Monthly Archives: May 2018

Geocracy

28 Monday May 2018

Posted by in Earth, God, Nature, Plog, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Political

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I’ve never seen a person rule
during an earthquake.

Where is democracy, “people-rule”
during a hurricane?

Democracy is a fallacy, a beyond bold
toward egocentric self-will run riot,
as the alcoholics say.

We have some power, human
beings can lift, exercise, work—
do some things, but the limits—
our limits blare at times, enough
so that we’d be wise in politics to

leave space for what we cannot do.

The effort to keep God out of
American politics, calling Concept
Religion.

We have been confused, led onto
the wide path of war and deception,
covert acts and destruction by an
entity some call Satan, others “evil,”

me?  It doesn’t really matter.

***

God, Earth, People rule might be
more reflective of truth and interesting;

God, Earth and People rule, call it
Geocracy with a capital G.

To reflect the things we can do,
that which we cannot; to recognize
higher and greater powers than us, at
times, to tell the truth.

***

Humility is knowing one’s place,
nine out of ten of us outside our
lines, scrambling to turn a Christmas
list into a nursery rhyme, nothing
fully fitting with the next, until we fall
and scrape our chin bad enough to
change.

You must want it.

***

The war hawks frown; the atheists stir,
and semantics has the angry adult down
and out while the child looks on, not
as full with words but without them True.

People can rule sometimes, give it to us
one out of three.

We will be a healthier world and nation
the moment we officially recognize the
other great powers that govern us.

Write it down, right the frown, turned
to the upside—

Do less, and things get done;

Lao Tzu and the spiritual masters knew
how little we could control.

And God made the heavens and the
Earth; and it was good.

The stories, the words, they run out of steam;
things just are, let them be.

Place the Earth and Higher Power
somewhere at the political discussion
table; leave space, watch the glory
of all we didn’t do,

and all that because we held back
could be.

Racism

27 Sunday May 2018

Posted by in Blogs, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Racism

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Judgment of others from fear,
we are concerned with not having
enough, being enough, so point
over there to them.

It’s the calm before the storm,
to coast along racist and okay with it.

We cannot be where we are not,
are wise to accept some things
until that day when we ourselves get
hurt.

Now it’s time to change, a sensitivity
develops we did not know existed.

We used to call out difference or
perceived difference as a way to not
only point out difference but a
Trumped up superiority.

Truth is, and will always be, no
matter what we as people with our
words do or see!

“God” might just be…

Good
Orderly
Direction,

a morning defection from a country
or land of persecution or abuse.

The progressive welcomes the traveler,
while the nationalist, the racist:

Afraid of change and difference or
perceived difference…

Keeps the difference or perceived
difference “out.” A “purity” is striven
for, a racial cleansing no matter the
history of a land, the one race will
lay claim to it all.

Look at my skin and its color!

It is better than others because I
said so, “And I’m very smart,

Believe me!”

Racism is just another way to hell,
the wide path to it staying wide
the narrow to enlightenment, care
and heaven just there, as well!

Nothing ever changes.

Then… behold.

A great change on the horizon!!

A human race under higher
powers!

Something only has power when
given that power, so racism without
reaction is just a lie, a piece of bait
on the line.

Don’t bite.

Pray for the souls that suffer so
much they lash at others, find
a safe place to prosper, and never
give up being the perfect you
against the storm that is the
Devil’s confusion, judgment, a lie
that fellow products of man and
woman’s love are somehow better
or worse by looks or some loud,
insecure bully’s voice.

The Noise of a Helicopter

27 Sunday May 2018

Posted by in Blogs, God, Native, Nature, Peace, Poem, Poems, Poetry

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Did we pause to ask?

Before we reached for the sky, turned
on the motors, did we ask?

Peace.

Peace of mind… fighting the winds
of change and some’s progress
while the birds hang on and chirp,
the deer and coyote hiding.

What is truly good for us?  Is “no”
a complete response sufficient to
stuff the ask?

