle quiet but still it’s there.
Tamarac stays green, others are bare,
winters cold , leaves succumbed.
Tops of trees see springs first sun.
Leaves awake and spread their wings.
Tops steal sun from limbs below,
surviving on crumbs that filter down.
The forest floor, void of warmth
produces brambles, thorns and weeds.
The oaks and maples reign supreme.
All others bow before their might.
Different colors, beach, birch, pine
diversity amidst adversity?
Life truly mirrors nature, the haves
and the have nots. Those that have it
keep it or ration it. All at the bottom
struggle to survive.
Those in the middle just exist on
droppings from the haves.
And color, well, nature handles better.
A mind wander, a fantasy of worlds,
a dream of coexistence.
A waste of time...B.

Zen describes out of body experience
Meditation deep, concentration focused
Weightless sense, mindful will
Acid test, turn and see
Astral world, not in time
Beyond imagination, infinity reigns
Undeveloped spirits, specters haunt
Silver tether brings me back
I shake, I tremble at what I’ve seen
I’m not ready for the world beyond