Category Archives: Poem

Cancer is a Myth

03 Sunday Sep 2017

Posted by in Health, Poem, Poems, Poetry

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Death is death, life life, good
and evil separated by clear lines
of wrong and right.

White coats, science, voices of supposed
authority rise against spiritual tides,
seek money, material, a “living” telling
with authority patients things like:

“You are dying. You need me. You need us.
Pay me.  You have insurance, pay me more.”

There is real expertise here and there,
and when I get scraped I seek a bandage
like the next guy.

It’s just that God, not white coats—is in
charge of my life.

The CIA killed JFK, Oswald the cancer
diagnosed by pro-Vietnam anti-Castro
killers prepping to take Cuba back for
capitalism.

Cancer is a myth, complicated diagnoses
for pain, misery and death.

Disease is mostly for the rich, the idle,
for folks with money and time to sit around
and diagnose.

The poor lives or dies.  Wake up or not, are
grateful if awake in another day.

Blessed are the poor, cursed are the earthly
rich; not until we give up our things can we
be content.

I missed the president’s speech about tax
reform, as I was dying in a flood, believing
men can rule over men justly is a moth to the
flame, building homes below the high water
line, but oh what a great view!!

The customer is always last, big corporations
like Verizon and Bank of America taking a pass,
weapons used by cops to kill, never mind the
sixth commandment and my PTSD.

Fireworks boom, we love war then host the
United Nations dedicated to peace, their
charter an ideal impossible to follow while
CIA and FBI tail your car, steal your wallet
and set up murder.

All in the interest of national security, God above
waiting for “them to come back to me…”

Polytheism spreads, each “tumor” spotted we
bow and pray to, sign up for more meds, the
insurance company expanded its drug program,
Hey doc I see a pretty one on TV, will be sure to
take away the pain.

Red ones, blue ones, pink and red—this one’s
for that disease, yell it out and pass the “word!”

You’re working for the devil now, following the
herd—get a faster car, burn more fuel rush around,
the next leader is sure to lead us there.

Yep, another flame.

Cancer is a myth, a tale told by complaint.

What we do when we stop saying thanks.

Thanks for today, God, we don’t know about
tomorrow.  Thanks for today, God, we have no
joys without sorrow.

No health without an occasional cold or pain,
I accept the whole piano—light and dark keys alike,
top to bottom, no bottom without a top—

the top screwed onto the bottom.  Pain is the
thing to overcome not name and call your god,
renounce it, “cancer” and any other name but
God’s and find that bloom on the hill for today,

claim gratitude as your sanity, open up your
curtains to God’s glory.

Stop complaining and call it all “fine,” the
day a blessing, positivist reminders from
Mary Baker Eddy to Ella Wheeler Wilcox speaking
words of faith and health—belief in the sun
making it shine enough for the world to give
up flammable liquid imbibing, making
grape juice from wine,

the gods sunk for Truth to emerge, solitude to
the sour, wheat to the brave, despair to
he who whines, love to the strong who feels
a pain, bears the cross and comes out fine.

Love conquers all, say the words of belief in your
prayer and cast off negative talk.

Step into your day.  It’s all we have, so smile
even through the sad, and when we’re ready to go:

see the celebration that you came, you lived
and you piped the horn of Thanks a few times;
the world was better for your rhyme, and when you
pass you don’t die, your ideas multiply and you smile
in the face of doubt, doctors frowning and pretend
knowledge of futures and dim.

“Thank God for another day.  There is nothing else,
this pain will pass and I’ll smile bigger when it does.
The name I call is God, never disease, and in this
I start with the LORD, then the whole world please.”

Shhh! to cancer and disease, the LORD is working
here.

Never fear, take up your beds and give a cheer!!!

The LORD God is working here!

America

02 Saturday Sep 2017

Posted by in America, Poem, Poems, Poetry

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Is nothing without the meaning we give,
the soul of place—words we sing, Amerigo
Vespucci coining something, a coast with waves
and life, indigenous and white.

America is nothing, words without meaning
until we pray and bring in Gods to bless, the
day to day rising like a tide, word to word we
try to match feelings inside.

You look at the world, our word for it, try to
get past Borgesian fictions to accept that words
are what we have to conjure and communicate.
We settle, call things “things”—dream.