The disease of more, the frantic pace,
the never-satisfied on the move race
of running fast, burning fuel and
unsettling the score.

God forgives us when we ask, but
cannot help you at 10,000 feet
and 300 miles per hour.

Heaven is a peace of mind, knowing
you did your best to be the best
person you were capable of becoming.

John Wooden and I invented that after
he had won 10 national championships
without focusing on winning.

Each and every skill defined and perfected,
the game and our lives broken down into
their parts.

Find it in your heart to stop.

***

The rotors must stop for us to hear
the LORD, Great Spirit, Mother
Nature, the Lady of the Lake yearning
for our quiet so the deer can
return to inspire us.

God is not in the weeds but in their
pulling, the mulch of strength covering
the growth of evil as the dragon
breathes death on the disrespectful
and reverent alike.

Shhhh.

Be quiet.  Stop doing.

Turn over all will to good, then decide
whether the speed is worth the loss.

The being on hyperspace, whizzing
by the lights, making noise—

How did it help us sleep?

Shhhh.

God is talking

The Orange Negotiator

27 Sunday May 2018

Posted by in Blog, Blogs, Humor, Political Satire, Politics, Satire, Tragedy, Trump

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Trump2

Peace dreams of having many friends.

Flourishes in groups of one mind, or alone on long hikes up the mountain or to the lake.

Once upon a time, there was a large, old, orange negotiator, who had weaseled his way to leadership in a large nation with borders, history and clout.

He was notorious for lying, cheating on his wives, a bumbler and a bully—an avid golfer and talker, highly in debt abroad but always pushing his own business “success,” always assuring others of his prowess and abilities.

He likes to use catch phrases poker players might call “tells,” such as:

“Believe me” = I am lying.
“We’ll see what happens” = I have no idea what I am doing.
“There were good people on both sides” = I am a racist thug.
“Fake News!” = Stories published that hurt my image.
“He’s a Great Guy!” = He’s about to be fired.
“We’re going to take care of” = We’re skating by this moment, saying what makes story die.
“The incredible men and women” = I deify people, because I am myself a god.
“Billions and billions of dollars” = I am obsessed with money.
“Witch Hunt!” = an investigation I do not like.
“Many people are saying” = I am saying.
“Smart people” = People who support me.
“Total disaster” = I didn’t create it.
“CHI-na!!” = Racial slur hidden under tone to stir up racist base.
“Wiki-Leaks!!” = His savior, allowed him to “win” election in 2016 by cheating.
“Nobody really knows,” “Nobody knew” = I didn’t know.
“Lock her up” = Misogyny and misdirection.
“Build the wall!!” = I hate Mexicans, brown people.

COMBO ALERT:

The orange negotiator liked to combine catch phrases, too:

“We’re going to take care of it. A LOT of money! BELIEVE ME! But, we’ll see what happens.”

“Lock her up! Crooked Hillary!!! Wiki-leaks!!!”

And the crowd would erupt.

“Build the wall!” a code for “I’m racist like you!” and the crowd would go crazy again, lift the orange negotiator to leadership of this country.

The Search for My Fourth Wife

27 Sunday May 2018

Posted by in Blog, Blogs, Comedy, Humor, Humorous, Parody, Weird

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By Will Workinson

***

Hello, my name is Will.

That never seems to impress anyone, but I say it anyway because it is sort of true.

I steer away from absolute truths most of the time because they can be somewhat boring and inconsequential.  I write comedy pieces a lot, which hardly anyone likes.  I am better at poetry, maybe because I was named in part after William Shakespeare by parents who never read.

Years ago, I read in an old second hand bible that Solomon had many wives, but also had written Proverbs—one of them exalting the “Wife of Your Youth” and that you should rejoice with her, be with her, honor her, etc.

