As they broke their bread for Lent, TrumputiN's team, hellbent,
Contrived a way to derive from the ripping apart of 3000 Latino
Families, an unending flow of your tax dolla's to predominently
Republican manned anti-immigration agencies, it should make you
Wanna holla, they called it 'zero tolerance', just to throw
All off the scent, and muddy the term's use hence, the white
Supremacy for the Black, in ebony and ivory's working together
In perfect harmony, to do away with 'zero tolerance' in schools,
To increase the amount of crime delinquent kids get done before
They're justifiably kicked out, same old, same old, tragically.

RumputiN got donations from one private prison corp, that got
A 200 million $ contract to house the kids, the involved Fed
Agencies then discriminated against families with kids by
Targeting them for family ripping on our South Western border.
These kids were caged, continually shuttled around at early
Morning hours so they'd be noticed less, were given no way
To contact relatives, their parents almost no way to contact
Them, the 'tender age' kids, 8 months old and up, not given
Humane necessary professsional care, etc., which will dictate
Lifelong traumatic effects, and deep psychological problems.

The courts continually order deadlines by which "these families
Must be reunited", but the altright universe invaders working
For trumpler continually miss them, and project genocidal lies
Like, "hundreds of these kids are ineligible to be reunited
With their parents", most parents having been deported already,
Even though a large % were legally asking for asylum at our
Border, this is genocidal and illegal internationally, there
Are no "ineligible" to be together innocent kids and parents,
When will prumptutin's genocide of Latinos, escalation of the
Oligarchy's class war against lower-middle-class to poor, end?

The gov't criminally dictated that "if they want to see their
Kids again they have to sign away their rights and leave", etc.,
Atrocities against these poor souls and groups like the ACLU,
While doing their best to remedy the abuses against them, our
Compadres, they, while not funded by the gov't, are mocked by
RumputiN, and he projects that "they should reunite families",
Instead of the gov't agencies who ripped them apart.  At least
The judges are deligently expressing the entirety of the fault
For these atrocities lies with the **** crime family's flocks
Of felons, and they must rectify it now, when will they?!?!?
When will the prosecutions of them use the REICO Statute,
And thereby, stop being elaborate cover-ups, giving out immunity

To dozens of organized criminals, while only incarcerating
A few.  Who is dense enough to not see through the smoke, mirrors,
Song, dance of the show that must go on's politic theatre macabre
Of the global oligarchy's cover up of itself?  Who is not knowing
That Mueller, who was part of the elite of the repub conspiracy
That purposely didn't prevent attacks on 9-11-01, during king
George and his ****, cheney's reign on the American way of life,
Is part of the intelligence industrial complex's 2016 invisible
Coup during, and hacking of, the presidential election, resulting
In RumputiN's installation in the Blackhouse ('cause once you go
Black you never go back), as well as the continual cover-up?  

Who, that comey, alone, could have been responsible for non-repubs
Loss of the Presidency, and now the supremacy court, especially if
The dems don't stop a kavanaugh vote before the midterms that are
Near?  Who ..., that most of the supposed "school shootings", acts
Of terror, targeting future non-repub leaders, are engineered, timed
And executed by the crimnal repub conspiracy that must be prosecuted
Using the REICO Statute also, who ..., that ebony and ivory, the
Black and white supremacies, working together in perfect harmony,
As are all 21 flavors of our baskin + robbins of supremacies, are
Struggling to mass-****** a million Americans, liquidating the ases
And assets of the masses, and calling it legislation, like ****** did
Before his "final solution", who, that the American daymare must end?

Death is easy and life is hard
Hard to fathom such an illogical part
Because mentally I’m not ready to live in this mentality
I’m emotionally flawed like original sin
Always cursed to live another hustling binge
While constantly being shuttled like cattle
Treated like sheep
With every lie told I weep
When will we awaken from this long sleep?
Living every day like a hustle
Another world is cut off
In the everyday struggle

when made a designated drinker
for a designated driver.

when stomaching stale pabst
and rationed sweet cider.

when frat boys fulfill
stereotypical homophobia.

when twenty grade A reds
can't last me longer than a dream.

when old man nightclub and triple kills
usurp the crown of moderation.

when you fall asleep
with so much in your blood to spill
like beans,
or milk not worthy of tears,

and i keep a loom in my heart
where i weave a string of everyone
[with myself]
and every fray in warp or weft
is mimicked by the splinters
shuttled to my hand.

I
--
The LORD is asking, “Do you trust Me, child?”
And surely He is worthy of all trust,
but visceral reactions oft’ seem just
in keeping soul’s anxieties well riled.
While panic, shame and dread stir doubting winds,
obsessive, tight, compulsive thoughts pour fuel
into this downward spiraling boil of gruel
where toxic interactions breed more sins.
So for relationships I feel unfit,
and now old interests die and pleasures wane,
as each new hope in Earth’s good brings fresh pain,
where dark depression’s presently my bit.
Yet in this wilderness I hear God call,
“Child, look to Me. I am your ALL in all.”

