spring hits the
country
like a ten-ton truck
screeching
down your street
on its twelve to
eighteen
wheels

the trees burst with new leaves
the flowers bloom and stretch
to the sun
in hallow groves and quiet brooks
life is afoot once again

the backyards and the
lawns ache with their
growth

the new birds chirp with
hunger

the poets
reach
to their pens

still mystified
by this sudden
change

writing down thoughts
as colorful as their
worlds
trying to capture
just what
it’s like
to smell
spring
on
the wind

it’s impossible to know the future
it’s impossible to change the past

in short,
what you have
in this very
moment

nothing more
nothing less

take that to heart

it’s all you’ve got

if writing haikus
is needed to start writing
poetry is dead

there is a crusted-
over, nasty-
looking cut
on
my left
knee
from a bike
accident
I had the
other
day

both of my
big toes have
calluses that
size of quarters
on the
inside-back
parts
of
their
undersides

tiny sunburns
from where my
feet stuck
out of
the sand
decorate my left
and right
feet

my pale belly
and legs
seem ever whiter
in comparison
to my sunburnt and
darkening arms

there is somebody
out there who thinks
I am beautiful

how have stayed strong
all these years?

I can see my ugliness,
my scars, and my abrasions
just the same as everybody
else

they are there
they are morbid
and disgusting
they are who
I am and I act
as such

I know exactly why
and how people hate
me

yet

I’ve never faltered

in a hurricane or
the breeze

I am who I am
I say
and nothing more

still stories flutter,
rumors fly, and
I can’t help but
notice the stores
and tales that
circulate

I’m lucky someone
still finds time to look
at me straight

perhaps the strongest of men
are only left with the opportunity
to gain

in this,
my darkest hour,
the shadow of doubt
sits as I sleep
staring into my eyes
when I look at
him
and burning
holes in my form
when I find the
courage
to look
away

he is silent,
most times

seemingly satisfied
with encroaching fear
from his very prescience

but at times,
he does speak

he whisper to me
soft truths
which I cannot
deny
but
I refuse
to
accept

these truths
like…

that I’m failing
at the simplest of
tasks

or

that I’m
unable
to control myself
and what
I am

or

that
I am no
longer
someone that
I would
look
up
to

for the most part,
I can ignore these.

going about my days
in bliss and happiness
and sunshine

other times,
I am not so
lucky

when my bed
seems my only
friend
and I flop
down into its
soft sheets
and begin drifting off
into my own
world
I am
suddenly reminded
of his
existence

this is when he doesn’t talk

he just looks at me,
knowing why I am so
desperate to get away
from everyone,
and continues to
look

stop staring!
I say

stop staring!
I say again

stop staring!
stop staring!
stop staring
you *******
freak!

but he doesn’t

I work myself up
arguing with him

rationalizing his motivations
analyzing his strategies
predicting his moves

it just makes the whole
experience hurt worse
until finally:

I grab the lamp,
the bottle, the
plate, the knife,
the book, the child,
the girlfriend, the
family member,
the moral

and

throw it at him

every time
the object shatters
against the wall
and the shadow
is gone

I never see where he goes,
I’m still not sure of his name
or his purpose

in these, my darkest hours,
I can feel his eyes burning
me

he whispers answers
too hard to swallow
and edges me on till
I gallop over the edge

once I jump,
he leaves,
leaving me to wrestle
back to some sort of
sanity

I am not sure why
I am not sure when
I am not sure how
it’s possible in the
first place

but I know he will return
and I will be left to wrestle
with myself when he departs
again

in my bleakest moment,
even sleep haunts me with
dreams of my corpse

washing on the shores,
the rustling winds in
the palms, the caws
of birds and scuttling
of *****, the silence
in the mornings, and
the quiet in the night

echoing, soothing,
playing, evolving

the sounds of the ocean
sound like some ancient
composers song

there is life in this music

human life, animal life,
plant life, sea life, life
of the air, life of the
earth, life of the tiny
and life of the big

