Winter respite,
Desert landscape,
Innocent Street erupts in horror.

Beautiful day
Dashed upon the rocks
And six o-clock news.

Politico’s bandy,
And mothers cry,
And all of America
Wonders why.

Random Gat,
Senseless,
Flat,

Six more innocents
Added to the list,
Scarring the crowds
That the bullets missed.

Justice shall come,
But somewhat late,
For injustices sealed this shooters fate.

The perpetrators in their unleashing,
Are lashing out
Against the perpetrations laid upon them.

Lacking skills to properly cope,
Leading to violence, instead of hope.

The whys shall be uttered for a few more weeks,
But sadly again,
We shall fall to sleep.
Praying that the night mare
Dare not visit again

I am lost in humanity’s sea, that great wind swept expanse of self indulgence and heartbreaking reality.

I seek the emotions of peace where no such emotion exists, only that of the state of peace, the situation of peace;

negotiated by power ****** and money makers. The heart and soul have nothing to do with it instead; it is a chip to be thrown upon the worlds table, a tool to justify misguided means.

The elements of true peace are far flung and their intent, jaded in envious green shades of self servency.

I scream into a canyon of wonder, and singular echoes return and return.

My voice; the only answer to my only question. I ask the winds of this willowa to cease and calm their tirades.

Instead, the request falls upon emaciated ears and hardened hearts.

A world exists in this expanse where my unheard calls ring. The din of self absorption outplays my simple plea.

Instead the flags of bias, the banners of silent hypocrisy, flap in winds of fouling air
Upon a society that has no care for the simple emotions, those of peace.

The hard, cold reality that I am forced to realize.

The banters of the ignorant that brings tears to my eyes.

Some may call my wondering that of the mere naïve.

Then I am that in these terms.

For my wish is to see all

At peace.

Half past Midnight
(30 minutes listening to the rain)
W B Burkholder

It’s midnight, and the rain taps at my window wanting to be let in and warm its tears at my fire. I place no blame upon them, for the streets are cold and uncaring. We all search for warmth, that firelight; its embers red glow beckoning, rendering rose cheeks and outstretched hands. Its warmth unique, the type that only comes from seasoned wood and crackling coals. There are those who have never felt this, never experienced these radiations of licking tendrils, this dance of blue and orange. Destitute; searching for a place to rest and revive.

Such are the conditions of the heart, the conditions of the unloved and uncared for.
They actively seek warmth, and for life’s struggles and its reasons, this flame eludes them. It is easy to be subjective and make the judgments based on ones own lessons. But who am I to judge another’s fire, another’s passion? Is it what we place into the fire that dictates its burn? Our proverbial “sowing”, if you will?

I speak only of this poet and his fore’s into the depths of sowing rancid rows. Of reaping that of which the piper tallies and sets forth. For the piper is always near, hands outstretched, his payment never absent from his mind. We all shall pay this piper at one time or another.

Karma, come-uppance, enlightenment, epiphany? Call it what you will, understand it and reflect upon it in the glowing embers of your own fires. This hearth, life whereupon the kindling waits to be set ablaze with idea and discovery. Its half past midnight, and the rains speaks to me, and tells me this tale.

A yellow dog lies
in a yellow field.

Thinking of greener days,
legs twitching in canine dreaming.

Of fresh water, and tasty kibble,
a special stick thrown by its master.

Rusted stripe down his back,
a flag of sorts, dogged wisdom.

Ten years old, he still has some spry,
a spring in his lope, a point yet to fang.

Eyeteeth seeing all, pink nose knowing
the smells of this field.

Where the rabbits burrow,
where the squirrel makes it home.

The far off lament of distant freight trains running.

A yellow dog sleeps in a yellow field,
a small white cross marking his bed.

He will run forever in yellow fields,
Running, and dancing amongst the golden stalks.