II
--
I meditate upon the word of God
to heal a mind that’s broken from the fall,
and lying in morn’s bed I now recall
the former paths of fullness I have trod.
I clear the course of tangling debris
that fogs perspective’s distance-viewing sight
and clogs the narrow way which lets in light,
so with God’s truth I’m able to agree.
I gaze toward the future that is sure,
to glory that is promised out of trial.
I push through lying voices of denial,
rememb’ring my inheritance secure.
So healing first begins by sizing scope,
for in true measure I can grasp true hope.

III
---
Long sheltered in the recesses of mind
on pedestals that overshadow truth
are lies which I have entertained since youth
like tape recordings stuck on forced rewind.    
There‘s something of appeal in misbelief,
some comforting, perverted, dressed-up face
which keeps foul strongholds rooted into place
and lets such rotten seedlings harvest grief.  
But I must choose to undermine their message,
uncovering deception’s hidden lairs
whose cultivation grounds for growing tares
leave roadblocks to integrity’s safe passage.
God’s probing, piercing words—what precious gifts!—
can excavate, expose and extract myths.

IV
---
I apprehend these truths in David’s psalm:
“I’m fearfully and wonderfully made,”
and all my days of life are firmly laid
within the sovereign care of God’s own palm.
And yet another voice keeps creeping out.
“You’re too unfit for blessed community,
hence from belonging full immunity
is your dim lot,” says paralyzing Doubt.
For ‘gainst the Word that says I‘m rightly hewn
rub all the bristling edges of myself,
but would one set forever on a shelf
a Bösendorfer piano out of tune?
No, value is a function of creation,
and He who made has promised restoration.

V
--
Restoration’s anchored in redemption,
and my redemption‘s grounded in God’s love.
Nowhere in far reaches man has thought of
could mind unfurl the breadth of such conception.
Sloshing, hesitating in the shallows,
I wander close to shore in Love‘s vast sea.
Then from the swell I hear a coaxing plea
to dive into the deeper wake of hallows.
What‘s this weight that pins my frame from racing
toward His unknown billows of delight?
Do I not trust that He will clasp me tight,
help me bear the fiercest waves I’m facing?
What guile of devils am I heeding here
which keeps me bound by paralyzing fear?

VI
---
Disheartened by my want for firm resolve
to swim toward agápē’s unplumbed depths
for int’macy with Him who paid my debts—
the only One from sin who can absolve,
I wander, wond‘ring what I’ve missed to see
within my comprehension of Christ‘s love
when He would vacate majesty above
and suffer cruelest death to set me free.
They stripped Him, flogged Him, spit, pulled out His beard,
then pressed a crown of thorns down on His head.
They nailed Him to rough cross to leave for dead—
Creator of the world now by it jeered.
In love this traitor by her King was served:
Christ Jesus bore God‘s wrath which I deserved!

VII
----
Considering what labors Christ performed
to buy my freedom off sin’s slav’ry block
that of His fullness, with Him, I could walk
in resurrected life (not just reformed),
can I not trust that He will see me through
each trial, tribulation, sorrow, loss
when He would not forsake me at the cross
but carried all my grief and suff‘ring too?
And just as death‘s cold grave could not contain
my Savior but gave way to watch Him rise,
whatever loss my path has to comprise
shall work for me eternal glorious gain.
So while my courage may still be in lack,
the settled thing is there’s no turning back.

VIII
-----
Wading through fresh tidal pools of mercy
along a piece of coast that‘s not too wide—
among the crags and caves where stragglers hide,
hoping to evade crowd controversy—
I know I‘ll have to move on before long.
But in the warm meanwhile of the day,
I kneel to rest; and as I start to pray,
my heart begins to open to a song—
a gentle, soothing lullaby I’ve known
sung to the tune of ‘Eventide‘ as hymn,
reminder that this life is fading, dim
but that in Christ I never walk alone.
And as I raise the words, “Abide with me…,”
here comes my Shepherd, walking by the sea.

IX
---
What now is this waylaying, sin-sick soul?
Diversional winds from cliffside descend.
Where‘s pressing fire my devotions attend?
Brain‘s robbed of sanity, sleep, self-control.
Jesus comes near numb heart in distraction
and bids me again to clean deadwood out.
Jesus, I‘m desperate, drowning in doubt!
Help me expel what‘s needing subtraction!
Discipline, prudence, wisdom, contentment
can work to restore both body and brain,
while worship will lift locked heart from restraint—
its untethering from woe’s resentment.
I won‘t, without wisdom, taste truest Love,
yet Love holds true keys to wisdom above.

X
--
Mottling mind’s hazed subconscious sockets—
bedecked by ego’s restless crave for fill—
infections grow to permeate my will,
ladening, with dross, affection‘s pockets.
Foul seepage soon coagulates to plaque,
forces clefts which weaken my foundation,
foments psyche’s stormed disintegration
till half-light’s flushing falls to midnight‘s black.
Yet amid murk‘s rotting, rank confusion
with ev‘ry faculty succumbed to rift,
My Shepherd plucks me fiercely from the cliff,
tending thorn-torn blight with Love‘s ablution.
Healing, though, requires my surrender—
all cooperation I can lend 'her.'