we feel it more than we
hear it
and we smile

the bass hum of the trees
the melody of the seagulls
the harmony of the wind
the crescendos of the waves

it is the song of the sea
the music of the ocean
the soundtrack of life

I feel my muscles unclench
and relax

the guilt
of these weeks
slacking leaks
out of my eyes
and ears and
fingers

the sludge
pools before
me
and as it
builds higher
and thicker
I feel my strength
returning,
my fortitude
relaxing,
my will
bending and
cracking with its
new found
freedom

the black goo
lies in a heap on
my floor
as
I go grab
a shovel and
toss it out
the
door

for now,
that poison
is gone from
me

but every
relaxing Friday,
when I let
this
poison from
myself
I notice my
features more
and more
in the viscous
creature
that leaks out
of me,
each time
I see more of
that tar in my
very own
face

how soon will the roles reverse?

I’m ready to be done
with this paper,
with this life,
with these problems
and these issues,
with this world
that seems
undone

we’re all ready
to give it all up,
to say “***** it all”
to go sleep away
till life is done
and gone

it’s a world based
on hard work,
a society borne in
greed,
we, the people,
read to be done,
I, myself, too
proud to give
up

so a world strikes
a faithful balance,
between its torture
and its gifts

it says unto you:
“give me your best
and your hardest,
give me your efforts
and your dreams,
if I am pleased,
I can offer,
a single present
to you”

“this present is sacred,
this present is rare,
this present is love,
a forgotten treasure,
if I do say so myself”

there stands a harrowing valley,
between the happening and the how,
where one must travel in solitude,
till light can find their house.

little black bugs,
behemoths in their
own right,
crawl across
the
surface
of my
carpet
and
ache for
just one
drink
of
my soft
flesh
before I
swat them
away
or
smash
them into
what-
ever
fate
awaits them
on the
other
side

50 people alive and
dying, their message
goes out as their final
breath and it says that
their lives were
meaningless but still
worth fighting for

talking to my now-
girlfriend I’m slowly
realizing just how much
stuff I’ve ******
up in the past

piano
tennis
school

I could’ve been great
but I’m
not,
am I?

I’m good at other things
though

poetry
theatre
economics

what makes them different?

they’re not any easier,
not any different,
really,
but they’re not
what I do,
not what I
love

wait

love

that’s it
love
that’s what’s
different

I don’t
love
those other things

I can’t pour my heart
into them, can’t keep
working even after
they’ve lost interest

but with those other things,
I can

huh

guess that makes sense
doesn’t it?

green with life, the
sea rushes up against
shores where green
trees grow and green
men fight and green
skies are dismissed
as impossible and
the green time bring
thoughts of greed
but is really meant
to remind one of
when they were once
young, still learning
and exploring, and
their green shoots
stretched their trendily
arms out towards the
sun and their thin roots
spread out through the
soil and they knew
little of the world
except that it was blue
and green and red and
brown and all the good
colors we had yet to
define; that there was
still a whole lot of stuff
we didn’t know, most
especially how green
we were to our own
ignorance

the first time,
it was a real smooching,
there in the rain
the passion
running down our
skin

I had just asked her out
I had just brought it to a head

everything up to that point,
the flirting,
the jokes,
the talking back
and forth for
hours,
had all been leading up
to that moment,
there in the pouring rain,
the water flowing down
the side-walks and we
couldn’t even feel our
feet

but I grabbed her,
asking what secret
she had been hiding
from me

and she wouldn’t tell me,
but she gave this little nod,
this little glare, that said
“do it now you fool”

so I did

I did and we kissed,
we kissed as the world
flooded and our friends
partied on and it was
magical

now we’re not really sure
what the future holds

we haven’t gone on a date,
yet.

