Category Archives: Nature

Concrete River

11 Monday Jun 2018

Posted by in Los Angeles, Native, Native America, Native American, Nature, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry

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We fail to see what the Indian saw;
goalposts moved, the feeling is raw.

God gave all peoples land, but fate
brought white Euros away from theirs,

Hope was in the “New World,” except
that for its old inhabitants, a grave

challenge emerged from the golden
ships on the Eastern horizon, the

Atlantic bringing bibles, armor, guns,
horses and a love for gold not seen

by the decorated native soldier, the
adorned native explorer—who roamed

a wild land with ease, the world a
welcome mat to sleep upon, gather

and hunt.  A river was sacred, a waterfall
the same; trees, even rocks worshipped

as gifts from the Great Spirit.  Instead
of human art, a reveling of God’s art

was the native way; instead of a written
history or spirituality, there was one

passed down with poignant, well-placed
words and teachings, songs and music,

Ones about the “L.A. River” before it
was called that I’m sure existed.

It would be full and running wild at
times, dry and trickling at others,

through trees, brush and local wildlife—
including bands of Indian tribes,
grateful for the flow.

Civilization is a double-edged mess.
I think I like it.  I hate it.  I’m sad
about it, but sure like the plumbing!

***

What of the river?

Concreted over now, we took away
its beauty.

A crime by any view, there is no
possible way to support killing
it and doing God’s will, we stopped

the wild flow, the thrill.

We placed our destructive flag on
its top, moved wildlife off their spot,

Came with horses, buggies, then
cars and our own urinated rain,

the plumbing’s good, but we are
not—

God’s Earth is full of things still
pristine, and those like the L.A.
River—

That dies every day civilization soars,
roars and choppers rot.

I dream of a day when time
forgot.

When it Rains

08 Friday Jun 2018

Posted by in Blog, Blogs, God, Law, Love, Nature, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Political, Politics

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It matters not the darkness
before dawn, the two at one
needing each other to be
a proper show.

It’s dry and hot, which could
never excite a soul until
the storm clouds roll in
to change forever the state

if forever is a moment, nothing
is—and truth alluding poets
but seeking always we put our
cup out to the sun, wait.

There it is, the first drop
dropping calmly, lightly with a
ting, then another, more here
and there and the humming bird

buzzes by like firefighters not
away from the event but toward
it, they fire, they rain, the bird
wants a bath so sits with the drops

closes its eyes in ecstasy, shudders,
shakes its feathers to complete
the bath before finding a branch under
cover to avoid a drenching.

Boom the thunder hits from a
far-off bolt, but this was not an
electric storm—more of a cleansing
wave, like the law man who finds

the perp burping in the sunshine,
smoking cigars, private jets, pinching
stewardess butts with a smile you’d
think only wine or money makes.

God, the view is good from up here
is a final thought as the plane goes
down, 10-20 years for money laundering
or some other hidden gem.

Wishing no harm on anyone,
unless the point of view of banks is
seen; then if you go there, you
know the people hurt when they

are robbed.  Dishonest is its own
crime, look at the board of ten
brought from God through Moses
upon the Jews, they’re good.

Cleansing is the rain; the storm
picking up, hitting the soil with what
it needs, the apple sprouting the bud
of weeds cramping gardener’s style,

so he gets online to buy more mulch,
poof, on its way, roses budding a creamy
winter of snow on the way against
this rare summer break!

Indictments are sure to come, just
as the mulch arrives, the weeds
relentless until we act, restore a level
of security and sanity to the hill.

Mueller uses not gas-powered crap
but hand to hand combat; God
is proud of earnest, humble work,
punishes the brash, but not before

they win some battles, look at the
South for five years keeping slaves
trapped, little skirmishes won and
lost, guerrilla fighting the tough

life of the rebel.  “We cannot change
the world, it cannot be done” echoes
on an Asian valley butterfly, flying
through the passage of time,

Wondering if mankind, women too,
could all get together, realize we’re
from the same general stuff, rain
water and sun, blood of Earth, the

swim of that stewardess, like a
caterpillar, becoming Flight Attendant
with a lawyer, smart on the game
so she could win, and the butt

pincher faces twenty to life now
for lying to the FBI about killing
Democracy.  The court almost laughed—
not down here, but on the planet

far off that runs us.  “Democracy!” they
laughed and almost fell off the
cliff of the universe, where they stand
and spy.  “People-rule!” gets them

busting up full, and they float down
to Earth through a black hole eating
underwear under there, causing
a great earthquake, followed by

a tsunami, the rains piling up,
a flood rising until Man once
again finds its wisest stance and
repeated mantra through captivity

toward eternal freedom from care:

“We are powerless,” smiled the
orange criminal.