XI
---
Jesus asked a question at Bethesda,
the pool by which an invalid was lain,
for thirty-eight lost years left in his pain—
twisted, timed, tormenting, teared siesta.
“Do you desire to be made well?” He asked.
“I’ve none to help me!” was the plaintive cry,
then Jesus spoke miraculous reply
that to get up and walk the man was tasked.
That’s not to say all healing will be found
within this present life of ills and woes,
but still I hear Christ probing through the throes
if I am truly willing to be sound.
Or would I rather lie on crippling bed,
an invalid of spirit, heart and head?

XII
----
Shuffling through some past miscalculations
surrounding toxic breakage of the vines
that ought secure the healthy bound’ry lines  
guarding interpersonal relations—
rememb‘ring my susceptibility
to ego-shuttled, codependent err‘rs
which strain to manage others‘ own affairs
and so invert responsibility—
I ponder if I‘ll ever grow to learn
proper seeds for sowing mutual trust
with vital tools for gently sanding rust
to help stave off a bondship‘s breaking-burn.
One thing I know, that trusting in the LORD
steers love‘s impetus to carry forward.

XIII
-------
“I’m not enough and yet too much,” I've read.
Succinctly that describes my current angst,
and I can‘t justify to war against
these arguments which whirl around my head.
I’ve been told, “You’re just a little intense,”
by many people, not just one or two,
and this they voice clangs manifestly true,
as gaping holes defect my bound‘ry fence.
Voluminous in content and in force,
bestowing as prized gifts what isn‘t sought
or wanted by those for whom gifts are brought,
I falter in my need to change set course.
And where it comes to giving what‘s desired,
real competence seems found to have expired.

XIV
-----
Someone wrote, “true soul mate is a mirror“—
like limelight they‘ll reveal your unseen faults.
Where no one else delights to search your vaults,
“soul mate“ renders time to be apt hearer.
It matters not, was said, that they don‘t stay,
so long as they‘re an agent for reform—
the one who makes you desp‘rate to transform
by breaking heart and making ego fray.
Danger lies in nuanced underpinnings.
I thought I‘d found my soul mate in abuse
and used “he needs my fuel“ as excuse
to take a twisted game to extra innings.
Here I’ll grant these crazed imaginations
were at core demonic machinations.

XV
-----
Casting down romantic schoolgirl notions
that sin-drenched bonds might fashion souls complete,
I drag bewitching grails to Jesus’ feet—
spurning now to drink past guile‘s potions.
As I linger longer in His presence,
I‘m freshly bathed from marring guilt and shame,
reminded I‘m made whole in Jesus‘ Name—
partaker in the fullness of His essence.
Identified eternally with Christ,
secured by His unfailing love through grace,
one day I‘ll walk perfected face-to-face
with Him from whom true life is all-sufficed.
And as I muse, I taste true heart‘s desire—
rekindling, renewed with holy fire.

XVI
-----
Attitude is prime, determinant hinge
on which the door of restoration swings—
deciding what response subconscious brings
and on which morsels mind should bestly binge.
Plenty is dependent on perspective.
Mountain, plain or valley alter sight 
and size by which is measured present, plight.
Simply switching lens can be corrective.
In Christ, Ephesians tells me, I‘ve been raised,
seated with Him in the heavenly realm—
positioned by the One who steers the helm
that Father, Son and Spirit would be praised!
Worship, like a rudder, sets the outlook
to keep me highly grounded in God‘s Book.

XVII
------
Why should I to the worship of false gods
surrender my outlook frivolously?
Idols grab first gaze notoriously,
rob joy as will‘s defenses yield heart‘s nods.
What then? Can I suppose I might steal back
a measure of exuberance through more
skewed genuflecting to gilt calf before—
itself beleaguered, plagued by woeful lack?
Now heed, wayfaring soul of mine, what‘s true:
Creation‘s bounty-goods will make you slave
and with sweet Siren‘s flutes your mind deprave
when to them you lend focus Christ is due.
Lay firm your eyes on Him—pure, restful bed,
cover, fuel, completer, Fountainhead.

XVIII
-------
Wandering down some cobbled, crowded street,
I‘m nowhere headed, rapt in mindless thought,  
and as I saunter south I happ‘ly spot
a friend long-lost but fiercely longed to meet.
Just up ahead, he’s mixed well in the throng
but might be caught if I push through and race!
Heartbeat quickens. Oh, to see his face,
this one with whom I’m sure I must belong!
Yet when I actually seize him and he turns,
I’m devastated, sunk. It isn’t him.
Then moping northbound—dazed, dejected whim—
I stumble on the One for whom heart burns!
How strange, as I had grappled, chased and shoved,
that I’d been running from the One I loved!