but that’s what Friday’s for
that’s what the future is for

and for now,
I can deal with having
a single kiss a day

still flirting,
still shy,
still unsure

but we both know
there’s something
different

something worth smiling
about

life is
like
a fragile
glass

it is intrinsic:
beautiful even
more on the
inside

it is valuable:
more for it’s
purpose than
its looks
alone

it is sacred:
something
that only a few
ever really
appreciate

life is
like
a fragile
glass

something whose value
is greatest
after years of refinement
and growth
but as each day
goes on
in its fragile,
oh so fragile,
existence
the chance of its breaking
grows as greatly
as the cost of
losing
it

I, the optimist,
am hopelessly in love
with thinking that the past
is not indicative of the
future

I, the optimist,
cannot dream of a future
where I am no more
and my children are no more
and we,
as a species,
are no
more

I, the optimist,
look into the future
and past grimly
but even as the grime
grows thicker over
the things already
happened
and even more so
over the things yet to
come
and
I, the optimist,
do not doubt that they
will work out for the best
in the very, very
end

blood shot eyes in the mirror.

I am at the lowest point of my life once
again

why do I come back here
again
and
again
and
again?

I come back
and I come back
and I come back
and I never forget
how bad it is
here

yet I never cease to return
again
and
again
and
again

pleasure before pain,
play before work,
I cannot escape the cycle
as I dig my own grave
deeper

I have infinite confidence
but zero self-worth

I can boast about how I can reach the sun
but I would sooner sell myself for free than
try to prove that statement

I have failed
again
and
again
and
again

but I hear hope
in the waters beating against the tub;
once again
they say to me,

“time to wash away
thy sin
for I forgive you
for tears look no
different within my
loving arms”

and I return silently
head low and
eyes sunken
washing myself
as the child would
hoping to birthed
again
and
again
and
again

twin coke bottles
stare down from atop
the tv cabinet
snug in the back
corner
that I look at too
often

tomorrow she’s coming back
but don’t take that to mean
something

I just realized I wasn’t doing anything
so I called her up
and asked her over
and tomorrow she’s coming
over

my poetry has been…
off
lately

people scream at me about punctuation
about their disagreements
and their confusions
and all I can do is stand there
wondering how to bring back to
them

yet
my heart has been on a cloud
thinking happy thoughts
dreaming happy dreams
wishing happy, hopeless wishes
and tomorrow she comes over
and I want to show her my
poetry

so now I wonder
at myself
and
at my art
and
the lines in the palms’ of my hands
do little more than laugh
at my conundrum

the bodies transform
as the electricity of
their ears reaches the
brain and wakes it
from its eternal sleep

as the horror washes
over them, the pupils
dilating and increasingly
gaping mouths, the
faces freeze as if stone,
so much more an
imitation of death

each time now,
the increasing beat,
brings only more
to the suffering of
these human-esque
forms

but that first sounding
always has the most
power, for even the
mountains, mighty as
they are, cannot deny
the shaking deep in
their core which can
turn them to rubble
and, in respect, they
always turn to face
it

I hear the noise of silence
quietly now you wonder what I mean
but that is the magic of this trick
that it truly has no meaning

rumbling thunder in the background
I type away for my own sanity’s sake

the day winds down faster every day
what day is the one I can enjoy forever

boom
the trees shake
and heads turn
birds fly out of
the tree tops
and rain begins
to fall

this moment out of memory
is like so many others easily
created and forgotten

is creativity an absence
of sanity?

the making up of reality
you can scarcely seem to
hold onto?

boom
the sound seems
so familiar
the fearful birds
so real
but is this a moment
of memory
or a storm of my
own creation

my sister once told me
brother,
you’re not like everyone
else

and I wasn’t

I wouldn’t be my entire life
and I would be perplexed by it
but I would be happy

+

my father once told me
son,
you’re born to lead everyone
else

and I was

I would lead my entire life
and I would be stressed by it
but I would be happy

+

my friends once told me,
Caleb,
you’re more arrogant than everyone
else

and I was

I would be my entire life
and I was misunderstood for it
but I would be happy

+

I once told myself
man,
you’re not what everyone
else says

and I wasn’t

I was who I said I was
and I would accept that
and I would be happy with it
like no one else knew

my eyes stare into the future
and they glaze over with sad-
ness

my hands cover my mouth
to hide it but I know that it
cannot be ignored

my fate is coming soon, the
beginning of another end I
must endure

I swore
to listen to the
song

and only you
know what song
and only we
know what it
means

that song was beautiful
and so are you
and I pinky swore that I’d listen
and I’m listening to you

this is a test
of my control
over my own
body

the test will begin in
5
4

3


2



1.

