Category Archives: Poem

Your Suits Won’t Help You

02 Thursday Nov 2017

Posted by in Historical, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Political

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When Samuel asked for a king
to be like other nations, nothing
in what the people wore could
stop God’s curse from forming.

We replaced truth with religion,
kicking God further out the picture;
Building and building, not in the
Longfellow sense for the thrill—

But brick on brick to worship our
own “creations,” edging out
further, the Entity we can no longer
name very much in Congress.

***

God, grant us peace as we go back
to 1607.  My people landed; three
Welshmen from Wales, with Captain
Smith on British coat tales, we sought

a buck, fame, exploration, certain
feathers in caps to be the first and
all of that—we shot at Indians, first
by calling them “Indians,” then by

sizing them up as smaller, less-clothed
with worse weapons of war, they did not
murder as well as us, we could defeat
them—if it came to that!

***

We did not know that most Native
American people were on the side of
Mother Nature.  So when we murdered
them, we hurt ourselves, brick by brick,

Building more and more monuments to
glorify the human race.  So fun and pretty,
we could win, but God was on the outside
still, cast aside as we reaped Samuel’s curse.

Brick by brick, we stormed the castle of
future regret.  But not all was a loss; concrete
and asphalt was to come, the big American
city.  Gutters, trash littered evenly throughout

the lawns of our triumph.  This was our day,
“God” more and more taboo on the
Senate floor, but first let’s talk about
Slavery.  Yes, we haven’t amended that sin yet.

No, we wear suits in court; wear them to win
elections.  We wear them to hide our
bodies, to put out a message of oneness with
fashion and constraint.  We tie ties around

our own necks—perhaps a nod to the slaves,
who were shackled, yoked and murdered by
the thousands as they streamed from West
Africa to the Caribbean and New World lands.

600,000 died in a “civil” war to stop the crime
of human subjugation and inequality; then
Martin fought a second action one hundred
years later.  Now what?

A “president” can’t decide where evil lurks
at a KKK rally, slurs at black athletes as they
“take a knee” to protest police brutality—the
south looms a tough beast to slay, even today.

I am a former slave owner, says my last name—
an obvious thing, but who can stand up
with me and admit we were wrong?… After
national debt is paid off, why not dish twenty

grand to anyone who can claim African descent
here?  Allow at least a financial compensation for
the chains, murder and dismay.  Former kings,
queens and princes rounded up by black traitors

to make a buck with white traders, black market
supply and demand run by the devil himself.
I am alcoholic.  Believe in looking back at sin—
making amends.

We need to honor the contracts and treaties
made with Native Americans.  Even if we
must give land back—and why?  For ourselves,
Mother Nature and national karma.

Our suits cannot help the truth—disclosed is
the lie in every FBI tie that Oswald even fired
a rifle on November 22nd, 1963.  Failed a paraffin
test for the date, the gun found a German Mauser

not Oswald’s deficient magazine order Italian
carbine.  We’ve been a lie.  The day Kennedy
died was when CIA started to run the United
States of America, the lone member of the

United Nations to hate peace.

We should be evicted from the New
York meetings, when the day comes they
wisen up, move to Paris or Switzerland—
our suits hide the bum attire of murder,

violence across the seas in the calm of night,
protecting a banker’s rights, dead is the storm
drain of Saul’s crown, clogging the vaccine
that is God—kick the white coats finally out,

And accept that we must reverse the curse
ourselves, accept our nakedness, going
back to the fruit and telling the devil “no.”

As little children we enter heaven, not as
rich bigwigs.  Take off your suit, and help
me pick up trash

Giving Your Life to God, Not “Country”

22 Sunday Oct 2017

Posted by in Poem, Poems, Poetry

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Don’t die for me in “defense of
our country.”

Please live.  Defend, and live.  Put down
killing weapons, stop killing
and learning how to kill—and live.

6. Thou shalt not kill.

M-16’s are not defense weapons; they
are killing ones.

Stop lying to us and to yourselves,
talking about defense while you
train to shoot bullets into people’s
torsos on the range!

God bless us to better living; honor
and true self-defense, like that taught
by the Tao Te Ching and general
martial arts practice!