XIX
-----
He‘s reservoir for which parched spirit begs,
familial feast cast heart longs to attend,  
elixir fractured psyche craves, to mend,
secure foundation ‘neath soul‘s skittish legs.
Jesus is hearth fire, garden blooming,
joy‘s kiss that welcomes prodigals with tears,
arms’ tender brawn consoling weak ones‘ fears,
shelt‘ring lullaby as nightstorm‘s looming.
Who else can scatter stars, strew mountain snow,
to whet beloved‘s taste for pristine grace?
What other love’s like this, that He‘d embrace
excruciating death to grace bestow?
And best, most faithful lovers of this earth?—
dull pennies next to Christ‘s resplendent worth!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

VOLUME II:
(** — XXXII) [Edited in 9/27-29/21]

**
----
Closing the door on chaining obsessions
requires some short-circuiting of thought
previously allowed to flow uncaught
and forge ever-deepening depressions.
Pathways in my brain can be rerouted
by changing interactions with my world,
observing what’s most easily unfurled—
presently what’s to five senses suited.
‘Mindfulness’ can be a Christian practice
and doesn’t have to rest on Buddha’s shelf—
“awak’ning non-existence of the self”—
or from unseen, eternal things distract us.
True mindfulness is found in gratitude—
joyful, eucharisteo attitude.

XXI
-----
A biblical version of ‘mindfulness‘
is found in 1 Thessalonians 5,
revealing as God’s will that saints should strive
for ever-prayerful joy and thankfulness.
Pond‘rous gratitude staves off resentment,
greed and pride. As was taught to Timothy,
what‘s created and giv‘n by God should be
received in sacred thanks with contentment.
Creation reflects God‘s bounteous glory
and demonstrates His loving grace and care,
so in same grace and glory we can share
each time we recognize Him in our story.
Ten thousand tiny gifts write each day‘s page,
and he who welcomes most is most like sage.

XXII
------
In restoration, elasticity
of mind is a factor to celebrate.
So please don‘t ever underestimate
the wonders of neuroplasticity.
New brainpaths form and old channels falter,
depending on what choices I might make.
Fresh experience of which I partake
will physically help my brain to alter.
Here‘s one great hope I must now remember:
What’s hardwired today can still be displaced,
and thoughts might soon flow on paths greenly graced,
as I feast my soul’s eyes on brain’s Mender.
Bent mindfulness toward Giver and His gifts
best brings joy‘s healing for my mental rifts.

XXIII
-------
Realizations that some obsessions
are desires to vicariously ride
the mindfulness of others who don‘t hide
their own keener sensory possessions,
aptly are aiding to turn my focus
from curiosity to understand
their thoughts, which often‘s led my heart-demand—
want to consume their minds‘ crops like locusts.
What I‘ve perceived as love, concern to know,
empathy for others‘ worlds internal,
might be more escape from mine external—
attempts to hide from life‘s real, present show.
Avoidance wears all sorts of vibrant masks
to keep me blinded to here-moments‘ tasks.

XXIV
-------
Viewing secondhand eviscerations,
as others spill their innards on the page,
may seem the safest way to heart engage—
surrogated life participation.
Substituting others‘ honed perceptions
where I ought learn observance of my own
will keep childlike experience ungrown,
smother creativity’s conceptions.
Social media’s pitfalls lie therein,
along with greater dangers lurking large.
Despite its many goods, there’s needed charge
that gorging on a good thing leads to sin.
Shutting website windows is like trailhead,
opening mountain path to higher tread.

XXV
------
I‘m learning to sit with anxiety
raised by self-denial of habit’s fix,
mindful how my heart solicits tricks  
to alternate for true society.
Discomfort speaks in volumes to soul’s ear
like smoke alarm alerting to a fire.
It tells me, “Quick, investigate! Inquire!
Please find the source of inner burning fear!”
Nervousness as friend might offer insight
if I can hear and listen to its warning,
objectively without the shame-filled scorning
that tends to follow panic-stricken plight.
Practice putting tension in glass cage
to monitor its undercurrent’s rage.

XXVI
-------
It’s time to preach a sermon to myself,
for fears are overtaking me in waves;
and spirit must combat what habit craves—
flesh seeking consolation in false pelf.
Scrutinize what’s underneath such worry.
Do I believe the LORD is still in charge
of details of my life and world at large?
Look to Him. Don’t yield to anxious hurry.
Do I believe He’s with me and He’s good,
a faithful Shepherd tending to each need?
Then look to Him. Don’t drown in fretting’s greed.
Christ’s sheep don’t have to look elsewhere for food.
Each wait is opportunity to grow,
for God has holy riches to bestow.

XXVII
--------
God’s character and sovereign wisdom hem
my life, as His responsibility.
No wrong will steal my true identity,
whatever slips or schemes might spill from men.
Christ’s Ruler over all, but do I let
Him fully reign as Master in my heart?
Do I acknowledge I’m His work of art
and purpose for His hammers, chisels get?
Intimacy and glory are the friends
to which His sanctifying lessons point
and meld together as love’s dovetail joint
whenever I surrender to these ends.
Soul, set your hope on grace to be revealed.
Entrust to God strain’s mysteries still sealed.

XXVIII
---------
LORD, HELP! Why is my mind so distracted?
And why then, letting it be drawn away
for half an hour, am I now okay
to let my compulsions be retracted?
Give in to let go feels like solution,
but know it only deepens the desire
for later curiosity‘s inquire—
grants no satisfying resolution.
Those thirty minutes mindfulness was lost,
yet could it be empowered by the fall,
as I look closer inside to recall
that giving way to habit bears great cost?
I won‘t grow discouraged by the setback
but seek to further understand self‘s lack.