America is nothing without the dream we bring,
we fill an empty vessel, the uncarved block
of the Tao Te Ching.  A rose by any other name would
smell as sweet, Shakespeare meat,

Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
wants it down in Frostian weeds.  Dust thou
art except the soul, and the demons you fight
in others, immigrants, outsiders

are really inside of the fighter.  Our current
“president” watches a lot of TV, some say this
candidate of hate accentuates the divide the
devil tries.

Good news: you don’t have to do anything.
Stand tall or low, firm or soft—do nothing.
Gandhi wanted to change their minds, not kill
them for universal weaknesses shared by all.

Trump talks taxes during a lethal storm, an evil
brought by the wind of bigotry, hating black
people and women—their turn to lead.  Right and
left, all spending too much,

money we do not have, playing God with promises
impossible to keep, getting elected with
private campaign money the eye of the storm
putting money, not ideas… in government.

We kick the natives and their god out,
run our slaves then pay them not, kill JFK
and accept the official story, for to delve in
too deep gets you killed, CIA diabolical feats.

Mark Lane defended Oswald perfectly from
afar, indicted CIA skillfully for anyone with time
to read. They call our president “powerful,”
a laugh, God’s got a bigger stack of chips—

just think about that.  Asymmetry of information
leans on Trump campaign dudes until we might
segue back to 1972, Nixon in flames, Congress
to blame, or is it Samuel for asking for a king?

Lying every other line is consistent with guilt,
the cover up worse than the crime, corrupt
politicians fattening all the time, and what could
we expect with such a wide path to Evil?

Jesus and the elders were right, but we keep
looking around for an easier fight, until a few accept
the narrow road to heaven, seeing we can’t do
much so wait, ask for a blessing, aspire to patience.

We sometimes embark on geographic solutions,
head off where the grass is greener, the whole
discovery period in Europe one of these but worth it
to advance and bring the world closer to itself.

One click away from the other side of the planet seems
a large feat while a photon of light travels seven times
around it, there must be larger powers, atheists,
there must be!!

The wide narrows when we call out pharmaceutical
ads in their evil, C2H5OH the flammable thing sold
as “drink” by devil’s agents, sport itself a great
gateway to alcoholism and divorce.

While writing this screed, the poem looked back
got hit in the front, wearing headphones, looking
down at a cell while walking—which is worse,
that or driving?

Gan the word for eyesight placed first by Okinawan
karate warriors… Beware!!  Could a man rightly
think he could at least have a Cast Away moment
with his first crush, say good-bye?

God bless us to less whining, more striving—less
expecting on the grateful mission of knowing we
don’t know very much, “America” just a word of
many, a polytheistic remedy to time’s forgotten

mystery, Heaven is peace of mind and “other
such dreams,” life…

“it’s like anything else,” Wood Allen feeds, movies
are what they seem, the daytime soap opera
dream washing out our fatigue, giving us space
to think.

America, lol, let’s look at devils within, be
unafraid looking back, making amends, smoothing
out our belligerence.  Education of the MLK and
Gandhi level takes a special focus,

God bless us to it, the fight for justice.  Never bow
to evil, gird us up, God—let’s beat the devil, cast
him behind;  finally cast away, we can be the knight
in our own epic, be heroes in the strife—

Use words because they’re there, their meaning
growing with every blessing.  God bless these words,
even “America,” and all the other nations needing
you, not men as king.

The Answer Behind Us

01 Friday Sep 2017

Posted by in History, Poem, Poems, Poetry

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We race on the internet to find the next thing.

“Trump trains, Mueller advancing, Floods
and natural things.”

War and peace, bombs and lies—the truth
hides the fact that usually there’s…

an answer behind us.

History teaches, waits to be hailed like
a cab down the street, like prayer that tells
us not to drive so much raining down
Spring like sleet.

Sheet after sheet, I look back to Samuel
asking for a king, JFK killed by members of
the CIA, slavery never amended in this country,
contracts and treaties killing native people—

tossing them out of their own land so we
can abuse it.

The answer is behind us.

Amends to make, cakes to bake for perceived
enemies you made on our way to friendships
to make—this can’t wait, ask an alcoholic on the
twelve-step train we reach number eight.

“Made a list of all persons we had harmed,
and became willing to make amends to them all.”