I begin to shake
my eyes dilate
nostrils flare
my breath stutters

I’m hurtling towards
the edge

the endless pit
just over the
corner

and I see
coming to me
faster each
second

but as my feet
hit the end of
the cliff

it all stops

my body slows
eyes return to normal
nose sounds silently
breathing is average

the test has concluded
and the results are in
the mail

the coke machine
up on the hill,
the hill it’s been on
for forty years or
more,
reads in angry red
letters:
SOLD OUT

the coke
the diet coke
the sprite
the fanta
and
the mello yellow
too

all gone
but it still begs
for your dollar
fifty
even though
it can’t give you
anything back

the forty year-
old coke machine
up on the hill
is sold out
but it’s still thirsty
and so are
you

I
walk
small
circles
round
and
round
and
round
like
nobody
is
watching
because
nobody
is

we
are
always
so
caught
up
thinking
that
there’s
somebody
always
judging
us
and
then
we
go
complain
that
we
are
alone

I
spin
I
run
in
small
circles
when
nobody’s
watching
which
is
almost
always

when
you
are
alone
you
are
alone

everyone
is
so
caught
up
in making
sure
nobody’s
watching
them
that
they’ll
rarely
notice
you

but
if
someone
does
notice
you
seize
the
moment

do
something
do
something
you’d
only
do
while
no
one
is
watching
because
in
reality
you
have
had
your
whole
life
to
practice
and
only
have
this
moment
to
prove
it
hasn’t
gone
to
waste

they crawl out
silently
over the carpet
on six skinny jointed legs
they come out to
die

their tiny antennas feel the earth for one last time
their tiny eyes blink as the light surrounds them

the tiny creatures
forsaken by man to live in the shadows
only coming out into the day
when their eternal night
is most near

the bugs
crawl out
on six jointed legs
to die on my
carpet

the day is winding down
the household says goodnight
the dogs and cats and mice and bugs find their nests
the people choose their beds

I look out the window
and the little clouds
that gather just before
the night takes control
look at me with rosy
cheeks and wide smile

behind that cheery face they talk to me
saying “goodnight, goodnight, goodnight
sleep well, we’ll see you tomorrow!”

I wave to them in shock
having never talked to
clouds before but I tell
them: “Goodnight to
you too”

They don’t talk any more
and just sit there smiling
with their big, rosy cheeks
as the day becomes the night
and the pink clouds go to
sleep without me

count off what you’ve done
today
on your
fingers

slept
ate
watched tv
slept again
ate again
watched more tv
lied down in bed
then wrote a poem

the poem comes to a
close
as the day comes to a
close
and we’re left with only the
future

tomorrow is another day
but between then and now
is one more big night we
have to survive

I watch now
colorful poets
moving their hands and mouths
with the words
of their own creation

so many different monsters
jumping out at my ears
what is the nature of their
existence?

are they born of the writer
or of the world in which
they are ****** into?

are they more than ink?
this is every writer’s dilemma

as the pen scribbles
does the monster only live on the page
or does it escape
into the minds
of those unlucky souls
who happen to pass by at just the wrong
moment so that they monster’s claws
can then tear their simple flesh?