XXIX
-------
Low-pitched, humming anxiousness was sitting
all day inside my torso‘s cavity.
Mindful sensing lent no gravity
to coax the stubborn squatter through outwitting.
Head was tired from too little sleeping,
so frankly seemed to coast and just make do.
Soul felt no fresh excitement by woods‘ view
and lacked bright energy for much guard keeping.
One moral of this story is night‘s rest
must become priority for healing.
Otherwise this shaky default feeling
will grow into another panicked crest.
Though it‘s no excuse to say I‘m tired,
it‘s clear reformed sleep habits are required.

***
------
Changing what’s practical opens a door
to transforming what’s spiritual, mental
and emotionally experiential.
Habit alterations might well restore
enough equilibrium of body,
restfulness, clarity, reason and time
to give me needed aid to better climb
above oppressive moods, both low and haughty.
“Early to bed, early to rise...”could be
one thing to make a world of difference
and welcome back some simple common sense,
to open up new space for setting free.
But for that discipline to take effect,
I’ll also have to curb the internet!

XXXI
-------
Every opportunity for worry
is greater opportunity to trust
that God behind the scenes is sanding rust
from parts of me where fear has made faith blurry.
Without unknowing-gusts to stir the pit
of nervousness inside my helplessness,
I might ne‘er seek my Shepherd‘s faithfulness
nor learn to wait on Him and with Him sit.
These are times of richest growing lessons
when I‘m reminded He is LORD, not me,
and that He works to draw in int‘macy
feeble souls to Him through stretching sessions.
Joy is knowing sure—head, heart and will—
He‘s ever whisp‘ring, “Child, come closer still.“

XXXII
--------
Recapping basic steps to take thus far:
Find sleep (which may mean need for melatonin
to counteract my haywire serotonin),
and overuse of internet I‘ll bar.
Then with restfulness bring mindful thinking—
keen noticing that‘s graced with gratitude
and sets a stronger skyward attitude,
buoys me up against fret‘s downward sinking.
More important still is meditation
upon the word of God‘s indicatives
which lay foundations for imperatives
to follow as prescriptive medication.
Most crucial element preventing fall
is fix my eyes on Jesus through it all!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Faces lost in blank expression

Wait in stasis for their stop,

Shuttled from one potential

To the next like letters

In a mailman’s bag.

The sounds and smells of strangers,

The uncomfortable touches,

The squeezing in spaces,

The jerking rhythm of the ride,

The pram queens who sag

Against the railing

While their kids twist and turn

And scream at the lack of fun

In the faces of blank expression,

While couples tongues quietly wag.

Youthful monsters sit at the back

Playing tunes for the irritation

Of the old school music hacks,

While grandma dozes against the glass,

Shopping drawn up like a wall

To protect her from her past.

Father and daughter

Playing a game,

Sitting next to two lovers

Who are doing the same.  

The tickling natter of friends,

The glare of phones,

The lying dog’s stare.

Life on the buses,

A slice of people

For the cost of a fare.

Burn Your Bridges, Cut Your Anchors By Abraham Montalvo

Treading through the pain and sorrows, this life I'm living almost as feelin no reason to be living, emotions running, apathy a comin, deliver me from this hell that's has me forsaken,
My mind is troubled,
Heart is shuttled,
Spirit in turmoil,
Darkness has taken over almost all judgment
Like a veil that's been placed before me, blinds me in my ways and treads my paths, burning my bridges and cutting my anchors. Like a curse been laid upon me, a light that shines through me rips through what darkness that dines before my very eyes, in a midst of chaos like a war fought without the arms and weapons of soldiers to operate with the blunt force of destruction, burn your bridges cut your anchors... All this is temporary, it's all just and emotional trip into a world of agony that will cease to exist, for time is an understatement of what I can comprehend, lift my soul up high, bring me out of the distressful times ive been going through, help me, free me, save me...
misconstrued self emotions and deprived nights of sleep, body feeling weak and weary... Help me cut these anchors of emotions and burn these bridges of oppression...™

Before hearing about your death
I began a novel inspired by you
and your struggle with the truth--
The truth of who you were,
what you wanted of life and of me.
And it became a journey
into the past, into a life
that had happened before
we met, decades ago,
and after we parted for good,
I wove a new life out of remnants,
of things I knew or just supposed.
And like a good researcher,
I told of your parents' failings,
the darker side of love.
Of your grandmother and friends,
and even your cousin who
brought you to me,
Luring you out of the homogeneous crowd
and into our perfect valley--
"the land of spires and dreams".
I even spoke warmly of our artless love
and our drifting apart like ghost ships.
After our second parting,
when you left the mortal coil,
I tried not to reminisce about us,
for the story was yours, not mine,
But I fear that a mirror kept
cropping up behind me and
around corners, erasing mystery.
Narcissus caught me time and again.
Even so, I created times for you
that I had never seen or heard.
I have you swimming off La Jolla,
traipsing on mountain paths
in the wilds of British Columbia,
or arguing with your wife
in that mansion you dreamed of.
I invented a girl you would like
and two kids who loved you
in spite of everything.
Your memories of me became
less urgent, locked in a chess box,
in songs or on film, hidden away.
I analyzed your youth, your vanity,
lust, boredom, mistakes and age.
And when it came time for you
to make a decision: to stay or go
again, either west or east,
I stopped and looked over your life,
rolled out flat, like the American plain
from western crags to eastern city
and like a broken record,
the choice shuttled back and forth,
not letting me decide for you.
Glancing at a photo
of your childhood home,
I realized at last,
not that you had died too soon,
but that I really never knew you.