***

And p.s. to the United States of
America: Get out of foreign countries
with your guns, unless invited there
by the peace-loving United Nations…

Remember that group, founded in 1945
to end all wars?

Truman and the CIA had no time for it,
kept perpetrating cold war, sewing
distrust—creeping around in the night,
until loe and behold:

They killed John F. Kennedy for not
leaning far enough to the right!

Disgusting, but before I judge let’s all
breathe and see again the wide, well-
traveled road to destruction.

There it is.

Now choose another, as you stand before
your army recruiter.

Tell him or her that you want to serve
God and country, but not by killing
or learning to kill.

They might tell you to join the Peace
Corps.

And this poem will not change the world;

men and women will still sign up to
kill, it’s a thrill like to the opioid addict
dropping that next pill.

Oh, but there’s always that stray cat
reader; the one purring on the fence,
re-thinking for a second how we claim
to cherish “national defense…”

“But that’s really offense, not defense,”
the cat wisely surmises.

Read these lines and line up no more
to kill.

Live by the gun, die by the gun—

say no to “country” if that’s the brand of
thrill they shill.

Give your life to God and ten commandments;
on to heaven if only peace of mind—

better than the pill…

Better not to kill!

Her Lips are Sealed

21 Saturday Oct 2017

Posted by in Love, Poem, Poems, Poetry

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What causes the false start,
the gunk to get caught in a pipe
before the truth sledges out—

is the same force, call it “fear,”
afflicting the alcoholic, sipping
sadly alone on his beer.

The hefty bear, wandering around
pure as snow, collecting food for
the winter before time to go…

Hibernation is not just the dream of
the hairy beast; we hide behind the
rocks of safety when called to

tell our controversial truth.  Because
we were judged or abused once, we
are twice shy, and over time we inch

back, back, then far enough back to
turn a fuzzy science project out of
your favorite pie, a prayer to the sky—

Freud in fact said that we drink flammable
liquid for our failure to honestly express
love.  Sex can be scary; intimacy so tender

and again, bring in a past abuse or rejection
and complicated is the issue to the level
of dysfunction.  We lie to protect ourselves;

We shy and seal lips to protect, and that
process has a course.  It ends when we
can with God, Good Orderly Direction, or

Some sort of Power greater than us Forgive
a hurt and learn to trust again.  We must
at some point “out” ourselves, “so why not

now” I may ask a shy one I love. But she
needs time; the flower is not physically
closed—but emotionally and/or mentally

there may be a block.  Sometimes formidable,
but with faith whole mountains can be
moved from there to here, this belief is real—

Recovery comes to those willing to be honest
and heal, “what’s the deal,” well the thing
hinges on Open minds and willingness after

you are willing to trust, let someone in,
and peel back your dress.  God is with
the first feeling, wants us to be honest about

it, but I’ll wait for you to find courage in
the walk toward Truth.  A walk that cannot
be made without the Wife of my Youth.

First wife is last, there is no other; when you
find her, it’s like the day you found God…

There is no other.

Look for Right

19 Thursday Oct 2017

Posted by in Poem, Poems, Poetry

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“You need to go to a doctor”
may not be true.

In fact, our needs are quite simple.

Our health drops when we ignore
real needs; replace them with fake
ones like “I need my car.”  “I need
to go to the doctor.”

You do not.

We need air, breath, food, water,
a place to sleep, basic warmth,
nourishment.

We have ways of seeing things from
dark to light, fear and worry trying to
seep through; it’s a war of attrition

to look for right.

A star in the night, which sometimes
is clouded over by clouds that do not
kill the star…

Obfuscation is the devil’s job, that
and dazzling dark with light.

We cannot yield in the fight—

We must keep looking for right!

“I have a sore back, I need to take
a drug” misses the boat that shoves
off from the shore of truth, the boat
being that Pain is the Gateway to Joy.

If you do not Feel the pain, you miss out
on the joy!

Escape! Escape! Escape!

will make you late, late, late—Jonah
in the whale of refusing God’s will.

Feel the short term pain to garner
long term gains; Father Weston went
to AA and Al-Anon, “whatever feeds you,”

and recall that by bread alone man
does not eat, so bring the words of God
along!  This trip to heaven requires the
angel call through music and voice, holler
at the devil to “Get thee behind me” while
we erect a band to fight regret, take on hate,

turn the wheel to justice in your town, take
off your suit and rake!