I listen now
seeing so many different monsters
their existence only real
on the white page
but as I look at my own scars
I wonder at my own monsters
and put down my pen

my face is covered
in white
cream

a blade waits in my hand
and I look in the
mirror

my sad eyes are there
so are my simple ears
my nose
barely visible over my
temporary
beard

so much there
in my
face

I move the razor up to an
inch away

I stop

I look in the mirror again

my eyes scream something
like the depressed, silent child
screams something

I listen hard but I can’t
hear it

I move the razor to my face
take the first long drag
off my right cheek

I look at the scar
now I am imperfect

I look at my eyes once
again
now in comparison to my
jigsaw makeup

I listen
and I hear my sad eyes
scream

this is what I’ve been waiting for
the freedom from perfection
my jigsaw face seems better somehow
my eyes for once seem bright

I wash the razor in the sink
and go on shaving

all around me the world trembles
all around me the world bleeds
all around me people suffer
all around me people die without need

yet I sit here
fed
bathed
happy
and seem mystified by the very thought

a crow flies over cawing the knowledge
I can barely accept
and I know that sunshine here
may mean well
but to others that same sunshine
may be the sign of their death

all around me the world falls apart
all around me the believers fall down expecting the end

I sit alone here
looking out at this world I share
with all of them

and I wonder why I am chosen to
sit here alone while being
fed
bathed
and
happy

the sun peaks over the clouds
and I smile at a day that shall be beautiful

bringing my eyes back down
to this world I share with all of you
I see the cracks in the earth
spelling doom
and hear the news of death
on the wind
I know the world around me suffers
suffers more than I shall ever know

but perhaps my purpose on this rock
is to not wonder at this shaking
which seems to grip everyone else
but to be grateful that where I stand
the earth is still

sometimes you can’t believe what you’ve
done

your mind wanders back in time
looking for the moment you shattered
or built, changing the flow of our
collective future

the bird flies across your window for a reason
the soldier dies in a fight for a reason
the is poem is writen for a
reason

and we shouldn't know what the reason
is

if you do,
I’m sorry

watching what becomes of your
actions is terrible and mystifying

it hurts
or
it stuns
or
both
or
worse

I fear myself as I dip my oar into the river of time
I fear that in my wake a flood will come

this is death

this is the black
of the black and white

this is the sound after the last song
this is the racetrack after the racers have left
this is the pencil resting next to a finished
masterpiece

this is your feet
this is your hand
this is your sweat
this is your face

this is your tired rest
this is your comforting grasp
this is your release
this is you

this is a book sealed shut with the eons of never being opened
this is a mind sealed shut with the steel locks keeping the eons
out

this is you in your greatest moment
this is you in your worst moment

you’ve already done the best thing in your life
you did it yesterday as you sat on the toilet,
or as you laid in bed sick,
or you read a book,
or you kept a secret,
or you told a secret

you will never be as good as you were a moment ago
and this will continue for the entirety of your life
but you never faultier
you well never fail
you will grow greater and greater every minute
even as your better self slips away into the past

this is your feet worn to the bone
this is your hand dirtied with time
this is your sweat hot with your effort
this is your face smiling in regret

this is the bird flying home to its nest
this is the car that drives past an accident
this is the artist laughing for the first time
in years

this is the white
of the black and white

this is life

look out the window
the air is full of tiny
wings

the wonder is in your
eyes but the mystery
is in your head

the noon-bugs make
the outside world a
hazy shadow

the window separates
you for better or worse

lost
the summer day

heat waves
and bird
chirping music
this is quite a beautiful
afternoon

trees are green
the sky is blue
I am blank,
lost as the summer
day

the little leaflet read out in bold letters:
ARE YOU HAPPY?

I thought about it
read the rest of the sheet
it told me how if I came to:
DREW HARPY’S SELF-HELP CLASS
my life would be changed

so I went
the initial question still not
answered

I go the office park where it’s supposed to be,
go back into a maze of cubicles and white brick
walls, and then this simple wooden door reads:
DREW HARPY’S SELF-HELP CLASS

I knock
the door flies open
and there’s Drew Harpy
smile of plastic
muscles of
silicon

he asks
WELL ARE YOU COMING IN FOR A NEW LIFE?