It starts to make the sidewalk clean…

Walk with me to number nine:
“We made direct amends to such people wherever
possible, except when to do so would injure them or
others…”

The answer is behind… in the road we self-forked
by self-will run riot out-rooked, pawns to the queen,

take a look at where we have been.

Immorality and lies from the White House is not new,
corruption and untruth.

Look back, get hit in the front was not always the rule,
if looking both ways you see a safe pool on which
to reflect…

See yourself as you are, see me but better yet: see
our history, go backwards to see the path ahead,
and see that covert government makes people dead.

It’s never too late to turn around, rescind Samuel’s
request—ask God to be our king, Something Bigger,
a Higher Power, not the corrupt men and women better
served to just be followers.

The answer is behind us, the wall that we made.  To
chip it away takes mighty tools, or none at
all, remember Lao Tzu who said that to do nothing…

gets everything done.  We are powerless…  Our leaders
not in any way “powerful,” especially during a flood
or earthquakes.

Ours is to enjoy, but first reflect.  Stand by the pool,
see the past and watch it dream into now for
Peace’s will to perfect—this could be the Way!!

Looking back when there’s a safe moment, study and
read a book to go with your internet.

See the news today cresting from a historical wave
of past activity and doings.  Be the one who sees
the now as an avenue of the yesterday parade
brewing to end the alcohol and drug sales stewing—
growing wings, flying rampant through the wide
path to death, so the devil takes his due, God sidelined
to watch our response.

We do and dream, things aren’t always what they
seem, and I—

I took the path less traveled back, more is less,
less more, the answer behind us clear as bells
at Christmas time converting mass amounts
of people to snowy July feelings of rebirth.

The answer behind us takes work.  Stop drinking
flammable liquid, rebuke TV drug ads and walk
away from your car enough to feel five senses
bringing you to your critical sixth:

so hard you’ll wanna cuss!

The answer is behind us.

She Has a Knight

31 Thursday Aug 2017

Posted by in Love, Poem, Poems, Poetry

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She didn’t need to call, the ring
from far off sounding men to women,
one for each, Malachi and Solomon
claiming wives of our youth.

I heard the call, ran from it a long time,
like Jonah’s date with a whale, time
would sadly tell a tale of what not to
do when in love…

She had a knight!

A Welsh conqueror in flight;
Once awoken I cannot retreat,
To surrender not in the code, but
only to do right.

Truth may cause the best in us to
prevail against wind and sin, rising up
in us we can only avoid it so long until like
a wave makes toward a pebbled shore—

We choose expression and action over
the whale.  In the end, change becomes
the buzzword of the tale, the dream of all
that we can be becomes now, this moment—

Eclipsing all others, pasts and future bothers,
until we rhyme with time, are the effort
we project, peace of mind the heaven we always
looked up to see.

Tenderness was encased in military-graded glass;
late is better than never to the most needed
of all class, Law precedence taking prescient
permanent residence in the Peaceful pursuit of

the right love for one becoming two, two becoming
three and four all the way to Lao Tzu’s sweet
10,000—the dream of terrestrial ecstasy calling
you and me out of the whale forever.

The crest of Watkins and Wales shines on my vest
as I swoop in disciplined but inspired.  I grab flowers
while I fight back demons, destined to rip apart
violence with submission to Christic love determined.

I shall not strike at the striker, but give him love,
defend the honor of my gal with every strand
of precision and skill my lack of musket can muster
on the field that whispers “gan,” Japanese

Martial arts again, calming all insipience back to
subtle gentility and peace.  The strawberry blonde
desire for my gentle fire cascades somewhere unknown
and far away, while I sit and ponder.

I can only do my best, reach toward God, survey
the day and never speed in its quest.  God help
me now as I pull off my vest, show the heart of the
warrior bleeding poetry from the stream within—

God, you helped me to love but I resisted its
expression, sought the Freudian answer in
flammable liquid, sought the Devil until I cast
him behind, wearing this armor now of veterans

to shine.  I am with the LORD of Hebrew fame
and glory, draw from the native American Great
Spirit, Tao Te Ching and any other truthful spring.

Peace of mind be with her until we meet—

She has a knight vamped low, camping nigh
and high above the flood line.  Smart at times,
but quick to learn, the study of failed kings,
Solomon teaching the wisdom in economic asking.