And a lone flower burns on the
hillside of summer untouched,

Making ash for even democracy
to change, become wine from water
and confuse us back to powerlessness
over and over until Samuel gets

out of his cage-like grave, walks
up that dang hill, and makes an
unseen God king again; He’ll
have to do it tomorrow, too if

we wake, my friend—for whatever
progress we made today, it
will rain, and we will wonder if
before it does we laid down enough

seed, to feel the peace of mind
that turns words around, turns
our efforts on themselves, returning
us all to Tao Te Ching-like calm,

the uncarved block, the dawn,
our own birth.  Wordless

and Perfect.

Aloe

30 Wednesday May 2018

Posted by in Nature, Overcoming, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Strength

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I can’t remember the last time I
saw my green ivy, up the walk
along the steps, the rocks of
my entry, smiling saying “hello.”

One night a neighbor sprayed
poison on them, ‘cause that’s
where I live!  Los Angeles, the city,
“civilization” without sidewalk
security,

litter on the streets.

Crime and lack of care, but
there… There we are, finances
have you where you are for now,
trying to make the best of what is…

There were a couple aloe cacti
on the rocks, as well—and when the
ivy died, taking away my green,
the aloe grew, started to take over.

Something there is that doesn’t
love ivy-killing spray, rises up
in the fray, becomes the ship staying
the course in the spray—

they tell you to walk away, to
not see your uncle buried at
Arlington with full honors but
you go anyway.

The orange of the flower replaces
the green of ivy goodness, as we return
home every day.

The hate cannot steal the hope and
its neverending growth and ray,
the devil a coward when you call him
out, then Decide.

Ahh, he hates a decision as you
stay your own path against the tide.

Self-doubt, used to be their shouts,
you block it out and advance on
heaven, a narrow walk for only
certain, chosen soldiers who look to
left and right, even dangerously behind
to help another onto the trail
before we die triggering eternal life.

Aloe Vera is tougher than the poison
as is to death life.

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.

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 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.

Yes, Animals

20 Sunday May 2018

Posted by in Nature, Poem, Poems, Poetry

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What is man without the beasts?
If all the beasts were gone, men would
die from great loneliness of spirit, for
whatever happens to the beasts also
happens to man.  All things are connected.
Whatever befalls the earth befalls the
children of the earth.
—Chief Seattle

I need to dumb down to reach
God and the masses, animals all of us.

Donald Trump uses the word “Animal”
as a curse or put down, which to me
puts himself down, as of course we are
all animals.

Donald Trump has no idea what this
poem is about, would bluster “he
doesn’t care,” but the truth is that
he deeply cares, and is ashamed at
how low his education is.

He cares, and is ashamed at how much
debt he is in, his sexual habits caught
on tape, money paid out to quiet
ex-lovers.

I love Donald, and so did his mom
and dad.

It IS PARTIALLY OUR FAULT—
ALL OF OUR FAULT!!!!—for letting someone
like Donald Trump be “president,”
for letting someone with NO
PUBLIC SERVICE EXPERIENCE even run
for president of the United States of
America.

(By “United” I refer to what rich
representatives in a Continental
Congress claimed this country was
in 1776, ignoring Slavery and native
people, who were not considered,
nor counted.  Women left out,
children discriminated against a few
years later in a Constitution that
sets “age” limits four times: to
run for Congress, Senate, President,
and to vote.  To judge a big group
of people on an arbitrary quality
like gender, race or AGE—and to
restrict that group
based on that quality from having
rights or access to something is called
discrimination.)

So, Donald’s campaign sought outside
help from foreign nations, Russian
money, and others who own FIFA
and where it plays its soccer games.

Bribe and play, pay to play, go
to work one day, and there you
are in the White House because you
sold enough racist followers that
“brown people will not replace us,
Nor will Hillary, or Obama and his
blacktivists!”—and they voted for
you to…

Lead or tweet?

Campaign for 2020 or lead?

Troll people online, watch Fox News
and play golf on the government’s dime?

Geez, you wanna change things,
Donald and Devin—you wanna root
out the deep state?

Stand up to CIA and its covert
mission of violence and secrets!!  Put
the spotlight on JFK.  The real
president of this Country IS
CIA!!!!

Since November of 1963, we are under
their covert thumb, the leash long
enough to feel free—

and although God is truly in charge
of all, we pretend down here that
we have power.

We do not, no matter how many Samuels
go up the mountain and ask God
for a king.

Honor Your Mother

03 Tuesday Apr 2018

Posted by in Nature, Poem, Poems, Poetry

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It’s not just the woman who bore
you, folks—it’s the Earth that moves you.

The Mother who spins on axis, swirling
around the sun and stars on time

So we can wake up and live and try at life.

So how on Earth can you litter?

Throw your cigarette butt, already littering
your lungs and heart on her?