The nurse wrapped a warm toasty blanket
around me as I waited for my MRI.
I wondered how many bodies this blanket
had warmed as folks sat
worrying about their perishable bones.
Then the thought came as clear as a bell
ringing, resounding, echoing from the apex of
a very high Himalayan mountain peak:
"I go on forever...I go on forever"
A gurney carrying a man in
obvious pain shuttled by.
I felt the sun rising over that mountaintop
splashing my face and
all the patients in the MRI room
“We go on forever…We go on forever…!"

It's your turn to work.
For a year
I have shuttled my life
Backandforth
Backandforth
For you.
To see you.
But now it's your turn.
You can come see me.
Use your gas
Use your time
I can't do all the work
All the time.

This is supposed to be equal.

Also, get a job
And get some independence.
It's time to be an adult.

there's a strange and beautiful light in the building this morning
as i walk down the hall lined with empty offices all dark
on my merry way to my morning coffee
it's dark and storming outside
sweet Summer rain
heavy dark, almost night
and that odd, grey-cast half-light
that is not quite shadow but neither true illumination
filters in through the tinted office windows
into the hall
into my eyes
blending on the way with the white bright from buzzing fluorescents
that draw a dotted line down the halls' ceilings
so that the colors from within and the colors from without
merge
to form a singularly beautiful light that glows in the air
only on days like this
dark rain
morning sky
fluorescent light
off-white walls
and i'm suddenly lost in that ethereal glow
drawn back in time to a memory i had forgotten when i was still young
of the time when i had first learned to love this light
though i didn't know it then
and couldn't have put it to words even so
i was still only learning how to read
and the school day still included a time specifically for "napping"
but i knew that rainy days were different, somehow special
and not only because we would have recess in the gym
but because everything about this strange new world that i was shuttled off to every morning
Looked Different
on these dark rainy days
everything glowed in a strange way
and it wasn't like that when the sun was shining bright through the windows
and most days were sunny
it was only sometimes, only in the once-in-a-while
that the sun would hide behind the darkness
and the wet would come pouring down on us
and the class-room would glow
and i would feel the strangeness of that rare and special light inside of me
my tummy would roll and quiver all day in anticipation of
nothing in particular
my young body would vibrate to match the frequency of the fluorescence humming above me
overwhelmed with exuberant expectation
i couldn't have described it, couldn't have said what it was
i was still only learning to speak
but i knew something was different in my world
i knew it was rare
i knew that it did something to me
i knew that i liked it
and i came to realize that is what the word "beauty" meant
and that is where "love" came from
and though i didn't know it then
couldn't have known it then
now i realize
i've chased that strange and beautiful light
every day since

I miss the days when I would find poetry resting peacefully on the kitchen counter, hiding skillfully between the cracks of the tile bathroom floor. Back then, it shuttled out from the tips of my fingers like golden lightning that kept my heart pulsing, my eyelids propped open wide with all of the secrets I had been struck with.  

There were nights I found it in the soft flutter of his eyelashes against my cheek, the glowing warmth of his hand that held mine like something he would never grow tired of carrying, even though that was where I kept all of the words that had been stolen from my lips since the first moment I knew that I loved him.

But back then, they were everywhere-- the words-- nestling in high nests perched upon branches I was always tall enough to reach, settling in the pockets of worn denim overalls and the creases of watercolor smiles I had secretly painted on strangers with no names to match the dim light of their faces.

There was a time. There is a time.

Now, I sit at my desk with trembling hands and words stuck jumbled and uncharted in the aftermath of the past. And poetry no longer spills from the cracks of the baby pink teapot, no longer falls with every tear that still remembers how to emulate the rain.

But it is here when I am with him, his arms becoming the paper I have spilled my soul onto back before I memorized the melody of his heartbeat. In the sound of our voices filling all of the vacant spaces that used to haunt my bones, in the hushed music that plays every time my name drips like honey from the edges of his laughter.

There is a time. It is now. Poetry was once written, now it is living.

You..
Who sit up in those towers of shuttled steel..
..and sparkled glass
Bend..
..and kiss my bony ***.

But for the moment let that pass
And we'll talk about society.
Those communities that have lost heart
Communities you use.
Dosed on cider...
..and the ships you've launched with special brew
Because champagne is far too good for the proletariat..
who crew.
Your tide of greed.

You..
Will excuse me for the interruption..
..but while you march on in corruption people starve and die.
I never wondered why before.
I obeyed the law and toe'd the party line
But now I'm old and time is short..
..it's time you lot were caught and put on trial.

Your days are numbered
One by one
The day of corporations will be gone
And maybe we'll find some sanity
Help humanity.

But for now we'll let that pass..
..you gnomes up there can kiss my ***
You're going down.