Then Malachi came along and warned for us not to “deal treacherously with the Wife of Your Youth…”

I am currently seeking my fourth wife with vigor, despite these warnings from the bible, one of which especially suspicious due to one of the warner’s polygamy.  One thing I’m pretty sure of:

Little Billy, Tommy, Ricky, Mike, Jonathan, Suzy, Penelope and Roberta will be so happy to find a proper mom.  If you are out there, give me a call!!

I tend to carry my kids around like luggage, which I’m sure they appreciate and enjoy.  They seem to like multiple Christmases and zig-zagging all over the country to be with their moms and their families.  I never sit down and ask them how they feel, but I have a sixth sense about such things and know they love the adventure of it all!

I fall in love a lot, and am not too into vows and commitment.

Would you consider hanging out with me and being my fourth experiment?

Love2

Letter to an Atheist

26 Saturday May 2018

Posted by in Blog, Comical, Humor, Humorous, Political, Political Satire, Religious

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—by Donald Trump

***

What in the hell is wrong with you?

You haven’t accepted your Lord Jesus Christ?

People are stealing into this country every day, because it’s the best country in the world.  They are bringing their crime with them, their pestilence, their disease.  But no more!

Just now my ICE officers are pulling away mothers from their children along the border in a surefire deterrence scheme that will bring order at last to this chaotic, dangerous region!

I am proud to honor all the officers and their families for the sacrifices they make every day to make us Real Americans safe.  By “real,” I refer to the white Americans, whose European ancestry makes us the right people to rule this land.

Our concrete, our asphalt, our trains, planes and automobiles—the helicopters that patrol your neighborhoods and keep birds, coyote and deer away—

This is our legacy, not our shame as Pocahontas in Congress wants you to think.  I am proud of our achievements over the hollering of conservationists and nerdy green peace-freaks.  I like our noise, our industry, our coal, steel and everything that makes America great!

And there you are with your liberal atheism, your disdain for religion.  You stand proud today, then kneel during our country’s national anthem at football games.  You are a disgrace.

I hope this letter has helped you to consider converting to the one true God.  I have read a version of the Bible Kelly Anne Conway gave to me, called The Alternative Fact Bible, and in it are the tenants of democracy, law, order and peace.

We will have peace in this world, if you trust me to make some deals.

Trump3

The Truth

25 Friday May 2018

Posted by in Poem, Poems, Poetry, Truth

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Things are whether we call them
such or not; words inappropriate
vessels for the Truth.

And yet, when we try, and at the
right time these symbols hit the
spot, music in time.

We cannot tell our own true story
and feelings until the room is safe—
we’ve been hurt before,

so sometimes back off at the moment
to secure ourselves from further harm.
Seek ye, and ye shall find

was spoken by a teacher who preached
“gospel” from the old English “God-spell,”
stories about God,

“good” and true requisite, the evidence
of truth being the oneness you feel
or don’t feel, the thing

wins or loses, you know truth when you
read or hear it, most of the time!  We
lie when afraid, when running

and hoping everything will be all right
if I can just get by this tricky moment.
Plenty of time for truth…

Just not today?

Hmm, tragedy bleeds a different ray,
golden sunshine at the rain yields
color.  The pain un-

medicated improves, and beyond that,
the thrill of overcoming becomes its
own high-level joy, so…

Go for it.  Tell your journal first,
if you’d like, but find that safe room
and tell the truth.

Be a safe pair of ears for someone else;
advocate for truth, but you must seek it
first!  It may mean you enter

a place you have fears about entering,
a 12-step meeting, a spiritual retreat,
where the schmucks there

don’t appear to be “doing” anything!!
What a bore!!  You look for a basket, a way
to achieve and score.

The rug will be under your deception as
long as God wants it there, but when it
is pulled, go with it,

and come down to where I kneel, it’s
fun to not only feel, but to report the
feeling, band together

with your brothers and sisters in truth,

and sing.

Slippery When Wet

25 Friday May 2018

Posted by in Poem, Poems, Poetry

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The left hand is holding something
very valuable.

You need what is in the left hand…

Keep looking at it, the left hand
sure to contain that which will—

Thanks, I’ll see you later, and the
interaction ends.