She has a knight to honor her and God, the
route to both he makes without a pout about
the mapping.

Only God above knows what it is that is truly
right; while clarity ponders my naked sight,
I proclaim like Dylan, a true Watkins humbled by the
night:

She has not only me, but what God alone next
to me can see, she has this prayer, this prince,
this wayward Jonah asking you to dance…

She has so many things and dreams, but she also
has me, fighting for those dreams and God’s
so tenderly.

She has a knight.

She has me…  The better part, the light of God
within me pouring might.

She has God, too, she has a knight!!

If only to fight for the right to be wrong;
she has a knight, for eternal is time and
poems too long.  She has a knight!

And God has us, blessed in an embrace of kings,
so that Samuel can recede, men ruling men
subside, the world toward Eden roar back,
Paradise a matter of smiling in the dark,

choosing happiness with God over knowledge,
Gradgrind’s fact, fact, fact.

She has a knight, and like Jonah I’m coming back.
From Whales to Wales, dark to light, death
to life, lies to truth I’m returning as knights do,
to tell you over and over what always was true:

I love you.

God and truth on my patch next
to flags and sheaths—She has a knight, and only
one.  For others that try to claim her I say they
must be better than I, better and truer so good
luck with that—my heart is yours.

I wish we could all be as happy as me just
to be on the road to peace.  To discard the weapons
of fear, to honor the wife of my youth, and put
God first is to know I am truly here.

She has a knight, and I a lass to love—

I may never see her again, but my honor is full.

And with that I close my eyes in night aware
I was my best person today.

She has a knight, and me my peace of mind—

We are in love in our own lanes, and God will unify
only in His or Her sweet time.

We are apart for now, but not in hearts that know—

God, fill us with happiness, if we do the things
that please You.  She has a knight!

A fella in the fight!!!

No one shall deal treacherously with her, not while
I ride this walkway home.  I love her in the light of
my memory, and that is enough, and so I roam.

She has a knight.  It is me, a Welsh former-
conqueror of lands to the west of the sea.

She has a knight, and he is me, I love her name,
her song, her form it’s “Anne!!”  And she is my
only queen.

2nd Adolescence of a 33-yr Old Virgin Alcoholic

30 Wednesday Aug 2017

Posted by in Love, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Recovery, Sex, Sexuality

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Whew!

It’s hard to make a comeback, especially
when there is nothing behind you—only now.

Drinking fire on Dad’s lap at five, I let
my first crush pass me by…

There were no feelings, nor a safe place
to explore or express them…

Until I got to Betty Ford at 22, and a black
social worker named Lee intervened on
my dishonesty.

In time for me to abandon the sickness of
telling lies, in time to join Al-Anon, overdose
twice, join AA, and finally have sex on my
third sobriety birthday.

I was thirty-three in human years.

Thirty-three!!!  Seven short of a Steve Carell
comedy on the subject, and of a sad topic in
my Abnormal Psych class at UCSB.

I’ve been on a long second childhood and
adolescence post-Lee and Al-Anon, since
telling the truth and trying to “move on…”

It’s hard to be a child with a beard.

It’s hard learning to say “I love you” and
other truths for the first time in a man’s
body when they expect you to “Go to
Work.”

My mind without alcohol beating down on it
was “working.”  That work I did…

Work was Force multiplied by Distance, said
my Physics teacher, known to live a life of
Celibacy—how could he?

Easy.  Hard.  Difficult, but with a God or Higher
Plan about you, anything you want to do can be done,
even moving the canyon from there to there.

I have given up sex to honor my first crush, the
Wife of my Youth.  No one told me to do this,
but the idea came like a prayer to wrestle my
mind from confusion.

Honor.  Honor your parents, yes, keep the
Sabbath day holy, believe in God, don’t kill,
lie or steal, but also:

DO NOT COVET and DO NOT COMMIT ADULTERY.

Do not pretend to be single, when you have failed
to keep your commitment to the Wife of Your
Youth…

I am married to God and her.  She lives not with me;
therefore sex is not possible for a moral man.

No one told me what to do with sex growing up,
No one told me about it, what it was for and
with who to have it…

My first life was a dishonest pass through love,
never admitting or expressing it.