I listened to an ignorant man speak today, A bias, racist tirade. My ears and heart stung with each syllable of hate he uttered. Is it not sad that in a day such as ours, that persons such as these still exist?

I was incensed at the mere possibility that this fool might think that I approved of such viewpoints and prejudices. But yet, I said nothing to him, I only listened to his goings on and empty justifications as to why he felt this way.

In what light then am I left in? My silence; did it fuel his racist diatribe, Or… was he a tool so that I might use it as inspiration and yet another insight to write this small but nevertheless important piece?

The tools that come to hand come in many different forms. Our inspirations, motivations come from those areas that most times we abhor. Our outrage fuels us to action, I often wonder after such experiences, if not for them then what would I write about?

Oh yes, the Golden field’s of Autumn evenings, the lover’s hand across my chest and brow. The kindness of my fellow man, and his sacrifice. These reflections of pure light.
However, there are moments when one must write of the darkness to rid themselves of it.

Do I justify the actions of an ignorant lout who speaks hate and distrust? Never, But I find myself at an impasse of conscience understanding, Is this hateful thing the vehicle through these words of its own destruction?

Perhaps an inflicted death blow wielded by a poor poet’s pen, to envision a time when thoughts such as these do not exist? What then will the poets write of, what then will be the inspiration, Is it a sin to write of these things? My fear of perpetuating the cause of this discourse weighs heavily upon me.

Is the poet, the writer, addicted to these heartaches and dysfunctions of his fellow man,
No I think not, We are witnesses to the coming of age of this world. In our lifetimes we will walk but a short mile in it; and while here I for one will share such things.

I will battle these questions in my own time and pray for peaceful tongues and cleansed hearts. Cleansed of prejudice and hate.

Who is the Artist and who is the Man, What differences lay therein?
Who is it that struggles more or less, is it a monopoly one over the other?
It is in the minds of all men to seek serenity and peace, to stand and hope for this is common to all.

Yes, we all have this in common, but the Artist has the tools with which to utter man’s dissent. This dissent to the injustices and violence’s waged upon the world and upon ourselves.

However, if the Artist believes that he is inculpable of these same injustices; his beliefs are that of indolence. For the Artist is no different in terms of the flesh and bone we speak of; this cage is inherent to all.

Struggle is also inherent. Who is it that has not done so? In this day and age as in most ages past, we have witnessed the violent upheaval of country against country, neighbor against neighbor. Americans and the world have watched towers and airplanes fall from the sky. And while this is agreeably horrific, we enlist and unleash a nationally based reprisal against our fellow human beings.

Yes, justice must be served, but it must be served by calm and learned hands. Some nine years later we find ourselves wallowed deep in the decay of war. And to what end has it been justified. The soldier will say that it is to bestow honor upon his fallen comrades and that is why the fight must go on. The politician will say it is to ensure stability in the affected region. The businessman will say it is to regain stability in the markets.

But the Man, the Woman and child only ask when will this end? The laid off workers, the new lower class of America, the grieving Mothers and Fathers, the limbless young men and woman. What is it that they see? The world’s future lies wounded upon an uncaring street.

And yet, what is it that an artist can do that a man cannot? The artist is a part of the melee, part of this violent soup. He may sit outside the bowl separate from the rest, but he cannot deny his complicity with this.

We must come to terms with our humanity as artists. For the artist to deny this would surely be the greatest lie. It is the twenty first century and we are the Writer’s, the artists of this age. What is it that we are prepared to tell the future? What is it that will be said of us and our work?

Let us not lie to them, let us not squander our opportunity to convey our perceived truths in the most laudable of lights. However we must all confess that we are first and foremost,
Man, simple men and women who struggle, who live, and die, who at times celebrate injustices, who embrace blind thought and bias’s, who breathe and bleed just as they, just as we… We are heartbeat and pulse of these times. But let us not hold that above our brothers and sisters, Let our combined works embrace the common man. For if not for him, Art is meaningless.