It hits you all at once, don’t be late.
Study, give what you can, never forget
to smell the flower, love the first
girl God gives you to love. Tell her
how you feel today, if rejected or
hurt—take it to the grave, or, better
yet:
Pray.
Powerless. Wordless. Heaven an open
gate to the ones who try hard, Peace
of mind for the astute.
We are nothing until the moment calls
our name; step up.
Love her forever: the first girl, remember
her? Don’t look on, look for more, she’s
enough and enough is as Mary Poppins
proposed, “as good as a feast.”
Higher Powers are good; supplicate to one
now, call it, him, her what you will, just
know humbly that you are not It.
Love the first girl, did I say?
Am I talking to the boy or his beloved,
is this reaching you today?
Love the first one, and never mind the
doubters and Puritanical wind that lies,
says you gotta have X, Y, Z before love.
You gotta be such and such Age before
you love? Before you vote? Before you
matter?
How Puritan American of you to fall
for the lie that children are second to
adults. True the Native American life
touted the elder, but Jesus rightly came
along, pointed to the younger.
Solomon and Malachi talking of “Wives
of your youth,” while the priest
masturbates alone or with the altar boy,
bringing us full circle to our needs and
wants.
Follow your heart.
Love the first girl; the first one. For me
her name was Anne, and I did not properly
respond.
My favorite time and person, to see her
meaning so much, but was I bedeviled
having already had alcohol on Dad’s lap?
Bedeviled!
Liquid courage?
C2H5OH, ethyl not Lucy I’m home the
day I decide Not to drink a flammable
liquid, never mind what Jesus said.
The Commandments talk of One God, not
many:
like College, what a joke!
American Politics, take another toke! Or
think on Samuel’s curse, the thought when
Jews rolled with God as their direct king!
Aborigine the same thing! Natives with their
life’s circle, the elders, wise as children
defending their culture under, over and around
the pollution of Columbus’ own masturbation,
the lies mounting with God climbing, calling
himself “Naked Horse” because he or she
will not be shackled.
African people hurting themselves, feeding the
insanity by handing over their brother to
the white master.
Forty acres and a mule similar to “Blacks
for Trump,” there are plenty of things
to say to fulfill the curse. Samuel looking
down with me, rooting for you all to do
what this poet did:
Declare God king again, ignore politics at
a point, beat my chest and consider the
brave warrior inside me because I, too,
am native American.
God help us to remember our walk
barefooted on the ground, stars above,
the European obsession with buildings,
noise, weapons and mankind.
We share this land with little things, big,
and in between, totally lonely unless
we see we were all painted with the same
brush, don’t make a fuss, Heart yours, LORD,
the Hebrew walk in and out of the Egyptian
jungle of chains and pain, God the good
orderly direction like the rainbow after
rain, the song of the hour sung and won
because someone stepped up to the computer
at the right time, allowed God to speak through
a poem and set Life down for the next
generation, this one lost to the police
helicopter and shooting for the torso, calling
it defense.
The second amendment a perversion while
the sixth commandment still says “Yes.”
No. Don’t kill. Not anyone. Not ever.
***
Life the dream we can be as the road
less travelled perhaps in yellow gold covered
with devil’s asphalt send the chosen (you
can also choose) slowly but surely to
heaven.
Those killing, hurting or acting out that which
is acted out without parents or guides:
Forgive them, hold them, and get them on
the path before you forget your role to
love the first woman God gives you forever.