Yes, the dirty acts yield clean, while money
shuffling around clogs our gutters.

Clean every day!  It keeps that doctor away!

Rise up, just for today.  Take a photograph.

Pause to laugh.  Write a schedule for your
twenty-four, God above, sleep at the bottom,

fill in the rest—live your dreams!

(But go nowhere without truth. Let’s
have it right here!)

Peace is the rainbow after the rain,
the swept-clean sky.

I cannot better the feeling of what Fall
means to the 100 degrees; every song
has his or her season, mine in winter
about to end,

so I truth in you call out, the devil away,
Look for Right instead of wrong, don’t
go to “doctors” if all you do is poke
and prod at problems.

Give God or Higher Power or Something
Big that loves you its due.

Love.  Needs are these, working, loving
and playing in the snow of never-never,
always better when we smile, and thank
God just for today.

“Enough is as good as a feast,” said
Mary Poppins—wasn’t she neat.

Beat, beat, beat, strike the band—
today is enough!

Enjoying it through that pain is the
reason this poem or any endeavor
is endeavored under the sun and
moon of no more complaints…

The Beginning.

Poets Don’t Own Cars

17 Tuesday Oct 2017

Posted by in Poem, Poems, Poetry

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We rent and we drive on occasion,
but lock us into payments?

Never.

The vroom vroom, powering and
speeding and smoking our way to this
and that?  The noise, the hustle?

We prefer the slow stroll, the train
ride, the bus up the cliff, the hike
mile after mile, five senses becoming
six as we know there is more…

Rooftop to rooftop we hurl headlong
into vacant doorways of hope, dash to
and from buildings of dreams, scents
and poverty bringing us out of metal
and into the sweat of failure.

We must report something and so
stomach the stench, there must be a ground
if we are to elevate.  Support comes from
loving people, we are dedicated to words
but know they are nothing compared to
what we describe,

The ultimate hope of all endeavor to
yield peace of mind, this one mine as I
deny the mechanic’s offer to ditch another
hunk at high speeds—

I take one look back at my old life as
I speed down the freeway of God’s
paradise in my wife’s fast muscle car:

I have an errand to run and I’m tired of
the walk, I’ll play this song, burn this gas
this time, but can’t wait to shed the metal

for a walk again my friend, toward the more
elegant train of rhyme.

She Wiped a Pleasure Tear

17 Tuesday Oct 2017

Posted by in Love, Poem, Poems, Poetry

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She had lost her husband.

Shot and killed, the streets of
L.A. between the trash and spray.

She had gained a friend, I checked on
her every day, whenever I shopped,
and my legs brought me by her place.

I gave her flowers.  A card.  Brought a
plant for her mother-in-law, the victim’s
mother, who lived above her.

She was in her thirties, me in my
forties, me not looking for love—I had
just given up extra-marital sex of any
kind!

But heat started to play.  Her vulnerability,
my eagerness to comfort her, her fake
blonde mane—soft to my hard in L.A.
between the trash and the spray.

I told her she was attractive many times,
kissed her hair.

I hugged and she hugged back.  We held
a moment, parted but marks were left
behind like what waves do to shores,
there was a mounting vibe.

Physicality supplied.  I’d cover up if I
was modest.  I have in an honest, funny
mood brought attention to arousal, but
this time prayed about it, decided to
ignore.

She smiled at me, took off the towel
guarding her wet hair, recently showered.

She faced me, and I her.  And there was
no pretense minus need.  We were in love
without the words, but to be sure I told
her “I love you”—

as I kissed her hair again in dusty L.A.
between the trash and the spray!

It all left a tear drop she could not ignore
like my enlargement, so to be sure
not to burst and show, she took her shirt,

tucked it down to wipe the tear.

Sexuality and mourning do not fully
belong together, and so we are patient
for the year to help us transition, get jobs
and financial security, an engagement ring

and a place to propose.

But the feelings are there to start, me almost
regretting I didn’t ask her for her shirt, but
smiling ideas days later are the futile fuel
of lacking frowns, I am glad for what we had

and have, am sorry for her loss.

Excited for our potential gain, with who
knows, perhaps another year of honest
rain, rainbows, truth and innocent touches
leading to spiritual growth and pleasure
tears.

