Category Archives: Poetry

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!

My Sex Sponsor

07 Thursday Sep 2017

Posted by in Poem, Poems, Poetry, Sex

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Something there is that doesn’t
like porn, that believes in intimacy,
morality, monogamy and right.

She stands for God and God’s will,
threw out much of herself years ago
in preparation for marriage and family.

She loves truth, going straight for it,
never beating around the bush, a bird
in the hand worth more than two there.

There are no perfect people, just perfect
strivers, Maria Shriver so tall in her cause,
myself trying to forgive those who hurt

her family time and again for being religious
and peace-loving.  I am no fool, nor as naive
as some who believe they can change the sun.

Greed thrives in war, the spoils shining like
lust, pornography seeming a solution for
loneliness, for not having, we seek a

just reward for just being… And no one stands
up and tells you any different.  Then she comes,
the honest one in the night, an angel out

of dark, too truthful not to fight the pain beneath
the thrills of promiscuity.  My sex sponsor,
as I call her now, rising up against idle evil,

she shines a light, aware she is not good, for
only God can be, that other teachings from the
Son inspire that we “be perfect,” so we go for it;

Life best when we try, try, try to do the right,
right, right thing against the tide of wrong in
the ship God has given us, the only space

wanderer we’ll ever need, the Earth the best
vessel I’ve ever seen, there’s never a need to
really leave it, sorry NASA, we’re spinning right

now at super high speeds—depending on where
you are standing.  Could be that beyond the rocks
is a good roll, a way out of pain, but it’s just

as likely to come to you on the hill, still, after
mountains of meditation about the fox, the
hare and the Bill who invented with Bob a way

to stop drinking alcohol.  Some need twelve steps,
some stop in church or on the bible, but some
stop something bad, make booty calls,

justify other bad behavior “because I gave up
so much years ago! Can’t a guy have any fun!?”
Define fun, we must, Yoda might say that the

path to heaven is thorny but rewarding, be not
horny, or gorgy when you eat ice creamy, put
a Higher Power first, have some balance,

“If heaven you seek, hell you must know and
conquer first, my son” was never really said
‘til now, but look at Steve Miller songs!

I don’t condone pot, admit life is too tough
to write into a poem, but if you are unsure,
and are a man—about how to approach a

Woman…  Ask God, Higher Power, the nature
that in you perhaps years ago placed feelings
for a member of the female race, and I doubt

the feelings were for Sex right away, it was
pure and for love.  You wanted to be with her,
to go on a date, to spend time, then maybe to hug,

kiss, and when the parts showed up, okay
sex becomes natural, the whole thing predicated
on an honesty gene I did not have—or actually

that alcohol and home confusion urinated on
to discolor hearts, mine by eight years old
yellow with fear…

Break out and kiss your memory, read a passage
from an old book you believe in, or might
be willing to to break a rut.

Confusion clutters, muddles and scars over time,
to break its tissue cling to wisdom: Solomon
thought it wise to recall the Wife of Your Youth,

as did a later prophet, Malachi. After Mom and
Dad, choose One Woman to cleave to, enjoy
and spend time with—God bless you in your

choice.  Porn and fornication has no room for
a voice, if committed to the one in our heart
from the start, the wife of our youth who was

pure once, pure always in this long journey
back to childhood called Life.  I love the LORD,
all capitalized to represent the Jewish YHWH.

Don’t say it in vain, beware of the sex game, and
I wish upon the reader the luck to score an angel
like I did a couple weeks ago.  A sex angel, my sex

sponsor, pointing to God and chastising the limp
morality leading to constant gaming and rampant
sexuality.  Choose one partner under God,

and avoid the confusion, the diabolical duality,
the constant motion of self-pleasing that ends
in home-wrecking and closed doors to heaven.

Say “no” a few times a day, build good habits,
live for something bigger than yourself, some
call it Nirvana!

I call it peace of mind, thank my sponsor and God
for the bible and other wisdom, the narrow
thorny non-horny road we walk, never drive…

to Heaven!!!

Compassion for Racist Atheistic Nationalism

06 Wednesday Sep 2017

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

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White Jesus told me to join the KKK,
vote for Trump and kick out aliens.

Jesus was clearly white, because of the
image I grew up with over the family
piano.

The real natives in the United States are us
white guys, my clan leader told me so,
and he is older and wiser than most.

The KKK has given me the family I never
had, togetherness and unity.

Hail, Donald Trump!!!

*******

Our education system is greatly flawed,
should have been vamped or scrapped the
minute John Stuart Mill went nuts—but there
it was, we keep pushing classes at kids no matter
what they want to do.

Learning, reading, dreaming—enlightenment is
tough to come by, could be considered Grace, is
a blessing.

Love is grand, some form of God the antidote
for lonely looming around in gangs and sheets,
turning hate into action.

“God wants us to put America first,” tonight’s
leader proposed, and we knew he meant white
people, especially men—and I felt empowered.

Ethnocentric nationalism—country before God,
an evil like any other comes from pain not joy,
must be forgiven if it’s to be changed.

You don’t have to do anything.  Anger,
fighting fire with gasoline may not be the
answer.

Love.  But sleep first, root out evil in your
own life—keep the focus there, as all the best
philosophers from Jesus to Gandhi to MLK
reminded us as we took blows for justice
to thrive.

A watched kettle does actually boil if you
turn up the heat—watching it just slows
time and is boring, so live in the face of hate,

show hate some doors they can choose to open
to find the joy you have found.

Lead by example, show some other ideas to give
a choice to the lonely young man searching for
family.

Reach out and love them.  If not ready, do nothing.

