Tag Archives: God

Concrete River

11 Monday Jun 2018

Posted by in Los Angeles, Native, Native America, Native American, Nature, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry

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We fail to see what the Indian saw;
goalposts moved, the feeling is raw.

God gave all peoples land, but fate
brought white Euros away from theirs,

Hope was in the “New World,” except
that for its old inhabitants, a grave

challenge emerged from the golden
ships on the Eastern horizon, the

Atlantic bringing bibles, armor, guns,
horses and a love for gold not seen

by the decorated native soldier, the
adorned native explorer—who roamed

a wild land with ease, the world a
welcome mat to sleep upon, gather

and hunt.  A river was sacred, a waterfall
the same; trees, even rocks worshipped

as gifts from the Great Spirit.  Instead
of human art, a reveling of God’s art

was the native way; instead of a written
history or spirituality, there was one

passed down with poignant, well-placed
words and teachings, songs and music,

Ones about the “L.A. River” before it
was called that I’m sure existed.

It would be full and running wild at
times, dry and trickling at others,

through trees, brush and local wildlife—
including bands of Indian tribes,
grateful for the flow.

Civilization is a double-edged mess.
I think I like it.  I hate it.  I’m sad
about it, but sure like the plumbing!

***

What of the river?

Concreted over now, we took away
its beauty.

A crime by any view, there is no
possible way to support killing
it and doing God’s will, we stopped

the wild flow, the thrill.

We placed our destructive flag on
its top, moved wildlife off their spot,

Came with horses, buggies, then
cars and our own urinated rain,

the plumbing’s good, but we are
not—

God’s Earth is full of things still
pristine, and those like the L.A.
River—

That dies every day civilization soars,
roars and choppers rot.

I dream of a day when time
forgot.

False Gods

11 Monday Jun 2018

Posted by in Education, God, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Shootings

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Teachers and students are targets
because we have fallen for a great
lie:

That schools are good.

That schools will help a person
become “successful,” the modern
word for Heaven—

spirituality kicked out of modern
life, more and more.

God is being kicked out of politics,
schools, and even churches that
tout public prayer as good—despite
the teachings of Christ, who touted
private prayer.

Shopping centers and malls,
concrete and asphalt mixed with
high buildings to trap us and block
us from the glory of unfettered
Nature.

We construct cages of learning,
worship and living, separate
ourselves from Creation, celebrate
our human abilities and “Oh,
aren’t we neat,” then—in a panic
of lost peace of mind…

A disgruntled student shoots
through all barriers, acts out to
feel something, and tears down
our walls of Babel in multiple
gruesome murders of innocent,
unarmed people.

Walls within walls, the shots tear
town walls.

Inside the walls, if not dead himself,
the shooter feels now.

Feels regret.

And a poet wonders why he still
lives in a modern city.

Stop the Fucking Bus

09 Saturday Jun 2018

Posted by in Escape, Journey, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry

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I’m married to the Man, the
tie ‘round my neck, starving
for the light of Tuscan rays
on a balcony of forgotten love

on the hopes like rays, eagle
flight the post rain ‘bow showing
gold at nightmare’s end, the
song of overwhelming seas

rising tides, a naked walk
into the canvas of stark
golden canyons and buttes,
mesas and plateaus—at one

time the arc of life of the
indigenous strife, apache war
cries in the night, scaring
tourists who fear their shadow,

as shadows have no ties.

***

The sign is bird crap on the
sill, sounds like rivers in my
ear as the waves call the bravest
in rows like dogs without tag,

Finally the rope loosens, and
the sand seems closer to your
toes.  You know you are X and
Y—European, Asian or from

somewhere old, African thunder
the drums of songs passed
down from generation to
another; white strangers judging

stomach as thin, the look not
as robust “compared to what”
while a dark monster in
restrictive sport coats inhabits

a place of supposed “power”
to separate mothers from their
children at an arbitrary human
“border” separating human

beings.  You there, me here. You
speak that, I this, and let’s
see what other things separate us,
the game of sinking garbage.

I want to get off!  I want out
the diesel burning a hole in my
lungs!  I want to wonder and
wander through the snow of

no one seems to know.  Go there.