Weeks later, you check your piggy
bank and notice all the money is gone.

I stole your money with my right
hand, as you looked at my left hand.

But the left hand was important—we
needed it to survive!

“We killed them in the interest of
National Security.”

“We stole the documents in the interest
of National Security.”

“For the furtherance of Democracy and
Freedom, we invaded the country
and deposed their horrible leader.”

The pious fraud, better than God—it
makes okay every single sin so
sin away!

Because in the end, friend—the end
justifies every mean thing we do
or say!

We are the CIA!!  The FBI, we’ve got
your back!  We keep you safe, so
you can just live out your day, it’s
on us!!

“We go where others cannot go,
accomplish what others cannot
accomplish,” says CIA on Twitter
to us schmucks—us, the lowly
American with normal people rights.

Those agents with super-people rights!

Wow, can I be one of them?

Sure, here are the steps:

1. Have a shitty childhood where truth
is on edge or upside down, Dad drinks
and love is scarce.
2. Go to an Ivy League school, get good
at computers—join a Fraternity, get good
at telling and keeping secrets.
3. Secret Society membership is a plus.
4. We like Patriots, who can put “country
before anything else.”  Even God.
5. Don’t believe in God—he or she cannot
keep America safe.  Only we can.

***

Stop to take a breath.

6. Get used to lying.
7. Lie to yourself, God and others
every day.

***

We lie in the interest of National Security.

(National Security is often code for
“not embarrassing the Agency.”)

You might fall into a crack, if it’s
wet enough.

Pregnancy is another thing, altogether.

The Wife of Your Youth is most likely
behind you, but we make due with the
me and you we have in front of us.

You, too?

“Ready, shoot, aim” is the plan of
the orange, golf-playing orangutan “president” —
unless a Russian is calling the shots from
across the sea, look at me,

The MS-13 gang members are “animals?”

Yes, so are we.

You mean it as a curse?

So was it a curse for CIA to support the
killers of El Salvador’s archbishop, Oscar
Romero in 1980.

MS-13 came from his ashes.  And there,
an American “president” bags on the guys
our own murder created.

Bags on immigrants in an immigrant
country like the dis-United States.

Great Spirit, native spirit, the mother
Earth reaching out to touch us, but
your motorcycle gets in the way,
helicopter blades and sirens ruining
the day.

Shhhhhhh!

God wants to talk with us, we could
make him or her king!

Ignore Samuel and his walk to
the top of the mountain to
represent us.

“Jews will not replace us” the rally
call of hate, which comes from fear,
which produces anger—

all leading to suffering over time,
Yoda from Star Wars stopping on a dime.

Eternal life!

To secure and clean L.A. outside our
means because the rich council can’t
see it yet.  The mayor choked by his
tie, all a cliché of what Mom wants,
when she doesn’t really know what
she wants, going from high to high,

and when not high…

duck.

Ready, shoot, aim… Trump is drunk
with the buck so duck, it’s MS-13
that are the “animals!!”

So lock your door, another prejudice
is coming.

Ends and means line up, the pious fraud
catching up; we’re trying to evolve,
God help us to with your will align.

Today.

The only day, sublime, it’s wet when
slippery—slippery when wet.

The curse we all feel when we let…

her get away.  The wife of our youths,
we let her go.

Our forefathers stealing native land, we
let our own mother go!

“We’ll see what happens,” there’s
always another side to a story!

The real Gold was Native American wisdom,
not the yellow rock in Georgia, made them
march away and cry,

a trail of tears brought on by Trump’s
idol, Mr. Jackson, stick a needle in
their eye.

My mother said to pick the very best
one and Trump is not it.

Easy targets.

Ready, shoot, aim!

We’ll see what happens.  Kill Kennedy,
Martin, the other Kennedy, Romero
and Lennon,

and we’ll do it again…

***

unless.

Unless, says the Dr. Seuss Lorax when
hoping against hope.

