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.

Dusk is gone and the midnight hour beckons,
when the flowers sleep,

And night’s silken dew,
Dances across sleeping shallow

where the willow hangs her tired head,
and sleeps under twinkling’s of twilight dreaming.

When the nightingale
Serenades the moon cast meadows,

that place of evening’s repose.

When all is quiet
when all is dark
when all the earth rests
Replenishing,

Waiting for the rise of Sun
and greater possibility.

“Where do you write? Is Ambiance Important? Do you have rituals or habits when you write?” My reply to this question is below.

Most of my writing is done in my den. In terms of “ambiance,” The space that I write in doesn’t have a lot of that, the ambience comes from within I suppose. The space that we create in is not so much that of the physical as it is of the spiritual, The room I write in has very little to do with it except that it houses my keyboard and printer. The “Room” is just another tool.

The so called ambiance comes to me in the form of my memory, of my visualizations of life, or the questions that I have regarding it. To rely in the physical space that one finds themselves in, to depend on that to create, or write what have you, I think is a dangerous crutch to lean on.

It is the mind set of the craftsperson, the poet, the artist the musician, to find the respite that lies within us all. It is those recollections, that creativity, that inner room where the true ambiance lies within our imaginations, a physical room really has nothing to do with it.

In terms of rituals, I would say that when I find a subject that sparks poetic creativity; I simply close my eyes and place my self in the scene, I attempt to use all my senses in bringing that space to life in my mind, the imagined smells and sounds, the colors, and textures… When I feel that I have absorbed those elements, I then begin the writing process. It is within the power of each of us to visualize our poetic worlds. Poetry for me is much more than meter and rhyme, it is much greater than stanza and verse. Poetry is the culmination of lives’ lived, lives’ remembered.

Poetry is the dream of higher possibilities; it is the culmination of the poet’s power to move individuals to inspiration. In doing so, the space that we create in makes little difference however, the space within us that allows us to share our gifts with the world is the best place to be, the grandest of rooms where creativity and caring abound.

Gibbon minded giddy girl,
Tied a ribbon upon a curl,

Swirling divinity,
In dervish fashion,

Flipped just so,
To highlight passion.

Rouge flavored cheek,
A chance at a peek,

Of pink, and subtle
Flora.

And fauna freaks
Clamber and seek
Sustenance in skin and bone

To lay and beg
At each and every foot fall.

Sanguine lips,
And sultry hips,

Move to the rhythm
Of a butterfly’s dance.

And per chance
That I may find

The root of her wing
I shall fly once again

In winged care
Upon her currents
Of flowing hair.

Alas, it will not be so,
For I am otherwise engaged
With adulated stare

Of the brown haired woman
Dancing across the square.

Held hostage by the didactic rituals of
Diacritic mindsets,

It is a scourge to separate man
From his brothers.

The semblance of articulate postulations
Have been conceived in the wombs of liars.

This quo of assumed status,
This contemptuous agility
With regard to bias.

We toil under the same sky,
And drink from the same river,

And the caress of the wind
Falls upon all faces.

The earth has been bestowed upon those that walk it.
Upon those who have been returned to it.
To those who cleave its riches and separate its chaff.

The misbegotten, forlorn and forgotten
Lay in un-named graves
They seek the light of their identities

In cries of historic laments
And yet the world in gasping sighs
Sits as if they are deaf.

Low the time has come that men should stop and listen
And release this burdensome chain
Of self hate and loathsome disdain.

O, how hard the answer to such a common question,
It’s in the mind of man to continue to be simple,

But far worse in the reality of this
Is how difficult it has become
Filled with dark decay
O so Bitter some.