A “childhood” of alcohol consumption, sports
and superficial relationships.

That “childhood” had to die; a new one started
in the middle of my body’s manhood—which made
many, including me, uncomfortable.

But it had to be done; I had to live the Truth, get to
here, pray to God—find my sexual and loving path,
reason and pray sex away in the current moment,
make an adult decision to Honor all that makes
us proper men and women.

“Be as a child” to enter heaven, and “rejoice
with the Wife of your youth…”

That is the plan, not handed to me by any
person, though spiritual friends have helped.

“Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.”

We can make our lives sublime, Longfellow
reminds, go big or go home.

“Be perfect as God is perfect,” strive to be the
best we can be, and attain John Wooden’s
famous peace of mind, if you merely strive
you surely get it.

Pee Drops Welching on My Head

29 Tuesday Aug 2017

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

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The rain has stopped on the west coast,
bringing triple digit heat while Texas
floods pass the last high water line.

I hope they mark where the water
reached this time, re-build houses behind
it.

Trump is rumored to have had a bath of
yellow rain in a Russian hotel room formerly
rented out to his sworn enemy, Barack Obama.

Day after day we live out the curse God foretold
to his servant, Samuel.

“You wanted to have kings, so this is what you
get” was the basic gist of the lecture.

God is my king; you are welcome to make
that decision as well.  I started making it in
12-step groups, started telling the truth, which
is what the rest of this poem will be dedicated to,
line by line.

Ask your doctor to be sure, but I think the left
seems more educated than the right.  I used to
say, “Let’s go kill some Iraqis!” then went to
college, changed my tune.

The Christopher Steele dossier on Donald
Trump may save us, but then again—it may
just cause us more drowsiness, upset stomach,
farting, belching and more weird welching on
bets.

“Look back, get hit in dee front” is an old
reggae song I like, martial arts defense starting
with Okinawan “gan,” or eyesight.

Be strong.  Be smart, don’t ride your bikes
on a sideWALK, stop scaring ladies, their babies
and me as I walk, thinking about stuff for my
next poem.

“I timed my obstruction of justice for when the
ratings were highest.”

“Yes, right during the Texas flood.  Yes…” sayeth the
curse of Samuel.

Helicopters may be the worst invention of all-
time, cars are close; splitting the atom was no peach,
and then I’d want to mention the CIA.

I wish inanimate objects would do what you want
them to do.  This whole thing takes so much
coordination.  Collusion!!

Education!!!  Even potty training reviewed, morality
and doing the right thing.

Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife’s pee.
Nor her political candidate.  Nor to be a jack
of all trades without learning one well.

Build a corrupt empire, owe lots of money, talk
in hyperbole all you want; Trump’s major
deal may be with prosecutors soon…

“You or your son, Mr. Trump?”

“We were just talking about adoption.”

“And the golden shower?”

“It was an adoption party…”

“And you expect us to believe that?”

“Yes.”

“Anything else?”

“Yer fake news!!”

“I’m sorry?”

“Yer fired.”

“Your honor, we would like to enter an insanity plea.”

God bless us all back to God, sanity.

The educated choice!!

Addicted to Cars

27 Sunday Aug 2017

Posted by in Earth, Environment, Poem, Poems, Poetry

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Going fast, what a blast, losing
our relationship with Earth seemed
such an innocent gas.

We burn her, Mother Nature already
on fire— “why not us,” you ask.

Given five senses, with an occasional sixth
that writes poems and other stuff:

We feel so few inside a speeding car,
you think you are doing so much—traveling
so far, but have really shut off your life

to the smells, sights, sounds and other feelings
of feet on ground, walking to and from
naked with truth—muscles at work, the body
moving, sweating fully alive.

But you would rather lock yourself in a
loud metal box and drive.

Concrete, metal and asphalt covering
Earth as you burn her, speeding past
experience, people to help, people to meet,
animals and attractions only available to
the feet.

Vroom, vroom, “I haven’t room room, for
this slowed down experience you write in your
poems, I gotta go!!!”

There is no better place than Heaven, taking steps
God gave us on the straight and narrow, those
on the path rooting for and welcoming those
on the scary Wide—

We cannot get there tense and flipping off
your neighbors as you drive.