Pitch a tent, and see what storm
rises, what the rain brings, the
sum of unknowns so large it must
be quite a tidal tsunami of love

sweat sulking in a corner finally
come out to call me one of
the beads.

When it Rains

08 Friday Jun 2018

Posted by in Blog, Blogs, God, Law, Love, Nature, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Political, Politics

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It matters not the darkness
before dawn, the two at one
needing each other to be
a proper show.

It’s dry and hot, which could
never excite a soul until
the storm clouds roll in
to change forever the state

if forever is a moment, nothing
is—and truth alluding poets
but seeking always we put our
cup out to the sun, wait.

There it is, the first drop
dropping calmly, lightly with a
ting, then another, more here
and there and the humming bird

buzzes by like firefighters not
away from the event but toward
it, they fire, they rain, the bird
wants a bath so sits with the drops

closes its eyes in ecstasy, shudders,
shakes its feathers to complete
the bath before finding a branch under
cover to avoid a drenching.

Boom the thunder hits from a
far-off bolt, but this was not an
electric storm—more of a cleansing
wave, like the law man who finds

the perp burping in the sunshine,
smoking cigars, private jets, pinching
stewardess butts with a smile you’d
think only wine or money makes.

God, the view is good from up here
is a final thought as the plane goes
down, 10-20 years for money laundering
or some other hidden gem.

Wishing no harm on anyone,
unless the point of view of banks is
seen; then if you go there, you
know the people hurt when they

are robbed.  Dishonest is its own
crime, look at the board of ten
brought from God through Moses
upon the Jews, they’re good.

Cleansing is the rain; the storm
picking up, hitting the soil with what
it needs, the apple sprouting the bud
of weeds cramping gardener’s style,

so he gets online to buy more mulch,
poof, on its way, roses budding a creamy
winter of snow on the way against
this rare summer break!

Indictments are sure to come, just
as the mulch arrives, the weeds
relentless until we act, restore a level
of security and sanity to the hill.

Mueller uses not gas-powered crap
but hand to hand combat; God
is proud of earnest, humble work,
punishes the brash, but not before

they win some battles, look at the
South for five years keeping slaves
trapped, little skirmishes won and
lost, guerrilla fighting the tough

life of the rebel.  “We cannot change
the world, it cannot be done” echoes
on an Asian valley butterfly, flying
through the passage of time,

Wondering if mankind, women too,
could all get together, realize we’re
from the same general stuff, rain
water and sun, blood of Earth, the

swim of that stewardess, like a
caterpillar, becoming Flight Attendant
with a lawyer, smart on the game
so she could win, and the butt

pincher faces twenty to life now
for lying to the FBI about killing
Democracy.  The court almost laughed—
not down here, but on the planet

far off that runs us.  “Democracy!” they
laughed and almost fell off the
cliff of the universe, where they stand
and spy.  “People-rule!” gets them

busting up full, and they float down
to Earth through a black hole eating
underwear under there, causing
a great earthquake, followed by

a tsunami, the rains piling up,
a flood rising until Man once
again finds its wisest stance and
repeated mantra through captivity

toward eternal freedom from care:

“We are powerless,” smiled the
orange criminal.

And a lone flower burns on the
hillside of summer untouched,

Making ash for even democracy
to change, become wine from water
and confuse us back to powerlessness
over and over until Samuel gets

out of his cage-like grave, walks
up that dang hill, and makes an
unseen God king again; He’ll
have to do it tomorrow, too if

we wake, my friend—for whatever
progress we made today, it
will rain, and we will wonder if
before it does we laid down enough

seed, to feel the peace of mind
that turns words around, turns
our efforts on themselves, returning
us all to Tao Te Ching-like calm,

the uncarved block, the dawn,
our own birth.  Wordless

and Perfect.

To Throw a Stone

31 Thursday May 2018

Posted by in Gospel, Jesus, Jesus said, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Religion, Sex

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It’s easy to judge.  It feels
good for a while, to size someone
up and find them wanting—
You see a flaw and flick it at them

To maximize damage, thereby
increasing the rush you feel, a cop
you steal, imbibing holier than
thou spirit, then…

You call a friend.  “Hey, look
at what so and so just did, said—
is or was!  Isn’t he or she a scandal,
where are the rocks?”

