John Travolta, Joy, Kelly Preston, Love, Peace, Poem, Poetry
Life is sweet, no matter
what a pessimist may say,
over the rocks, poor me over
a drink of scotch on the back
of a bad bender on a perceived
God will overcome, if we cannot,
and if “God” is a four letter
word to you—
re-count, there’s three, and
look the word up in your
God bless us to smile and take
it in; when we get hurt to turn
the other cheek, but hope
we don’t get hit again—
this thing is lighting me up!
Life can be everything we ever
dreamed of, perfect!
Wet in sun makes the flower
grow, apples know, avocado
in Spring needing sunshine to
this cycle repeated, the over and
over game of batting eyelashes,
sporting moves, jumping fences
to land in park benches, drawing
hearts in the sky, so we can be
the coolest guy!
“Tell me more, tell me more,
did you get very far?”
Not until I stopped dying, stopped
drinking flammable liquid long
enough to—yeah—look it up
put it inside? Me?
It’s fair, this life, between the
pipes, one two three, Jam-
Master Jay Run DMC.
Hope to live, flip death with
a smile that lasts forever in the
eyes of the young ones who
long past you survive.
They take a peace of us,
a song we sung, so sing it loud
for the band’s begun, God is
what God does, and so far so
good we reap what we sow,
the atheists know, it’s a wordfest
doing our best, Kelly Preston
helped me write this—
Johnny Travolta disco danced
a smile on my chest, a cross
that’s blessed, a total to the
equation that means two plus
two does not always equal four;
it depends what you’re adding,
Love the final ingredient to any
Don’t forget to thank the wind
for blowing your leaves around, Dad—
reminds us we’re moving and that
Seasons happen, the pain changes
to rain changes to the colored
‘bow, snow to skis to Riddick Bowe.
Life is a fair fiddle, it plays
the notes you command it to play,
unless the storm comes in,
pretends to ruin your day.
The Zen master says “We’ll see,”
so listen, wait, allow the Earth
to move past your current pain,
without it no joy at overcoming,
no rainbows, no flowers, no trees,
no peace without war, nothing.
Which is… everything.
Borges turns again, we’re free.