What devil inhaled you, when you
decided to inhale smoke, killing yourself
slowly over many years?

God bless us to honor our mother.

To live a long time in this land, we
must honor her, and fight to keep her
beautiful.

Honor your mother, man.

Honor your mother, woman.  Honor that
which gave us life, and never

throw trash on her, no matter how low
we go; turn around, it’s better to go
back to pre-civilization, pre-religion,
living naked with the natives than to
roll around in this human-made muck,
helicopters and sirens calling out a warning
shot to the Father god that we don’t care.

Send Samuel back, and ask God to be
king again.

Shhh!  Listen.  Close your eyes.

See yourself caring.  Loving.  God bless us
to honor our Mother and care.

Helicopters and Hurricanes

08 Friday Sep 2017

Posted by in Nature, Poem, Poems, Poetry

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The power of God, natural things, Earth
is nothing to the loud player of God,
revving and burning earth, running, driving
around—even “flying.”

No thought to the deer, the coyote, the birds
in flight running scared—the human mark
is felt, we have forgotten our place on the
ground, where spirit soars.

We want larger, bigger, and better, then hand
power over to the violent—uniformed police
and military, “make us safe” at any cost,
bullets to the torso, sirens and noise…

Boys will be boys, girls girls, Something there
is that suffers under the engines and rotors
of “progress,” the cement, asphalt and sky-
scraping truth of Hell planted in soil.

Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines,
people too—too hot for me and you, “To
serve and protect” an expression neglected
on the firing range, as boys learn to kill,

Call it self-defense, put on a vest, say “we’re
keeping folks safe”—even Saving Lives!!  I say
that God saves on the phone line, hang up
with watch commanders, whose minds

are set on killing peace.

I thought cops were “peace officers,” but
how could they be with all their noise?

Shhhhhh!  Be quiet.  God’s at work, think
of the deer.  Shhhh!  Be quiet.  Act like you’ve
been here before, apologize to Mother Nature,
let’s change, go back to God.

Shhhh!  You want to make sounds, sing a song,
find an instrument, play like David did for
praise and love of life!!!  Be a hero in the strife!

Let’s harken back to a better time, I’m not
saying it’s all been bad but helicopters should
be scrapped—they do not please the LORD.

How many times does God talk through wind
in trees, the birds and bees, and we crank up
a huge engine, do whatever evil we please.

Putting yourself first can go along the road
a while, but there is a point at which the
selfish life fails, that point when news choppers
hover over my house, and I ask them

“What’s the deal?”

Really??  You call this news service, getting us
stories on our TV, that’s worth WRECKING THE
PEACE for miles and miles, I say it’s not!!!

Stand with me, it’s not!!!

Shhhhhhh!  Be quiet, so I can hear the LORD.

Shhhhhhh!  Earth is the right place for love,
haven’t you heard?

Robert Frost was the worst farmer in four counties,
but man he had peace and with a pen knew
what to do with it.

Mind the deer, the buck playing with cheer,
antler on antler, gorgeous hillsides teeming
with life and quiet, giving birth to the next
generation of joy—

that horrible, grinding, yelling buzz of choppers
and their engines, go away!!

Pilots, heal thyself, and come back to sanity,
to walk with me, get out of even your cars, use
your five senses, put your muscles into motion,
stop earth-burning and propelling to use
the machine God gave us, perfect and clean.

Okay, so we’re not always clean, but you know
what I mean…

We’re better off as king of animals, not the sky;
give the sky back to Peace, do it before of
noise pollution we surely die.

Uniformed excusers, you are not saving lives,
you are shutting joy out of life, put rubber
bullets in your chambers, start to live by ten
commandments, the sixth not to kill or murder,

we can turn this “progress” ship around, make it
work, our best qualities undress and give before
we scare the next wild animal clan extinct,

lost to the map of life forever…

Manly men, sports and alcohol, we’re so tough
we don’t need you all—off we go, above the earth,
“we’re saving lives” while we kill the peace, it
makes no sense, nor dollars—

heck, crown Mike Pence!

Fire Samuel, make God our king, we need to live
quiet as deer if we want to protect the land to
keep them here.

In native language, my name is Naked Horse,
I reach out to your spirit, save your soul, come
with me, save the trees.

Leave the heliport, to Police I say “Turn it
all into a foot patrol station,” come out to
schools, teach about law and put your lethal
guns away.

Shhhhh!  Make no noise, walk slow and soft
over leaves as you approach, and the buck,
so pretty in the muck, will find his dream
like yours here on earth opposed to fear don’t
duck the humble needs we have, rest in the
mother’s arms, the dirt our home—our friend,
fear it not, return to peace, return to love,
the deer at play, the seer finally saying what he
sees:

Shhh!  It’s a deer crossing; let’s welcome
peace back in our day!