Children, all of us, reeling in the years…

Tough Talking a Dead Shooter

03 Tuesday Oct 2017

Posted by in Murder, Poem, Poems, Poetry

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“Loser” and “Coward” doesn’t help.

Your anger against the shooter doesn’t
help—your judgment just creating more
tension, tension leading to the next shooter
who lets it out with a horrible bang.

Shh!  Judge not, lest ye be judged.

Ye without sin may cast the first stone,
so reach not for stones, you know there
are things within you needing work!

Breathe.  Shh!  It’s okay to just grieve;
then minister to the next super-shy, quiet
would-be shooter.

Often they are children who have not met
a nice person in a while.

Those doing bad things often haven’t
seen a Good thing in some time, if at all.

The Devil is strong, and Wide is the path
to destruction, as the Nazarene carpenter’s
son said.  Many are in trouble, heading
down, so instead of throwing rocks at
the drowned, look up and help!!

Here is the next shooter, there’s the next;
they walk among us now, so pray to
God for strength, and get in the way of
hate!

Look inside you to change, not outside—
with a pointed finger, saying “if only
they, they, they…”  You speak of madmen,
psychopaths to avoid the deep interior
look—look there!

Anger doesn’t work, the killer
killed himself, too—so say a prayer
for his family and soul, to love all God’s
children the goal.

There is no “motive” for mass murder,
as motive implies reason, and we are
in the area of irrational acts,

Like drinking flammable liquids, taking
doctors’ drugs to imply God made us
in a faulty way—

the thought that we can control stuff,
know the unknowable and suddenly
change the world.

Then the world changes, and we spin
around the sun a while, think we did
a good thing.

We are powerless—all of us, so thank
a Higher Power for another day, mourn
the dead who fell from a shooter today,
a hurricane tomorrow—

Life full of death making it all right to
be grateful for life, and folks:

Beware of high crowds, tight spaces,
and going where it seems “everyone else
is going.”

Higher Ranked Than Me

02 Monday Oct 2017

Posted by in Education, Poem, Poems, Poetry

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There is nothing to gain in
putting children down; in making
then subservient to us adults!

Let go of control, and remember
this, our journey, to “be as children,”
to retain the wonder, the dream.

Teachers: we are wise to learn
from children, and go beyond equal
treatment of the young—make them king.

Serve a child, shake hands—give a first
name and serve.  Get them things,
listen and allow them their needs.

The devil gets into anyone—children,
too—so shut down bad behavior as
best you can when in charge of a home

or class.  But come from a proper
place of knowing the devil can get to
us adults, too!  Banish judgment, and

wander onto the side of children as
you “teach,” take in the lessons learned
when you open to the moment,

find God in open minds, and be willing
to see that someone else beside you had
the best idea of the day!  We are children

inside, let that hair down, and keep joy
for life close—live every day as if it were
the very first, put down alcohol, drugs,

resentment and self-pity; these are the
ways Satan hammers the child out of
you, turns us into grumpy puppies!

Ruff!  Shake a child’s hand and bless your
life.  Do them a favor, be a hero in
Longfellow’s strife!  God bless the children

in us, so we can be there for the actually
young!  Tucked in shirts and “respect
for your elder” is not as important

as a humble knowledge of the universal
pecking order.  God or Higher Power
above and beyond, all of us below it,

the young with a special access to the
simple and true—study the child, and you
can be true, too—so give beyond the

sergeant’s whistle, beyond the “getting
them in line,” and make of the young
ones friends, and pass beyond a good time.

It is the road to heaven to be truthful
and full of joy—remember our place,
love a child, and certain peace of mind

is granted to every girl and boy.

Reforming Ourselves

18 Monday Sep 2017

Posted by in Poem, Poems, Poetry, Political, United Nations

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It’s not the ones we hurt who
are at fault and should lead the charge
at making amends.

Former slave traders and owners must
recognize a need to repair the abuse,
crimes and lies—

I’m talking about the “White” bloodline!

If your English or European last name
is donned by an African person, surmise
with me that slave-owning is in your
family history.

Join me, and push for a fund, level the field,
and give enough to apologize for the wrong,
donate money or even a song.

Just admit the fault with me, and watch
karma go up in this country!