Re-think cars, burning earth, being so loud the
crickets wanna die, Native American culture
squashed, first cultures and their ways of life—
Aborigines, Celts, tribal unity and Earth-led prayer
together with oneness and purity.

We love our Bible and Tao Te Ching, we love even
excuses that make us happy to turn the key on
our bright red metal thing—there it is so large
and loud in our concrete drive.

Ask if it pleases God, then decide a day that
puts you in touch with all Creation.

Locked in, locked away streaming by loudly
at high speeds, we miss too much, litter the
narrow path to heaven even while we clutch—

Let it go.  Walk.  And join me as I throw some trash
away.  Let us not defile ourselves with what we say
or do.

Give up some driving days, be more quiet,
and hear from God direct what it is we need to
be content in the land, clean it up—

Make everything fresh and new.

Big Bang Sex Theory

26 Saturday Aug 2017

Posted by in Poem, Poems, Poetry, Sex, Sexuality

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This is my sex confession, not yours.

It could never be, each person with
their own views of sex, what it’s for,
what it’s not for, how to do it, how often,
with who or not at all.

Celibacy is another thing, and would take
another poet to know it, I’ve only been on
its road a short time.

I prefer Big Yang to Big Bang, borrowing from
Lao Tzu’s yin and yang:

For there to be everything, there has to be
nothing.  Even Something, like a Universe,
requires Nothing to define it.

Big Bangers say there used to be nothing,
then Something blew up, made Everything.

Believe that, don’t believe that, believe
Adam and Eve and God creating all things
from Eden to the Adirondacks.

It doesn’t much matter, unless you are
one of the crazy ones running around saying
that men and women are the Higher Power.

Judgement, playing God, being #1, 2 and three
we put ourselves as number one, which among
other things leads us to a life of taking all we
want, Freud’s ID.

Mine, mine, mine, let’s conquer that there’s
a rush of going from her to her to her, planting
your flag down to show yourself and others what
a Conqueror you are.

You search sex for self-esteem and find yourself
reeling, wrecking homes, killing children with the
confusion of “Your mom and I are getting a
divorce.”

WTF.  Man can’t separate what God has bound, you
are right to put your head down, there are times
for frozen fake smiles, and times it’s better just
to accept that even Clowns drop and frown.

Turn around.  Talk to a friend.  Perhaps she or
he has spirituality, will help guide you through
the forest of iniquity into the land of fun-filled
virginity, God bless our sex to never hurt the
fabric of the universe.

God grant us fun of a kind that children can
respect and learn from, love that is forever,
Commitment to the wives of our youth, like
Solomon and Malachi advised.

Love is the answer that sex was trying to
supply.  Love, the answer, without it it might
be better to die.

USA Lol

25 Friday Aug 2017

Posted by in Alcoholics Anonymous, Alcoholism, America, Corruption, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Political, USA

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Active as the sex instinct, the earth
moves, stars and sun—but compared
to what, my Uncle Les would remind,
relative to what.  Uncle Einstein.

As corrupt as any other “nation,” the
supposed United States of America was
founded on native blood, our original sin
blaring still: Racism.

We sized them up, the native race, compared
the size of our weapons, declared our
bible better than their Great Spirit, so…
justified murder and “removal.”

Andrew Jackson, a favorite of our low-
intellect president elect, he arrived through
shady means promising every hyperbole it
takes for fools to click the link on that email.

Our second sin of course was slavery, another
obvious racist endeavor, still killing national
unity with unenlightened forays into backwood
clan parties brought to light,

Ghosts of Civil Rights fights past coming to
life, brawls on the street, but that’s all
right.  After all, bringing us to Sin #3: the
CIA murdered Kennedy.

Amends and friends to make, we keep
ignoring truth on the wide path to Hell’s
Gate, assured by looking left and right that
Samuel’s request of God was still uptight.

“Give us a king to be like other nations,”
And that’s the USA, full of sin and problems
and beauty and blessings—just like every
other nation in the world.

Where we are funny is in our self-righteous
pity, we think we are so great, as Allen Dulles
is chosen to investigate and report on the
man who fired him, the Warren Commission

a ruse of far more don’ts than do’s.  A virtual
“who knows who” of what not to do, a total lie
supplying CIA a place to hide.  There it is.  No,
There!!  Hiding in your Twitter feed, trying

To recruit the next murder.