Rattle the orchard’s knotted limbs
and harvest from the fray,
forsaken garnets snared in doubt,
betrothed to blind decay.

Tune your soul to the air of expectance
that wavers in the grass…
of smoke sewn into ripened groves
as hours straddle past.

The whip of wings atop the hollow
trumpets the waning year…
a song unwritten, once laid by,
reborn and shuttled near.

The Lord entwines His hand with ours
fastened to our lives
and plucks us each, while bruised and marred
as a lone protected prize.

A thousand candles pierce the shutters
tethering our stride.
The Spirit sounds a lifelong score
that tugs us to His side.

Two trains on parallel lines
shuttled through the twilight.
Moving in opposite directions
station by station by station.
They took a glance at each other
but hastily moved on like strangers.
Each train was busy on its own track
until midnight when they went back
to their respective depots for a rest.
She is in the east; he is in the west.
Quietly allowing time to pass them by
yearning for the next dawn to arrive.


Copyright, Ronnie Ng, 2011 (www.facebook.com/bolametrics)

Hell hath ripped asunder
Mine angel bursted in with thunder;
In the pit I was down under
As mine Reyna lifted me on her shoulder's.

She shuttled me to her rotunda
We flapped beyond ourn Ramada;
She was flamboyant, luminescent as a dahlia
Two separate soul's, making one consortium.


©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane dedication

It was the night of the thundersnow,
Meteorological harpie normally reserved for our northern brethren.
She stood grimly at the window,
In wait for a dawn which would not come
Save for the odd light, the incongruous rumbling,
Mock forbearer of those easy languid evenings of August.
She'd made some noise approximating a sigh,
Then returned to undress,
I hurriedly unlacing my boots, removing my pants,
(My feigned nonchalance a foolish, pitiable thing)
And I remember her ******* as  oddly demure,
Her ******* bewitching gumdrops,
The triangle below her waist downy, almost kittenish.
I'd broken her maiden clumsily, eagerly, all unheeding haste.
We'd lain next to each other for a short while afterwards
(The schools already closed for the next day,
Her father recently gone to the boneyard on Ludlow Hill,
She soon to be shuttled off to some spinster aunt in Dillsboro.)
I'd nattered on about summer vacations and thens and laters;
She'd said little, simply studying me with the bemused half-smile
One saves for sad dreamers not intimate with the knowledge
That notions of tomorrow and forever are strictly for suckers,
And as I strolled home come mid-morning,
The sun implacably straddled the sky,
Leaving the sidewalks and shoulders of the road
Completely dry, as if the night before had been a thing
Of perhaps-only, of dreams and tales for a later time.

If we were advised
Our lives would be televised,
How would we be?
Would we be worthy to see?
Would we ourselves
Want to watch?
Flip through the channels
Every single one of us
In high definition
Being human,
Would it be
A horrible reality?
Or would we be entertained
By the insurmountable variety?
Stalkers of the new generation
Greater than any YouTube sensation,
Natural born stars and entertainers
Shuttled into their spotlight; invisible containers
While the rest of us wonder
If we can laugh at every blunder,
Would emotions die
Or run rampant empathy
For a possible scripted lie?
This future I hope to never see...
APAD13 011 - © okpoet

The whizzing work on wondrous display
Buzzing and flashing throughout the day
A shocking harmony with dire attention
In tribute to word or sad photo mention
Bring upon us the fizzling sharp memory
Three years ago august scratched in emery
Shuttled by in a long dazing shot of light
Longing to see what is no longer in sight
Instead a meandering, grazing installment
Mocking this week's newest involvement
From highest perch, a moralizing parlance
No question or thought to odd circumstance
Just spill the word behind digitizing partition
And don't go on with even another mention
Here is what's today, vaporizing tomorrow
Another page atop the pile of deluded sorrow

A silent trap ensnared my life,
my head felt pulverised,
a stolen voice and lifeless limbs,
left me perplexed and paralysed.

I sat in frightened endless wait
confused and petrified.
I could not shout nor dial
for help
I simply lay and cried.

I woke, still broke, to a familiar
call,
with sense and rhyme inverted.
No indicators flashed this change,
life's path strangely diverted.

But this was not a yellow wood,
For I never had a choice.
If I had, I'd have called their names,
rather than mouth in silent voice.

They looked at me confused and shocked,
a mother disconnected.
No thoughts, could escape this shell
with mind still unaffected.

Shuttled there in flashing blue
hospitalised intervention,
with medicated urgency,
testing a failing comprehension.

But I'd lain long in darkened time,
and missed that magic hour,
the minutes gone forever,
tick-tocked in rescinded valor.

My symmetry from right to left,
had left muscle withered fading.
I felt their gentle massaged touch
too late for caressed salvation.

I've seen their hurt at losing me
or that part of me that mattered.
My life has been frozen still,
but theirs has sadly shattered

I lie here, long night and drawn out day,
moving, unfortunately assisted,
my internal struggle to communicate
leaves doubts I once existed.

The years this stroke has stolen
and drip-dried a mother's tear,
has wounded deeply, this mortal coil,
filled my tomorrows with shades of fear.

