Is Love in the Brain?

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The answers cosmic to questions
tragic, mystical creation yielding
to childlike intuition.

Is love in the brain?

Heart to heart, the toddler
finds the sandbox and a parent
will remark: look how he plays,
does he know he’s loved?

Does he give and receive with
grace, does he say “thank you,”

Does he have the courage to love?
To be himself?  To give his gifts?

What if he is rejected?

***

We have no power to overcome well
the hurt you feel when your dreams
and feelings expressed get waved off
or denied.

God bless us to a spiritual space,
pass along to our kids not only the
self-confidence to be true;
but the wisdom to keep a Higher Power
there for our appeals in failure.

The higher, mystical truth outside
the lines on structured drawings,
the native Great Spirit—the Hebrew
LORD, Allah, Muhammad and Jesus,
their words, those who raise hands
and praise—

Matoax and her blessings saving a
new white race, the scar of murder
on their face, all forgiven when we ask
for help—

accept her furs, the earth a spaceship
with room for all views, check your
energy, check in prayer every detail.

Are you with Faith or Fear?  How do
we reside where the questions stop,
in peace of mind?

Is love in the brain becomes question
no more on the wind of Spirit, live
for it not her or him, fly with the eagles
and magic, love lost wives and beware
the snares that are mere human
hang-ups, grounding us as long as
resentment lasts.

Ask, receive, love, blast!

Give your song to God and wind
and the denied sandbox dream becomes
only a part of the dance David called
us to before slaying along with
Goliath every prayer-resisting fear.

Wake up, skip the rock and see the
smile on the wind for your life, the hope
the universe has for you being endless
as the pool and its rings in rainstorms.

The rainbow is in the heart;
wait there for all things loving past
insane; it’s all in balance when
love is in the brain.

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Dancing on a Star

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How we wonder, standing, sitting
even dancing on Earth—

about our place, why, and who we are.

I think we’re moving pretty fast,
words chosen almost arbitrary
to describe the true Tao which cannot
be spoken, Borges admonishing the
effort getting paid to write them…

Law writes down what philosophically
or by a vote seems right.

We clap our hands like LeBron James
and the powder flies so high I think
it reaches the stars;

I am awake by word definitions, but
primarily through five senses un-named.

Mom is pleasant but is not a person;
she defines love as I chase LeBron’s
powder off the screen and out my door,
up above the clouds in that dream where
you can fly.

Mom has them, too!

I dream of heat, think Earth is Star-like
in a wind so powerful all is upheld
in Einstein’s space fabric, the listening-
challenged harping on Newton’s
laws and limits saying that’s where most
of the work gets done.

Then Lao Tzu busts in cavalier and sharp
pushing away accolades like Bill Wilson
of AA, everybody vulnerable to the right
punch in the gut, usually coming from
attractive female advance—

the sperm must swim somewhere,
so why not with me on LeBron’s star
so far away until the lava bursts
and all around me is a dance of death—

rebirth to flowers on the mountainside
after the lightning strikes.

So chargy is life, dancing on a star!

Flower to Seed

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We marvel at the Flashing light
that is now!  Oh, this is amazingly
bad, some say, the reason for the
bad must be the flashing light!

An alcoholic like me knows better
so picks up a book or two, Googles
some history, cries that tear for
Native America walking away from
their land, the one they bonded
with so well;

A land now captive with a European
lust for gold.

England and other nations ran
out of room years ago; ran up
against each other, lost their
gratitude for land—the kind
first people have, from Celtic
Druids to Aboriginal fluidity
listening to the flowing ground
and mountain peaks, river songs
so attentively and tenderly.

You can hear the song today, if you
step outside our perversions
called cities.

I yell at the helicopters on Twitter,
campaigning for native peace
while the wave of corruption
and trash litters the dream that
was Otsungna in Los Angeles,
a Tongva place of Roses until
we laid down the concrete and
asphalt, calling it good, God’s will
and Manifest Destiny…

The shiny ball is a racist, incompetent
“president” now, but he is propped up
by the insanity that humans can
lead other humans without divine help.

You kick God out, and this is what you
get, read about Samuel.

God’s my king and president, but that’s
sort of a locked-up secret told between
souls underground.

My ancestors came here for fame,
gold, and adventure—imagine the
England they left behind, full of shiny
balls, lights and problems—

nine out of ten of us I’m sure
on Jesus’ wide path to destruction,
so let’s yell some more on Twitter,
try to buck them toward the LORD.

Seed to Flower

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War shoots up through the ages,
depending on where you’re standing
and on how you define your terms.

Law lays down when men and women
require an even playing field on which
to play.  Folks start bullying, using

“God” or another name for evil,
try to push us around, until the winds
blow, the sun again shines, and Congress

forms to check the king.  Battles are
“won” but lost if from afar you see
the forest from the victory that

folks got hurt, even died… Does
death exist?  Depends on where you’re
standing and on how you define terms.