God, Higher Power has got this—we’re not
the greatest nation on earth nor a shiny city on
a hill, speaking of “America”—we’re just people
inhabiting a place, looking for peace.

To Nazi’s and neo-Nazi’s, racists, I say:

God bless you.  Before I got sober, I used to
be one of you.  I looked down on other people,
judged others to get a high because I felt so
low.  I didn’t even know.

I got sober, was at Taco Bell restaurant one day,
saw some black people come by, and I apologized
to them without saying why.

But they knew.  They knew I was raw, newly sober
like a newborn, ready to learn and change.

I love you, and would add that as I forgive you,
I hope you can forgive those in violent opposition
to your hate.  Hate plus hate is bad, both sides are
wrong.

We all, whether we admit it or not, are looking for
peace so we can sleep well, live good days, safe,
fun, passionate and interesting.

I got sober, stopped being racist, sexist and bigoted,
and so could you—there’s lifeafterhate.org,
Christian Picciolini, ExitUSA and
Arno Michaelis’ book, turnaround stories I haven’t
fully read yet but understand to be testaments of
change brought on by love.

I drank Dad’s last sip of bourbon starting at
five, never expressed love, skipped my first
crush, disrespected the wife of my youth,
made racist and sexist jokes, and cut myself
off from real, honest feelings.

The devil was in my life, called in with that
sip of bourbon, I had to finally at thirty years
of age get sober and tell the devil to get behind
me, to get out of my life!!!!

You can do this too, but know you don’t have
to do anything to be loved by God, just as
I already do, because I know you’ve had a hard
time—no one listened to you until you joined
a violent group.

You knew there was evil, why the meetings were
usually secret and in the dark, but that feeling
was a rush and you finally belonged somewhere.

I don’t want to take the good feeling away, but
there is a replacement activity called prayer
and done in light.

Sing out your victory song like David with his psalms,
peg the devil, Goliath, and overcome your worst
fears, your angers turned into hate,

and prolonged hate doing what Yoda says
it does—

“It leads to suffering…….”

Suffer no more, see your choice to hate.

Then, I pray without pressure, with love…

That you make some day like I did…

Another.

Apolitical

04 Monday Sep 2017

Posted by in Anti-Political, Apolitical, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Political

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I love life, God—call it what you will,
a mysterious mission to maximize five
senses on our way to a sixth called
peace of mind.

We are political, or not, to the exact
extent politics affects us.

I wanted Reagan to win in 1980 against
Carter, had my reasons, was ready to vote—
they said “Go away, you’re only eight years
old” so I went away until I was eighteen
and “legal” by a discriminatory Constitution.

By then I was drinking alcohol underage
for years, saying “F politics, and you.”

I didn’t care for a while until Saddam invaded
Kuwait, then Bush Sr. lit up the sky with war.

I was all for it, put your body into it, go
get’em armed forces, I mean my uncle was
working for Bush as Secretary of Energy at the
time—a former Chief of Naval Operations.

Breaking the law is political too, and I had been
breaking the law since five on Dad’s lap,
I drank his last sip of bourbon and water.

That put a devil in my life, and murder—among
other things, was okay—so killing Iraqis and war
was just fine with me…

Until I got saved at Betty Ford Center, named after
a president’s wife, I started to find a God that
worked for me, centered in Truth, expression of
it, and the end of fear.

My politics began to change, and as peace came
into my life, non-violence respected, war became
the anti-Christ it always was, but now I saw it.

War no longer served me, unless you go by one
definition of “war” I heard once:

“War is the journey of a seed becoming a flower.”

There’s another, even an opposite way to seeing
all things and matters.

Our political feelings are dormant until something
we love is taken away, or we get annoyed or
offended by a politician or his or her political
act or decree.

“They took away my favorite stop sign, they made
fireworks illegal, they’re thinking of deporting my
maid.”

Something hits home, but until then we’re
“apolitical.”

I had a political awakening almost twenty years
after my spiritual one, in October of 2014.

That’s when I let myself see JFK by Oliver Stone.

When I was firmly on the right, Stone was “a
conspiracy kook.”

But HBO kept airing the dang thing that month,
and one day I sat down and watched it.

*******

CIA killed JFK, that’s clear to me after what has now
been three years of study.

I was apolitical about JFK’s murder until it was
clear they got the wrong guy, that Jackie suffered
PTSD from seeing her husband murdered in a cowardly,
covert way.

The CIA continues to skate, locking up American
documents, their version of omerta as they tweet
how cool they are for not having to obey the law.

Makes me sick in a politicized way, gets one off
the bench and ready to play.

Divorce is a myth, truth is sexy, there’s love in
these lines if annoyed, you read between them.

Loving life and God is good, put what you believe
paramount and enjoy.

But if that ability is taken away or even threatened:

Welcome to politics, you will have to take a stand
or die—the fear used to be that communists would
come from the sky.

Some fears have base, some characterized
by False Evidence Appearing Real, so we
F Everything and Run, those commies are coming
for me, pass me a gun!

Some fear North Korea will hit the red button,
but me—I’m grounded in the solid fact that
we in the United States are as corrupt as any
other station.

We kill our own leaders, lock up evidence, then
parade around “saving other nations.”

God saves, reduces “politics” to just another
passion like art or poetry.

Some are into it, some are not—this argument
about living your life until it suddenly stops.

If politics or law contributed to your loss or
annoyance, I’ll see you at the voting polls
applying the Declaration of Independence.

Vote for Hillary or vote for Donald, go independent
or vote not at all—and accept the fact that there
is a Higher Power in charge, politicians are not
it.

As soon as we realize that, we have peace of mind
right in the middle of political despair’s worst,
saddest pit.

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!!