A silent trap ensnared my life,
no one could interfere,
but when you visit, please talk to me,
lest you forget, I'm still in here.

The crisp air pressed to the breast of that dewy morn',
A piercing of the skin by the rosiest of thorns.
Thorn to skin, blood to air,
A soft ebbing of life from its lair.

Venous roads and capillarous tunnels,
A captured path in which life is shuttled.
That ****** thorn that interrupts its flow,
Allows life to meet that soft morning's glow.

Slumped into the late linen
sniff scent of stiff cigarette
burned into the chair
Hey, she used to be there
per fumigation
embalmed
momentary into the chair

The ceiling is shifting like little snakes
whisky balm in a sweating glass
I haven't touched it, it's watering down
down into water and alco-seltzer
to ease my grumbling soul

Those snakes,
turning and writhing in the ceiling
where is she?
I smell her
forked tongue

You can't smoke inside anymore
not even in the old buildings already full
tar roof, tar boots, tar toys in the evening booth
french fries dipped in milkshake
sprinkled with salt and glucose

mmm good for the muscles
and the throat

she loved doing that kind of stuff,
weirdly enough.

sweat on my fingers
breathing heavy
studying the snakes with the bright eye
of a Darwinian belief

they will die,
I will die,
but not before we fulfill
our seething purpose

they lost their wings?
Is that why the Chinese
and the Greeks
and the Norse
and the Volks
and the Rabbinicals
claimed punishment was befit a creature
so little, yet so dangerous

(Monkey in the tree no snake will eat me)

to be swallowed whole and digested
born to die, fed to be born
ouroboros

slithering her **** tail
into the mouth of heaven
for a second
then shuttled out the door

it is dark as onyx in the night
the stars shine like scales above
searching for the right snake
to emanate
and create
new life
for once

“Sweetie”
The nickname given to my mother from her mother in law
Truly a befitting one
My mother, the woman who tries so hard, intelligent, yet still, occasionally a child
A strong, strong woman
Trying to accommodate everyone

Thankfully our move has provided some much needed personal space
Otherwise, she’d already have her hair out by now

Her parents with their obsessive religious rituals, must make sweets tomorrow even when they get wasted
Must prepare...
Must...

Her mother in law, dripping waves of anxiety like a leaky faucet
Soon to become a waterfall

Her husband,
Weak as a newborn chick
From surgery and culminating stubbornness about to explode

Her 10 year old truant son,
Not only does he need to be shuttled places
Also insists upon watching YouTube at every available hour

And me,
Her daughter
At least I can drive and stay out of her way
At least I can provide hugs, be a listening ear, and do my best to be considerate
But my rebellious nature
Peeks through as well

...


Wow
She’s amazing,
my mother is.

The quiet house,
the missing kids,
the absent dogs,
your choice.

Where once we had a home,
Now we will have houses.
Bodies shuttled between.
your choice.

Peals of laughter,
The funny sounding bark
Shared by all but gone.
your choice.

The smell of family meals is gone
The stains upon the stove cleaned
The in-joke of smoke alarms absent.
your choice.

Finances are yours, independence at hand
Consuming the new needs to replace the old
Goods will not be lacking (but will they fill the hole?)
your choice.

The silent bed in your house
New mattresses to be tried.
Grinding and easy pleasures abound (but are they hollow?)
your choice.

The absence makes the heart grow fonder,
A lack not chosen but forced.
The space when love has left the we but not the family
my choice.

I will swim in paternal warmth,
And blow upon the deadened embers
A flame of love will be in my home
my choice.

Yelling will be absent,
Comfort given and not sought,
Bending to needs and not offering things.
my choice.

Food is quick but made with love
Eating is a time to share
Dining is relaxing and not a performance
my choice.

Love is spending time and not money,
Absent the pain of undelivered diamonds
Attention and a love of being and now
my choice.

My bed echoes with trust and tenderness
I will wait for those sounds to die away.
My sleep for now is love and fatherhood.
my choice.

When it is hard
Then I know
I have chosen the right path
The universe does not
Need to teach me this lesson again
I learned
I am listening still
To jagged words
My eyes do not betray me
Ghosts of a past life
Permiating
I am a gentle sinner
Do not bring violence among us
Leave space between us
I am not bitter or angry or burdened
Do not threaten my peace
I fear the screams in the night
Will one day be shuttled
From my own throat
Worse beyond that
I fear they will be silenced
I loved the quiet once
She is tension now
Tension between now and tomorrow

It was Sunday that she shuttled
The bell rung out
As tocsins in her cerebrum
She couldn't keep him out of her system

Hearing time hurrying nearer
Scurrying, hurrying nearer
Around the surface, him
Through alley (Where is he?)

Narrower
With every footstep
Until it opened up
To view of the ocean

That was real
He lay in the boat
Taking the storms on even keel
Reeling in the sails with the love of preservation

Pulling himself
Aboard
Without shirt or sign of sweat
All she could think of was... every moment coalesce

How could his smile
Evoke so much emotion
In this insipid world
The ocean tides over the docks by the bay

There's a lassitude, a bit of it in the fresh air
I wish I could say they kissed
But, the sun had set and they were sharing it
Every moment had come to this.