Language is a funny fertilizer, one of
many great measures, as the universe
expands and contracts into big people

banging and creating new beings,
the egg or chicken appearing first
or last—it doesn’t really matter, just

more words you can throw up into
the sky like stars, fly away or plant
yourself to them define; take a stance

and write your Congress person, unless

you are one, then what?  Do you win
when you take more than you need,
store up money and goods?

It depends on where you’re standing
and on how you define your terms.
Sometimes when you win, you lose
said some movie down the bluff
from me.  I used to be a potted plant,
then broke away to live or die as
a wildflower on the hill, you know
like the ones along the route to San
Francisco.

Take the bus not the train, if in
Spring you care to from L.A. to the
north express for God the song
you sing.

Orange, purple and yellow blossoms on
a green hill above blue water, white
clouds above coagulating while I
ruminate on how buses in Mexico
are better than ours.

Free lunches and movies again, down
the bluff from me and Einstein—
depending on where you’re standing
and on how you define the terms.

Turn into Pain

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Be Quiet.

You may be the next Useful Idiot
God uses to spread joy through
pain; wake up asleep, go back
to bed again!

Shhh!

Eat cake for breakfast, if you can
get away with it, smile now
before the wind changes, bringing
Poppins, Toppins, love…

Then crash, the constant in life
of course being change, the wind’s
at it again!

Did you know, little boys, that your
body changes a lot?  When a teen,
you’ll hear that from lots of folk,
but beware a second change at
thirty!!!

What you thought was firm suddenly
doth sag, you can’t believe your luck,
the fate of getting old is not just
for those with white hair it starts
sooner, long after the thrill is
gone life traveling on said the
Cougar, do you know how to camp?

I love you, friends, and I tell you this:
Stop all motion to help a baby, child
or new flower stand.

Do not offend a young person, Jesus
warned us about God’s angels that
bear God’s face—imagine that,
that might be pain!!!

Turn into it now, learn how
to master it!  The moment is gold—
the moment you master life
and growing old,

by admitting its pain, accepting it,
sitting or standing with a Higher
Power and your cards in the game…

It’s not the fun you have but the
pain you endure serving others and
even that voice inside challenging you
that counts to fight, fight, fight.

God give us the courage to stand
up like a U.S. Marine on a dime,
forget ourselves a moment and
be a part of this great thing called

Life.

Ready to Plant

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Inching like an optimistic caterpillar,
across the hot sidewalk of regret;

fifty-five years since Kennedy died,
CIA still above the law in need of vet.

I am not mad that we killed our Earth
in search of gold and easy living;

I cannot be mad and simultaneously
fend off temptation to keep on drinking.

I love my enemy, and if not bring hell
into life as a grave, sad possibility!

We can let Fear guide us or some version
of God, coincidence or serendipity!

I love the calm lines of the lonely lass,
who picks me up because she knows…

She is aware that I’m lonely, too, not
consciously but truthfully as it often goes…

I inch along, the inchworm ready to plant!
The tide is low a while, the garden prepped;

Sunshine lurks behind the Summer clouds,
Goodness a rainbow out of fog leapt.

God forgive our mistakes, one at a time
made in the path to oblivion far and wide…

“Keep swimming,” saith the Disney swimmer,
We’re not that great but could be…

Henry’s blessed Heroes in the strife!!!

“Why Am I Here?” by SK Rolle

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To remind you
of the suffering
of the innocent child
misused

To remind you
of the promise
of Yusuf Hawkins
unfulfilled

Reminding you
Of Emmett Till
forgotten

young unwitting warriors
to remind you
of four girls
swaddled
in unheralded graves

Of forsaken lots
of infant trees cut in stride

Toward the dream
unrealized

young blood reddening
Alabama clay
Mississippi mud
New York streets

Young hearts stilled in mid-beat
tender memories waiting fertile

tragic martyrs shining

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“A Poem that Ends in Love” by S.K. Rolle

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I am a black poet

I claim Nikki Giovanni
4 albums, gospel choirs,
ego-tripping all

Invictus
Out of the night
that covers me…

I claim the church
black and white
Holy Ghost and Methodist

I’ve got to claim
The Bible

Genesis
And Psalms

Solomon
And Revelations

I claim the music
Jesus and Porgy

I claim Sunday
And all the mornings
that come

I claim the drummers
And the singers
The rhythm setters
And the beat keepers

The footstompers
And the handclappers

The signifiers
And the silent criers

Both my grandmothers
And my mother

And Miss Hicks and
Miss Ruffin

I claim the Slab Town
Convention
Arriving on the Pea Vine Line

I claim Paul Robeson

And James Weldon Johnson

I claim Paul Lawrence Dunbar
I claim Langston Hughes

I claim Maya
And Gwendolyn
And Lucille
And Sonia

I’m claiming the fact
And the fiction

I’m claiming
The Color Purple
This Blue Body
And the Bluest Eye

The two Toni’s
And the two Walkers

For My People, Everywhere

Baldwin
Nina Simone

‘Cause they all
Made me come in
From the void

Into the universe of hues
Into the dreamed whirl

I’ve got to claim
The heavens

I’ve got to claim
The trees

The maples and the oaks
The spreading chestnut
The weeping willow

And
Water

Oh my, water
Magic elixir

And
Birds

No way one could begin to name
The flock the feather

And light

And hate

And love

I claim love

The Voice of God

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Who’s listening?