I see the passing of my life in a falling leaf,
And I am reminded that each of us have a season.
Where our conception is bore from love,
And our growth,
The result of nurture and drought.
It can be seen, it is remembered in mortality’s rings.
Silent ovals, circular remembrance.
Memory.
Growth.
Such is the season where I ponder upon such things.
When I reap the harvest of life’s gifted wisdom.
And in this realization, I find that the journey is accelerating.
That Gravity’s summation is each man’s mortality.
O that I would catch a youthful breeze,
And be carried on the currents of youth once again,
Carrying with me all that I have learned.
But it cannot be, we stay attached to what we know,
The tree,
The weathered sentinel that taught us.
Our greening,
Our dependency came from their roots
Our history.
And our independence; from the severing of maturity’s stem.
However the leaf’s journey is not that of a sheer vertical fall
It is winding, wandering.
The flitting in and out of happiness and joy,
Of rain soaked, tear filled nights.
Of mortal seasons, both warm and cold.
And passionate summers hot and steaming.
I will at some point find the earth,
My final landing upon familiar ground.
Where I shall lightly lay my umber body down,
And return to the base of the tree that bore me.

I am the past and I am the present. I am the digger of graves and the conveyance to them.
I am the string; connected to the puppets that wield my blows.

I am the thing they call, “Havoc” I am the Blue Monkey.

The key to my cage, that which sets me free is your disinterest, your apathy and hate. My freedom to roam unabated is your ignorance, and retribution’s ****** slate.  Man’s violence upon himself is my ignorant inspiration, and I revel in the thought of his de-creation.

I can be found in city and town, in far flung reaches around the world. I can be seen in newscast scenes, I can be found in the eyes of a starving child. My name is celebrated in ball ammo flight, and the pungent aroma of smoke and cordite.

I am the flame set to irreverent crosses; lighting the sky with racist delights, I am the tailor of white sheeted banners so bias. I am the unjustified 13 knots of retribution, fashioned on the hangman’s noose.

I am the thing they call “Havoc” I am the Blue Monkey.

Complacency is my friend, Revenge, my *****. Blood letting my delight, to even senseless scores. My hands are soiled with the lives of many, and I have been given freedoms in place of your outrage. Look around in farm and town, in village and city streets, my presence is everywhere…

Keep sleeping; keep sleeping,
For when you awake, I shall have to go.

I am the vehement articulations of opinion and rhetoric, and in spite of your diatribes,
It is they that give me wing. I am the developer of future battlefields. I was the architect of the Auschwitz oven, the builder of the Berlin wall. I was the sharpened blade of Tutsi, Hutu cleansings. I am the mix master of Jim Jones’s cool aide. I am confusion; I am disassociation, alienation and empty pride.

I am the thing they call “Havoc” I am The Blue Monkey.

You will find me in back alley shooting dens, on skid row’s bleeding pavement.
You will find me in lonely fields and dark forests, within the graves of the murdered unknown. You will see my reflection in broken mirrors, for I celebrate their fall,
And I will revel in the screams of your unheard call.
They call me destruction; I am your neutron bomb. I am the wings of the Enola Gay at thirty thousand feet, reaching out to touch you. With nuclear, holocaust treats.
I am dynamite, TNT, I am the thought imposed in political superiority. I am the IED
On the path of Man’s sacred journey.  I am travail and tribulation.

I am the thing they call “Havoc” I am the Blue Monkey.

I am the summation of all your perceived wrongs, and yet you tarry about,
Clanging self-righteous gongs,
You see, but you are blind, you listen but do not hear. Instead you wallow in the pits of self loathing and determinate fear. And in that fear, it becomes quite clear that indeed your hearts are closed, for to open them wide would cause your heart to collide with the awful truth about me.

Yes, keep sleeping; and sleep well,
For when you awake, I shall have to go.

For I am the thing they call “Havoc” I am the Blue Monkey…

O, these fine, fashionable, fondlers
Of pondering wisdom’s,

In the idioms of earthen
Consents,

Gray case encrusted,
Attitudinal cements.

Parapet and barrier,
Laments of rancid carrion.

Self bestowed upon slinking shoulders.

Into the Frey of Man speak,
Into the realm of blood and bone,

Ejected into the otherings
That man alone bestows.

Upon his brothers ****** brow,
Upon his trodden heart,

They seek definition
In epitome

In enfilades of bias and violence.

They languish under opinionated stars,
Under sun’s of blood red risings.

O that the voice of this could only die a death
Befitting some horrid criminal,
And peace come in its stead.

A vision of a dreamer
A poet writing wishes
Clichés of lost hopes
In search of soulful riches.