The what?

Let’s throw some rocks at him!!
Yeah!  Yeah!!

Throw rocks!

Wait, we don’t have any and I
can’t see you, this is a computer or
phone, everything’s online!!

“It doesn’t matter.  Tweet at him,
retweet ugly things, put downs and
all the ways you are better than him.”

#MeToo is truth and good, but
let’s stop short of throwing stones.

***

Sexual impropriety and crimes are
bad, but let’s stop short of throwing
stones!

Unless…

Unless ye, without sin, should you
want to step up, cast a big rock with
all the sin that you are not—

Go ahead.

Waiting…

***

No human without sin, it’s a long
wait, so let’s save it, breathe deep
and pray good thoughts for the sick
person who had a bad sex day.

Do unto others, as you would have
them do to you.

Do you want your mistakes shoved
in your face?

Or would you prefer everyone to
stay in their own lanes, try to
improve ourselves—

The judgement of others breaking
the eleventh commandment showing
no shame.

Accepting my Balls

29 Tuesday May 2018

Posted by in Acceptance, Anatomy, Blog, Blogs, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry

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As I see and feel balls sagging
from right to left, left to right,
I like to think someone’s been
swinging them.

But swinging them doesn’t bend
them down to stay.   Nature does
that.  Time, age: you wake up, and
your rocks dropped.

***

This can be a sad event, and was
for me, especially when I felt
nothing much happened in my
youth, no great wear and tear

that would leave an item or thing
stretched out or overused,
necessitating the sag, precipitating
a change, a drop, the swing—

Sad!!

I turned thirty years old, and
they dropped.

It was not at the brink of death,
closing in on very old age but
thirty years in, thirty times around
the sun, and they sagged!!!

I wrote several books, a screenplay,
thought of all different ways not
to think of my sagging rocks;

wrote about kids, a Kids World,
figured I was done so give the world
over to the tight-balled and perky
youths, think of myself less and less,
that’s it the ticket is to be more and
more Selfless!

***

That didn’t work, and I stayed depressed,
did the twelve steps on the problem
at last, and it went away for a time, the
depression about sagging—but then it
came back with a vengeance!

***

Then one day, it went away.  I accept
my sagging balls because they’re here
to stay.

What’s more, I’m powerless over them,
my age, and this rock spinning through space,
giving me cool ideas to write as long as
I walk on her and thank.

The best way out of a good depression
is to do nothing, wait for it to pass,
accept all things and Thank.

Geocracy

28 Monday May 2018

Posted by in Earth, God, Nature, Plog, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Political

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I’ve never seen a person rule
during an earthquake.

Where is democracy, “people-rule”
during a hurricane?

Democracy is a fallacy, a beyond bold
toward egocentric self-will run riot,
as the alcoholics say.

We have some power, human
beings can lift, exercise, work—
do some things, but the limits—
our limits blare at times, enough
so that we’d be wise in politics to

leave space for what we cannot do.

The effort to keep God out of
American politics, calling Concept
Religion.

We have been confused, led onto
the wide path of war and deception,
covert acts and destruction by an
entity some call Satan, others “evil,”

me?  It doesn’t really matter.

***

God, Earth, People rule might be
more reflective of truth and interesting;

God, Earth and People rule, call it
Geocracy with a capital G.

To reflect the things we can do,
that which we cannot; to recognize
higher and greater powers than us, at
times, to tell the truth.

***

Humility is knowing one’s place,
nine out of ten of us outside our
lines, scrambling to turn a Christmas
list into a nursery rhyme, nothing
fully fitting with the next, until we fall
and scrape our chin bad enough to
change.

You must want it.

***

The war hawks frown; the atheists stir,
and semantics has the angry adult down
and out while the child looks on, not
as full with words but without them True.

People can rule sometimes, give it to us
one out of three.

We will be a healthier world and nation
the moment we officially recognize the
other great powers that govern us.

Write it down, right the frown, turned
to the upside—

Do less, and things get done;

Lao Tzu and the spiritual masters knew
how little we could control.

And God made the heavens and the
Earth; and it was good.