Lao Tzu smiling the smile of
the longevity god, oval-headed and
jovial in the night before an unknown
dawn, the magic of change
in the birth of babies and a new day!

It’s slippery when wet!!

It had better be, if you want to
see us multiply and a future supply,

mountains moving from there to here
because fasting and praying was not
just for the religious but for the wise.

The atheist must sigh.

“The power greater than me has a name,
just stop calling it God.”

Without saying a word, the baby
just is.  The uncarved block, the truth—

sex for the celibate.

The Dragon’s Back

23 Wednesday May 2018

Posted by in God, Mystical, Nature, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Wales, Welsh

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Sexuality swirls around the planets,
a kind of erratic, organized chaos of
life we cannot see unless by great
effort and powerful lens.

Beneath the surface of things,
the duck’s feet fight and pound and
move, often unconsciously—beating
eggs like water polo players perpetually.

Walking is a thing; we are wise to find places
for feet on ground, to get out
of civilization’s attempt to comfort
and protect against elements—

The dragon’s back, scaly and strong,
unstable and challenging, the smoke
rising off the water at sunset, the
Lady of the Lake guarding underneath,

offering help for the helpless, but
only when you are humble and ask.

Songs true and off the horizon of
the green, valleys fog over and wet,
the rain and clouds lifting the flower
from the hill, wars fought to appease

the up and down movement of the Chinese
Tao, the Russian doll, the Native American
Great Spirit expressed in Mothers and Fathers
honored in the beast.

We are talking animals, bucked by time
and nature when acting right or wrong—
it’s just that the Righteous get bucked
amidst peace of mind’s post-rain bow.

I dream of a return to land to my east,
a Celtic field in a Welsh storm, the
dragon’s back never more evident
than on the cliffs of England.

400 years in a foreign land is nothing
to the man who plants.  Sunshine and
rain feed the soul here as others,
a song to sooth here as much as there—

The dragon can buck all he wants,
but when the mind is rooted in the Quest
he cannot move the soul bound for heaven,
where heaven is Peace,

Something only achieved through
warring against temptation and winning,
not because we are great, but because
the tools at our feet are there, and we

humble ourselves enough to pick them
up and use them.  Or not.

Our mind’s eye sees all truths, before
words, so we utter a growl, breathe
and stop.

I am the dragon.

Wide is the Path

22 Tuesday May 2018

Posted by in Nature, Philosophy, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Religion

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The narrow to “heaven” is a hefty
mount, a lofty walk and a harrowing
drop—

the leap it requires of faith, fasting
and prayer?

Atheism, wordlessness, meditation
and just being there?

Hard turns, listening, being, breathing?

A rose by any other name as sweet,
brevity the soul of it, god or Shmod
you decide what to call that which
yields its famous bliss—

words ascribed to it in English
being “Peace of mind.”

It’s hard to have a firm view, open
up, and listen wholeheartedly to another;
but to do so allows a soul to advance
toward childhood,

life a journey of return to learned
senses without words, then a
departure of body leaving spirit
and words, ideas which never die
no matter how many killed in the
name of “National Security.”

Wide is the Path to Destruction,
and Many are On It.

Some call “Jesus” religion; I do not;
I call the Son a Sun, the art of war
being to never wage it.

The true artist restores peace when
out of alignment, moving on without
celebration, without declaration of victory,
for a combat yielding injury is never
cause célèbre.

Tend to those injured, and start to
glimpse the road less traveled, build
your rock, ascending and secure, on
the bed of weedless sunshine providing
no rain to the cowards, no judgment to
the fallen, no gifts to the barren;

It is dry, the valley of history, with
all its un-amended sins and mistakes.

If you stop reading and talking long
enough you see the rainbow in the rain;
the end of pain,

The coming of solace for the argument
that Higher Power must exist.

Why not call it God?

Because that word offends those abused
by those who would use a Name to harm.

So fall.

Let the words go, and let Mom embrace
you after we demolish the concrete,
find the stones, the path back

to Nature.