I say,
no thanks,
wrong door
and walk away

the little leaflet is still in my pocket
reading out:
ARE YOU HAPPY?

but,
I still didn't have
the answer

sitting on the toilet I had another revelation
it’s five pm and today was a little hot
but I guess now that school’s almost
over
and all my troubles are melting
away
my mind is flowing in the weirdest ways
and in the weirdest places

the epiphany was:

the watched *** never boils
the flower gazed upon never blooms
the storm only moves when nobody’s looking
and thus
the boy cannot grow into a man
whilst the cameras track his every
move

back at the computer it seems rather
simple

but I think I know it more than I realize

all my strife and anger is usually do to
others
others who won’t mind their own business
or
others who have right to know what I do
but who I really think should just leave me
alone

I’d be so much greater without the guilt of on-looking eyes

I’d know the guitar, the piano, the sax
I’d write better
I’d be more outgoing, more open-minded
I’d be much more

my music would be louder
my voice would carry further
I would be so much more

Now a days,
I just wilt away like the flower in the heat of the
sun

those eyes burn fear into my back
and I now live hunched over, forever
tending my wounds and planning my
escape

my eyes are wild
my heart is strong
my eyes are sharp
my mind is sharper

I’ve burst from the black pit
and jumped back into the world
my guns a blazing and my arms
once again pumping with adrenaline

my eyes are wild
and I’m happy to
be alive when just
moments ago I might
as well have been
dead

the rain falls but
my spirits rise

this is what I was meant to do

I was meant to burst,
not just rise from,
the black pit that
had consumed my
life (once again)

so I burst!
and burst I did!
and now I tell you I have burst
so that it doesn’t slip away
too fast

the book is hidden away
its pages unturned
my eyes looking elsewhere,
ah,
this is bittersweet

I should
I should
I should

but,

I probably won’t,
like always

you know that
so why even ask?

I walk in with a smile
but always leave with a frown
because it always comes back to:
what I haven’t done
what I’m not doing
what I should be spending my time on

and it does is make me more
depressed

so Great Expectations
is waiting for
me

waiting to jump
and crush me
under it’s 500 pages
of ****

opportunity
sits in
my
den
and
says
“so what
you
going to do
this time?”

I look at
my pan,
bacon cooking
and sizzling,
and chuckle
him off

“don’t know,
bub”

“haha”
he laughs
“just hope
you don’t *****
it up
like every
other
time”

“yeah”
I say,
despondent,
“me
too”

and I serve
the bacon with
some eggs,
sit down
at the table
looking in at the
den,
and opportunity
watches the evening
news, waiting for
the day's lotto
numbers

it is no crime
to say
“**** it”
and
move on
with my
life

it took me years
to realize this but
even now I take it
as a privilege and
not a rite

times like these
always bring me
back to this debate

and every time
I say no no no
I need to do it
because I can do it
I gotta prove I can do it
gotta show ‘em
gotta teach ‘em
gotta learn ‘em
about what
I
can do

it’s times like these
that make me look
out the window at
the clouds and truly
appreciate them

the trumpet blares
out of the speakers
and I realize that I
might be cut out for
this world after all

it’s not the
greater truth we’re
looking for

nor the
answers,
nor the
way

we search only for
a reason,
a meaning for
our lives

for some it comes
as women,
or drugs,
or work,
or
play

for others they dedicate
their time to causes
against injustice
or for their god

and still others
stumble along
listening to music
and writing down their
thoughts

not content with
their limited knowledge
they agree with themselves
that not knowing is the best
answer and stride ahead
despite the pack
not worried in the least
what might await
them

the tired beer talks
the tired black nights
the faces of people
of family or friends
the **** behind the car
the fires where all you
can see is eyes
the empty cans
the shoeless feet
the people talking to
people
the relationships and
the alliances

on concrete patios
in the woods
near lakes
or out in the deserts

we are there
listening to grasshoppers
play their sad songs
who sometimes get
so loud that we yell at each other
and laugh at the top
of our lungs
trying to fill up
the black night
and remind those
bugs we’re not dead
yet

it
is
perhaps
Dinosauria, we
that
gets
me
most
of
all
with
how
undeniable
it’s
truth
is

we have no choice,
no freedom,
at birth
we are simply
******
into this world
and told to deal
with it
whatever it may
be

and this world
is dying.
this world
is cursed to be
blown up
by men
who have no ears
for what we
have to
say.