The stories, the words, they run out of steam;
things just are, let them be.

Place the Earth and Higher Power
somewhere at the political discussion
table; leave space, watch the glory
of all we didn’t do,

and all that because we held back
could be.

Slippery When Wet

25 Friday May 2018

Posted by in Poem, Poems, Poetry

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The left hand is holding something
very valuable.

You need what is in the left hand…

Keep looking at it, the left hand
sure to contain that which will—

Thanks, I’ll see you later, and the
interaction ends.

Weeks later, you check your piggy
bank and notice all the money is gone.

I stole your money with my right
hand, as you looked at my left hand.

But the left hand was important—we
needed it to survive!

“We killed them in the interest of
National Security.”

“We stole the documents in the interest
of National Security.”

“For the furtherance of Democracy and
Freedom, we invaded the country
and deposed their horrible leader.”

The pious fraud, better than God—it
makes okay every single sin so
sin away!

Because in the end, friend—the end
justifies every mean thing we do
or say!

We are the CIA!!  The FBI, we’ve got
your back!  We keep you safe, so
you can just live out your day, it’s
on us!!

“We go where others cannot go,
accomplish what others cannot
accomplish,” says CIA on Twitter
to us schmucks—us, the lowly
American with normal people rights.

Those agents with super-people rights!

Wow, can I be one of them?

Sure, here are the steps:

1. Have a shitty childhood where truth
is on edge or upside down, Dad drinks
and love is scarce.
2. Go to an Ivy League school, get good
at computers—join a Fraternity, get good
at telling and keeping secrets.
3. Secret Society membership is a plus.
4. We like Patriots, who can put “country
before anything else.”  Even God.
5. Don’t believe in God—he or she cannot
keep America safe.  Only we can.

***

Stop to take a breath.

6. Get used to lying.
7. Lie to yourself, God and others
every day.

***

We lie in the interest of National Security.

(National Security is often code for
“not embarrassing the Agency.”)

You might fall into a crack, if it’s
wet enough.

Pregnancy is another thing, altogether.

The Wife of Your Youth is most likely
behind you, but we make due with the
me and you we have in front of us.

You, too?

“Ready, shoot, aim” is the plan of
the orange, golf-playing orangutan “president” —
unless a Russian is calling the shots from
across the sea, look at me,

The MS-13 gang members are “animals?”

Yes, so are we.

You mean it as a curse?

So was it a curse for CIA to support the
killers of El Salvador’s archbishop, Oscar
Romero in 1980.

MS-13 came from his ashes.  And there,
an American “president” bags on the guys
our own murder created.

Bags on immigrants in an immigrant
country like the dis-United States.

Great Spirit, native spirit, the mother
Earth reaching out to touch us, but
your motorcycle gets in the way,
helicopter blades and sirens ruining
the day.

Shhhhhhh!

God wants to talk with us, we could
make him or her king!

Ignore Samuel and his walk to
the top of the mountain to
represent us.

“Jews will not replace us” the rally
call of hate, which comes from fear,
which produces anger—

all leading to suffering over time,
Yoda from Star Wars stopping on a dime.

Eternal life!

To secure and clean L.A. outside our
means because the rich council can’t
see it yet.  The mayor choked by his
tie, all a cliché of what Mom wants,
when she doesn’t really know what
she wants, going from high to high,

and when not high…

duck.

Ready, shoot, aim… Trump is drunk
with the buck so duck, it’s MS-13
that are the “animals!!”

So lock your door, another prejudice
is coming.

Ends and means line up, the pious fraud
catching up; we’re trying to evolve,
God help us to with your will align.

Today.

The only day, sublime, it’s wet when
slippery—slippery when wet.

The curse we all feel when we let…

her get away.  The wife of our youths,
we let her go.

Our forefathers stealing native land, we
let our own mother go!

“We’ll see what happens,” there’s
always another side to a story!

The real Gold was Native American wisdom,
not the yellow rock in Georgia, made them
march away and cry,

a trail of tears brought on by Trump’s
idol, Mr. Jackson, stick a needle in
their eye.

My mother said to pick the very best
one and Trump is not it.

Easy targets.

Ready, shoot, aim!