“CNN Sucks” is the motto of a favorite
Trump supporter, retweeted by the
former reality show star.

The Twitter user goes by @Fuctupmind,
posted a GIF representing Donald Trump
knocking Hillary Clinton over with a golf
ball.

Excuse me while I mute the screen during
drug ads or anytime the supposed president
speaks.

Right now the Idiot in Chief is whining at
the United Nations to “reform!”

I am giggling at the hypocrisy, anyone from
the peace-hating United States with its covert
war operations and lust for world domination
through military intervention speaking to the
World Peace group held hostage in New York
about reforming.

Them reform!  “Be the change you want to
see in the world,” said Gandhi—but so many
people do not read but for the headlines at
Fox News, news reports that paint your
ideas in a good light.

History is boring, let’s pop some prescribed
pills and watch some TV.

Let’s hit up our doctors for more, I’m sure
I must have ADD, diabetes, cancer in my
membrane—I’m going insane, forget God
and real healing!!

Damn the side effects, I’m on this wide road
to Hell and I like it, it suits me, there is no
afterlife so don’t bother me!

After I hit some more golf balls, then imagine
hitting my enemies with them, I plan
to stop by the club and count my money.

Let’s threaten nuclear war on Twitter, then
go to the United Nations and preach about
reform, we’ll do lunch later—grab ‘em by the
pussy.

Never mind the Indian.  The treaty we broke
to kill them.

Slavery that built the south, was never
compensated for—let’s just pretend it
didn’t happen, train our cops to shoot for
the torsos, “immigrants” must go, which
is great for Native Americans who would
finally be left alone.

Reforming ourselves starts with me reforming
me; look at yourself and what could give
you peace of mind.

Unfortunately, some don’t change—yell their
right to be wrong from the grave.

Left with words and prayer, it seems insufficient
to remember a trail of tears, children bombed
in Birmingham, civilians mowed down at
Amritsar, India—an eight year old girl machine
gunned in Trump’s Yemen raid.

I love you, don’t get me wrong.  I love the child
within the Donald, the abused kid—brought up
racist by an abusive father.

Stand up with me, Trump—come to God with
me, climb the mountain that Samuel climbed
and withdraw our desire to have people leading
people,

it’s time to go back to God.

***

In high school, I was a manorexic hustler begging
for food amongst the rich, with no premonition
or self-delusion of future word surges about
Resistance and change.

It could be a case of Hollywood overreach, but
I dream of meaning beyond the surge—call it
a word Slurpee calling us out of our alcoholes
so Jacked the Ripper misses the glory no more,
mistakes are mistakes;

We sleep in the bed we make, the Last Gasp
of the racist white bigot hiding unprompted
under prompter prompts—a misprision of
Kushner debt, the Russians asking for sanctions
relief while sitting on Crimea’s face, Ukraine’s
base.

We restrict children from voting, even if they
know and care more than us, Hoover’s
corrupt FBI growing thicker by the minute,
even next to Comey apologies, there’s still
a little matter like, I dunno,

Killing Martin Luther King, John Lennon
and the Kennedy’s.  Anyone who got in the
way of profitable war by promoting inconvenient
Peace!

Girthy homicide leading to noise-polluting
planes, helicopters committing more crimes
for law than the criminals they seek, wild animals
running for the hills, commit suicide in the creek,
Freud’s id—

Say a prayer for our pilots, who thought it right
to fly loud and fast and high in the night.  Sunday
driving, polluting at sunrise, whatever I feel like
doing—it’s my world to lies supply!

F the bible, Tao Te Ching and the quiet, losers
all of them—I’m happy in my Hell!

So reform, all you sinners at the UN
who whine about world peace, follow
me, my hair and undisclosed tax returns
to the bank, bring a camera—a nuclear war
could be good for ratings!

I forgive you, Donald, but can’t speak for
God if you drop another bomb on suspects
of terrorism while they sleep, the eight-year
old girl you murdered redeemed in this
Tweet—

Call it a tweet storm, a moral sleet, hail,
Donald Trump, who was last chosen first,
God bless our abused and confused

on this long return to our youth.