CIA Capture

Murder.  Cover-up.  Murder.  Cover-up,
The devil in a red, white and blue dress, what
a mess, the “nation” a joke since November 22,
1963, what a pity, Jackie’s PTSD, thank God

for sobriety, God help us admit our insanity.

“No matter how far down the wrong path you are
on… Turn around.”

There’s always a way to Peace of mind—
turn that national frown upside down, invite
God back to the throne Samuel took away,
give the natives back land, pay Africa-
descended people for past sins, and kick out

covert CIA.

USA… LOL, let’s together find more of the
narrow to heaven over the wide to Hell.

Formerly Suicidal

24 Thursday Aug 2017

Posted by in Poem, Poems, Poetry

≈ 4 Comments

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Tell me not in mournful numbers,
Longfellow a poetic life coach, spurring
me on by the side of a psych ward bed.

I had overdosed not once but twice,
had eyeballed “death” to find that there
is only life and our fight to live it.

Alcohol on Dad’s lap at five, no talks
of love or intimacy, no God, no Truth,
we were in the haze of the Wide path to Hell.

Alcohol as “drink,” C2H5OH ethyl a first
rocket fuel, flammable, volatile, toxic but
clear to go unnoticed to childlike eyes.

“I want that!” because Dad does it, and I
love Dad more than anyone or anything.
Dad and Mom—5th on God’s list of Commands.

I had skipped past “God,” worshipped a man,
then his drink, and when the Wife of my Youth
appeared in third grade: bedeviled, I failed.

I was a bedeviled liar by that time, unable
to speak my mind, my heart squeezed by
serpenty snakes, on the roof teetering, on

the back balcony faltering, on my way to
beer and pot and jacuzzi parties, sports abound
lying about who I was and what I wanted…

The wheels finally came off after college,
then skip a couple years, I turned twenty-five,
was barely alive, so when the Doc supplied

I took more than his dose, did what I had done
with vodka years before, took enough to feel it
in that moment, left me calling 911, 911, 911.

I never learned to live, I was half-dead, my mom
was in the other room when I was alcohol fed,
No one tried wrong, we just were on the Wide,

Wide path of destruction warned of by that
Rebellious rabbi some call “Christ,” Holy Moly
I’ve got truth at Al-Anon and AA, everywhere else:

Lies.  Guys, let’s be honest, “Alcohol as Drink” is
a lie, is the DEVIL, let’s decide!!!!

Be the hero in the strife, Longfellow spurring us
on past the finish line, stick your chest out like
Cristina Sanchez, proud of who we are, honest,

Fearless and True, we can cower at the bull, say
Boo hoo hoo, or stand up, get up again, brush
yourself off start a clothing line, live a dream become

the wind of hope, the outcropping of Good Orderly
Direction, make a schedule for TODAY only, planning
is fine, but God may laugh, Choose Life, a career, a path,

Giving up the Devil drugs and alcohol your first step
to heaven’s ascension, by the poem you write,
That’s the Lennon revolution, God bless us all,

I am suicidal no more.  But I was… And got out with
AA, love, truth, and courage enough to declare
Powerlessness, so that a great Power could come

in and clean up the mess.  One day at a time, is the
only way to live, and live we must, there is no death;
Thank you God for Now, today the only day in Life,

We write this dream together, and with Longfellow let’s
Say it again, one more time here, to let it sink in:

Be a hero in the Strife!!!  A hero in this life.  Steer into
your pain, stand tall like a Marine at his post, block
out your will, replace it with God’s, sacrifice and lean

in to your next promotion, it’s on the way—not because
it’s easy, just the reverse, because it’s difficult, Love,
Love, Love, and Love yourself.  Like my Uncle Les would

say: “Yeah, Yeah, Yeah!” and it’s that easy.  Hard.  Soft,
Long.  Give yourself to today only, leave nothing left at
the end but contented sleep.  You cannot find a better

Drug.  Not yet…  Not ever, as God witnesses a never-
ending beginning, the moment we open eyes, take
advantage of our sober dream, make amends, be a friend

Do it all again… “This time with feeling!!!”

Formerly suicidal is dead.  Life begins.  Today… is

All.