We’ll see what happens.  Kill Kennedy,
Martin, the other Kennedy, Romero
and Lennon,

and we’ll do it again…

***

unless.

Unless, says the Dr. Seuss Lorax when
hoping against hope.

Lao Tzu smiling the smile of
the longevity god, oval-headed and
jovial in the night before an unknown
dawn, the magic of change
in the birth of babies and a new day!

It’s slippery when wet!!

It had better be, if you want to
see us multiply and a future supply,

mountains moving from there to here
because fasting and praying was not
just for the religious but for the wise.

The atheist must sigh.

“The power greater than me has a name,
just stop calling it God.”

Without saying a word, the baby
just is.  The uncarved block, the truth—

sex for the celibate.

The Dragon’s Back

23 Wednesday May 2018

Posted by in God, Mystical, Nature, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Wales, Welsh

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Sexuality swirls around the planets,
a kind of erratic, organized chaos of
life we cannot see unless by great
effort and powerful lens.

Beneath the surface of things,
the duck’s feet fight and pound and
move, often unconsciously—beating
eggs like water polo players perpetually.

Walking is a thing; we are wise to find places
for feet on ground, to get out
of civilization’s attempt to comfort
and protect against elements—

The dragon’s back, scaly and strong,
unstable and challenging, the smoke
rising off the water at sunset, the
Lady of the Lake guarding underneath,

offering help for the helpless, but
only when you are humble and ask.

Songs true and off the horizon of
the green, valleys fog over and wet,
the rain and clouds lifting the flower
from the hill, wars fought to appease

the up and down movement of the Chinese
Tao, the Russian doll, the Native American
Great Spirit expressed in Mothers and Fathers
honored in the beast.

We are talking animals, bucked by time
and nature when acting right or wrong—
it’s just that the Righteous get bucked
amidst peace of mind’s post-rain bow.

I dream of a return to land to my east,
a Celtic field in a Welsh storm, the
dragon’s back never more evident
than on the cliffs of England.

400 years in a foreign land is nothing
to the man who plants.  Sunshine and
rain feed the soul here as others,
a song to sooth here as much as there—

The dragon can buck all he wants,
but when the mind is rooted in the Quest
he cannot move the soul bound for heaven,
where heaven is Peace,

Something only achieved through
warring against temptation and winning,
not because we are great, but because
the tools at our feet are there, and we

humble ourselves enough to pick them
up and use them.  Or not.

Our mind’s eye sees all truths, before
words, so we utter a growl, breathe
and stop.

I am the dragon.

Wide is the Path

22 Tuesday May 2018

Posted by in Nature, Philosophy, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Religion

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The narrow to “heaven” is a hefty
mount, a lofty walk and a harrowing
drop—

the leap it requires of faith, fasting
and prayer?

Atheism, wordlessness, meditation
and just being there?

Hard turns, listening, being, breathing?

A rose by any other name as sweet,
brevity the soul of it, god or Shmod
you decide what to call that which
yields its famous bliss—

words ascribed to it in English
being “Peace of mind.”

It’s hard to have a firm view, open
up, and listen wholeheartedly to another;
but to do so allows a soul to advance
toward childhood,

life a journey of return to learned
senses without words, then a
departure of body leaving spirit
and words, ideas which never die
no matter how many killed in the
name of “National Security.”

Wide is the Path to Destruction,
and Many are On It.

Some call “Jesus” religion; I do not;
I call the Son a Sun, the art of war
being to never wage it.

The true artist restores peace when
out of alignment, moving on without
celebration, without declaration of victory,
for a combat yielding injury is never
cause célèbre.

Tend to those injured, and start to
glimpse the road less traveled, build
your rock, ascending and secure, on
the bed of weedless sunshine providing
no rain to the cowards, no judgment to
the fallen, no gifts to the barren;

It is dry, the valley of history, with
all its un-amended sins and mistakes.

If you stop reading and talking long
enough you see the rainbow in the rain;
the end of pain,

The coming of solace for the argument
that Higher Power must exist.

Why not call it God?

Because that word offends those abused
by those who would use a Name to harm.

So fall.

Let the words go, and let Mom embrace
you after we demolish the concrete,
find the stones, the path back

to Nature.