Unjustified Homicide

16 Saturday Sep 2017

Posted by in Gun Control, Murder, Poem, Poems, Poetry

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There is never a “reason” to kill, only
sin and breaking the sixth commandment,
(if you’re into those) and if you’re not…

Welcome to Hell.

***

Raskolnikov knew it well, the Dostoevsky
character damned the moment he raised
the axe.

And the police officer does not need to be
ruled a murderer by a court to be that,
folks, the crime goes punished, I now
assure you.

It is wrong to kill—the ultimate judgment
of another human being as less than you
and not worthy to be here.

You are no one to make such a judgment,
police have no justification for murder,
not one, not ever.

The old argument was that if he had a gun,
I get to kill him.

I smashed that in another poem called
“The Old Argument,” look to non-lethal
weapons and real self-defense, yes the
kind without reckless preemptive Offense,
yes, the sanity and good actions that take
you to heaven.

Restraint, moderation, holding back and
humility. Restraining from judgment, from
rash irrevocable payback, you were scared,
pulled out a gun, shot, and said it was fine
because of your badge.

The “president” (not mine) talks of
“cowardly attacks,” the “losers” we created
abroad and at home that kill, created by
our judgments, our tweets, our covert
bombing in the night, extrajudicial murder
of suspects, and satellite targets in the street.

“Take him out” lauded and applauded in a movie
house as the Department of Offense kills
another suspect.

Nevermind the murder. Nevermind the family,
friends of the dead—never mind the rise of
worse terrorist acts in the place of your man,
“taken out.”

We need to think deeper, speak less, listen
more and pull the United Nations out of a
peace-hating United States.

That or hold God in our hearts, fire Samuel
and the message the Jewish people gave him
to have a king to be like other nations.

Make God our king (he or she’s already mine),
Bill Maher and other atheists neglected to
the dictionary read, where “God” is there in
black and white, no fight,

It’s a Good Concept, this G.O.D. if nothing
else, Good Orderly Direction and help for those
who feel a need to connect to a Higher Power
than me.

Believe what you want, think what you think,
reap what you sow and sow what you reap.

You cannot escape the punishment of killing
humanity, you can’t, you try when you tweet,
CIA bragging they can go where others can’t,
accomplished what others can’t—

like murdering our own president.

In 1963, we went from bad to worse, from
human elections to murder’s erection, the
sad transfer of power to the devil at the top—
CIA interventions.

LBJ a Vietnam puppet, a racist killer who signed
Civil Rights up to shut them up, who had to
put something on the board to hide his gory
sword, greed and gore, setting up a bombing
spell Nixon cherished, racism gathering steam,
gosh can we kill Jack Anderson, that kike reporter,
we’ve done everything else murderous and evil to
kill the American Dream!!

Hunt, Gordon Liddy and the boys from CIA, the
FBI under Hoover no peach, killing MLK and
Freedom of Speech, John Lennon in our
sights, Reagan must have a clear path to
murder all the kikes.

You can’t change the world, Lao Tu was right,
but you can try.

End all the violence in your own heart and
mind, that’s the real fight. Gandhi, MLK, from
Jesus and turn the other cheek.

Warriors without guns have the real balls on
the street.

Cowards you say. Cowards. Like relying on your
gun instead of your brain.

Losers. Losers you say. God bless you to
stop judging others, and I promise you won’t
be judged.

Until then, Trump, and all the bastards who
skipped the book in school:

Shhh! Stop talking. Talking without knowing
is for fools.

Take your gun and violent way of life, flush
it down the toilet, be a hero in Longfellow’s
strife, a poet in the night, be as the Arabs
who pack their tents at the end of a great day,
steal no more, Away!!

God bless us to books and what they contain,
Mrs. Chick’s effort, John Wooden’s peace of
mine, even his 2-2-1 fullcourt press if it helps
you with yours, mine is mine.

I love you in your sin, don’t get me wrong,
Cowboy, I was just like you.

I used to be a strong coward for the right,
in favor of dropping bombs on enemies
like they were not people, but flies.

I’m sorry to God for this, the LORD a great
forgiver if you give a chance, pray earnestly
from your knees, CIA, admit the sin, and see
and feel the pain no more,

Raskolnikov to Siberia but truthful, Sonya
loyal to his truth and sinning heart until
the end.

You ask why but you know—she sinned too.

We are nothing until we admit the truth.