this is not some
grim prophecy,
bukowski nor I
come out of the desert,
beard long and
eyes grown shut with
age,
and insist to you
that the end is
near

I fear,
but I suspect
he does
not,
that one day
soon
the universe
will sit in smug
silence
making jokes
amongst the stars
about the cute
little primates
that thought they
could make
it

is there any
other business?
the drab
judge said
to his
fellow lawful
relics

the room was
silent

good,
we are dismissed
he said

I’m sorry,
a voice said,
but I can’t let us
go without saying
something

the judge let loose
a deep breath from his
nostrils

what is it,
brother?
have you a
concern?

a man,
the voice said,
one that is set to
hang
he is
not
guilty

and how is it
that you know this
brother?

his crime,
the commitment of
emotion,
is not a
crime

how so brother?
have we not seen
what happens when we
feel?

yes I know of the wars,
of the hatred,
of the destruction,
but I say
it is not a
crime!

but it is-
a crime

the room was silent then
the judge and the man
who the voice belonged to
stared at each other

it broke with the voice
not the judge

where would we be without
feeling?

where would we be with
it?

silence
again

we would be animals
without our emotions

are you saying we
aren’t
animals?

yes,
I am saying
we are better than
that

we are man!
we are human!
we have minds!
we have morals!
we are above the rest!
we are the best, the
greatest!

we can be responsible!
we can be trusted!
we can be allowed to feel!
we can love!

the air had long left the room
no one knew what to think
there was hatred and anger
but also denial and questioning
who was right? who was wrong?
what does this challenge mean?

it was the judge,
not the voice,
that spoke this time
first

arrest this man

he is guilty of our
most heinous
crime

and the voice was dragged off
his body desecrated and burned
by men in black masks and sick
smiles

the voice did not die
the man he was fighting for
did not either

the man ran,
to the hills he ran,
on the mountains he
screamed:

I love her
I love her
I love her

he was never caught
he ran about the country
and was heard by ears
and seen by eyes
and his image and his form
would not leave the minds
of the people

yet the corpse of that voice,
living now in a dying man,
still lies in some forgotten
warehouse, decaying and
rotting with worms

that corpse is what happens
to those that think freely
even in this age, of free speech
and free justice we are one
step from a court of logic
that forgets what it means to
love and truly thinks it is a
crime

this all plays within my mind,
the judge myself
the voice myself
the man myself
the message myself
the court myself
the meaning myself
and most of all

the torture
myself

it’s hitting me,
exhaustion,
and my bed
calls to me in soft
whispers

with the skies
so grey
the trees still
bare
I wonder when
spring plans
to start

these are questions for dreams
and visions for nightmares
so what point is there to sleep?

too weary to answer
I close my eyes instead
and hope the monsters
decide I deserve rest
for once

a woman,
clad in green,
in the mountains
with
dull, deep forests
and soft, blue
hills,
tills in the
ground
with seeds
not
yet ripe
with
life

a bird
chirps a sharp
tune in the
wind
and
the woman
wipes away
sweat
from
her forehead,
looking upon
her work
with a
satisfied
smile

she seems to know
everything
without ever
seeming
scholarly
and
yet you
never doubt
her advice
even when it
seems unsound
or completely
uninformed

she is the peace
that this word has
to offer

her work in
the soil,
her faithful
commitment to
the land,
that is all we
can give you
without
asking for
anything
in
return

we don’t expect
a yes
or
a no

we only expect
you know her name
and respect her
as your true
mother