There is a pulse and a spirit
under and over our lives,
giving us sanity, clues, natural
grooves to those who are
willing to stop, walk up the backs
of crevasses and ravines, nature’s
cherry, tall mountains yielding
peace in the mind of the sound.

We come out fighting—sperm to
egg, out Mom at whatever pace
gets results.

We have to develop sixth senses,
cosmic attachments to energy
there when we ask.  I asked
for poetry, travelling the song
that is Mexico.

I don’t like music anymore,
because it gets in the way of
God’s voice.

Shhh.

Who’s connecting today?  Where
is the medicine man, the prophet
designated to go up the hill and
ask for God’s blessing.

A priest denying himself sex?

Folks who meditate in buildings?

Who knows what the earth wants,
can report the facts to others,
pick up an instrument to play again
only when we’re on the same
page, one pulse attempting to please
the LORD, like the Jews in the desert.

Burn the incense, retreat back to
the dirt and calm—

God forgive our running around
with cotton in our ears, so eager
and ready to spout what others
say—

We “Edged Out God” the acronym
for ego used today.

Shhh.

Give us peace, God, and with it
your voice to teach us the way!

Forgiving Circumcision

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I was a few days old, a bundle
of skin and effort so feed me!

Please?

Put out the welcome mat, I’ve
been prepping in a little bubble,

I’m psyched to be out, show me
the way?

They are strapping me down, this
is uncomfortable.  I am powerless,
I can feel this but barely see.

I have no words.  I cry.  I let them
know I am against this course of
action.

Someone is rubbing a sensitive
area, but I trust them.  This will
be okay.  Wait

****

Let the little children come to me,
and do not hinder them, for the
kingdom of God belongs to such
as these.  (Mk 10:14)

The pain of hindering.  The scream
is from a shocked God, the
creator of all things offended at
the attack.

Take heed that ye despise not one
of these little ones; for I say unto you,
That in heaven their angels do always
behold the face of my Father which
is in heaven.  (Mt 18:10)

What’s better, an old quote?  The
gospel?  The bible, or ancient thought
or nature itself?  What is natural?
What is rational?

Did God screw up?  Did evolution
mess up?

Is it more plausible that bible stories
are man or God-made?  Could men
or women be inspired by God or
higher power to write, but is it
possible we have injected our
fallibility and perversions in these
stories?  Is alcohol—a flammable
liquid—good to ever “drink?”

The story of Abraham talking to
the LORD, where the LORD demands
male mutilation to seal a vow…

Is it sound?  Sensible?  Rational?

Should the Jew have his or her
mutilation, but stay away from our
health facilities—those who respect
the human rights of all babies?

Don’t hurt children.  Don’t abuse
children.  Guard them in the Christian
way, if you be Christian.  Intervene
for them, if you care and are in
touch with the feelings of infant
life!

Protect children!  Join the angels
that bear God’s face, and keep them
from harm!

***

I myself am a victim of child abuse.

No one set out to harm.  No one
intended malice!

The Devil is an amazingly subtle, skillful
foe—who can Trojan horse into your
most sacred rooms and infect our
generations, our loves, our passions,
our children.

The only way clear is through
enlightenment and care—the kind that
comes through trying, showing up
and grace.

Wide is the path to destruction,
and many are on it.

Forgive them Father, they know not
what they do.

Well, I think it’s time to tell them
what they’re doing.

Do we need baby whisperers to
interpret their screams?

We all know what is right in our
minds and hearts, as we connect
with Creation—

breathe deeply and meditate on
God and right.  Read the Tao Te
Ching, go with the flow, do less
and let the next baby born be
a baby.

Keep them out of your religion, until
they want to be in it—or not—at
a later date,

Let’s stop the abuse before too
late, God forgive circumcision!

We forgive the writers of the Bible
and others through history, who
have proposed it.

I will convert fully to the Native
American Great Spirit, before
I bow to a God that would
advocate hurting little ones.

I do not know.  Truth comes to me
in dreams, and I write it all down,
the gift I was given perhaps to make
up for foreskin lost.  Perhaps
I’ll take my pain to the stage, make
some jokes, plant my Forgiveness
Tree in the next baby we save.

Truth, with or without words, and
Nature’s perfection places us in
eternity the moment we listen
to the real voice of God not in
books.