Tag Archives: Poem

Poetry Workshop

07 Sunday Oct 2018

Posted by in Poem, Poems, Poesia, Poetic Blog, Poetry

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I brought my poems; ears to
hear theirs.

I was so excited, grateful to have
a moment free of care…

Dance, poem!  Songs sung
singing praise like David, living
life sounding songs like David,
the phone rings like I did, God
and truth abound the blatant
sound of songs sung, singing
praise like David.

Dance, poem!  Freely made,
the words are for you, forced
through, woke up with you
after prayers answered they
ganged up and tackled you.
Higher powers than us are at
play, if good.

Be whatever, but let it all waver
in the up and down sometimes
thing, sometimes flavor, the dream
let it sizzle, this is something we
can savor.  Music claims to improve
us, words and I infused with rhythm
anyways, so why not?

Why not go that last step, grab
a guitar and go?

“Enough is as good as a feast,”
said Poppins before she left the
nursery.  Left for the park, Michael
and Jane convinced that cleaning
was fun, the games just begun,
words, haven’t you heard like the
wave of a wand, magic.

Toast from loaves from rocks
to roll, water from whine, it’s
now half past time to pack it up
and begin again, mid-flow, give
no more…

***

“No folks, there will be no poems
today.  We have on the schedule,
as you can plainly see:

A Poetry Workshop, with Dr. and
Mrs. XYZ, experts each, doing the
experting…”

The end of freedom.  Hope for the
day jolted.  Conforming itself the halt
on what I love, so I left.  Found my
rhythm again, know there are no
poetry experts but dreams and wind,
things we cannot catch

but put them down on paper anyway.

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The Heartbeat

24 Friday Aug 2018

Posted by in God, Love, Poem, Poems, Poesia, Poetic Blog, Poetry

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Taking off, it’s your best chance,
the first romance never topped
as long as you live, so if you’re
lucky to be young and reading this:

Tell her you love her now, but pray
first!  Courage not from a bottle
of flammable liquid but from a
dependable power you can’t see

but know it’s there, the things you
don’t know mounting high as a
cherry mountain, a dreamy plain
fair and true, humility is not a bad

thing, it’s knowing what we can and
cannot do.  The Truth.  Enough to spark
a revolution, tell her you love her!
Tell her now!  Stay with her, the Wife

of your Youth, never leave her!  Give
all you can to God and life, one
day at a time was not a lie, be like
Henry said a Hero in the Strife!

Gosh, it could have all been nice.
But could it still be?  Can this last dance
make up for the time I ignored my
feelings, stuck in a hole of not

knowing?  Of not understanding, nor
inherently having the necessary things
you need to Love?

Freud was occasionally right; not about
member envy, but I liked the Id, ego
and superego, nice words—kind of pretty.

And about Alcoholism?

Could have been a picture or poem
about me, he said that alcoholics cannot
express…

Love.

Kind of being dishonest to your own
heartbeat, you see her, but look around
at parents who fight or call themselves
“divorced.”  You freeze, have not a friend

to help, and you freeze, because you
loved your dad but kept it secret from
Mom because the dragon is all around
us, and alcohol feeds its fire.

You want heaven or even just some
peace of mind, give up bull, make
a schedule for today, believe in a
God that works for you, and learn the

Law, starting with 10 good commands,
Native American final stands, Tao Te Ching
yin and yangs, no more Big Bangs, take
it slow and easy—blessed are the meek

and poor.  If you have nothing, seem abused
at every turn, turn the other cheek, survive
the chaos and torture for the years like
John McCain in jail, come out and shine.

We are a race that throws money and
accolades at survivors of pain, we do it
all the time.

Rainbows to rain, the flip of the coin,
smile while you have a beat, better the
ball of the last play…

And dance.

In Love

21 Tuesday Aug 2018

Posted by in Love, Poem, Poems, Poesia, Poetic Blog, Poetry

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It’s better to go with it, don’t
question the smile when pure, across
the room or arena, across the trail
she’ll let you know whether she
fully knows it or not,

whether you want to settle down,
marry and have children or not.

You’re “got” when she smiles, the smile
pure and in love.

In love with life, with her walk, and
then you wind up on the path, and it
seems to please her, too.

So you let her in, wait for the right
song to dance or take a chance
on a building melody, nothing blessed

without asking.

Ask a power greater than yourself for
help and guidance or get tricked into
thinking this love with a woman is
enough.

Humans are fallible animals, full of
goodness, love and dreams, but also
of selfishness, fears and anger turning
to hate more than you’d like it seems.

We cannot control much, so let that
smile happen, take it in;

enjoy the loving moment before the
earth stops, a new life starts, before
some other kind of storm yesterday
ended suddenly appears and begins.

In love is part of a sixteen hour day,
the other eight for rest, take it in;

enjoy the loving moment before the
earth stops, a new life starts, before
some other kind of storm yesterday
ended suddenly appears and begins.

The Crack

18 Saturday Aug 2018

Posted by in Poem, Poems, Poesia, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Sex, Sexual, Sexy

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The beginning is the end, the
behind in front until all we have
in our mind is a poke in the butt.

It doesn’t matter, the skin and
prose before God, life and heaven
knows the fantasy can be better

than the real thing, g-strings,
blocking out all but a perfectly
composed rear, we all pause to

take in the glory of that which
got us here.  We can rise above
the instinct to love, but would we

ever want to submerge in anything
not on the verge, the creative urge,
the song called death that life needs

to truly purge, the end the beginning
as covered, take it off, show me the
thing I know but forget, the thing that

ties me in knots, dictates movement
and makes you wet, slippery to get,
sunshine in the crack like a jungle

for cat on cat, wild that, this on
and off punch through the page victory
of clouds over rain, smiling again

like a batman punch, “Wow” and
“Zam” in quotes, seventies colors and
sixties ‘do’s, eighties synthesizers and

fu manchu’s, underage drinking
bar-b-ques, nothing new, drinking
a flammable liquid, calling it “what

others do?”  We come back, though,
we come back to the darkest place,
the beginning, the inspiration for songs,

dreams and late night phone calls,
as God the creator created, we come back
to that which keeps us creating, curling

and whirling in a never-ending story of
humans populating a moon of the sun
called earth, we come back to the crack.

I love it.

The Bad Gardener

19 Thursday Jul 2018

Posted by in Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Robert Frost

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Robert Frost was a bad farmer.

I don’t think he made a dime,
couldn’t master that which
others could grow and sell
time after time after time.

But every effort led him outside,
and once there, he could observe
what would become words;

Poetry danced in a way no one
had before seen, a truth so
hard and cold, soft and strong,
every letter springing like shaved
weeds, the song of wildflowers
killing wheat.

Robert Frost was a bad farmer;

me?  I’m kind of a failed gardener,
a shoddy planter of plants
and flowers probably not best
for my soil because I failed
to study.

Worse yet, I lack the talent some
have, the desire to make things
grow other than thoughts and
feelings through words on paper,
sometimes rhyming!

Me and Frost are bummers, but
I dream to make those lemons
yield lemonade, his nine year
dance in wind not a full-on
charade!

I try my best out there every day,
after a morning of writing, I
set out to chop around, plant
and dig, water and spray.

Sometimes things die, others live
with an occasional “strive,” but
then I come inside, write it all
down, God giving us all not a billion
talents, more like one or two,

making everything all right!

I play golf like a poet; I garden
like a total writer, and have learned
to accept it.

I am pretty bad, but water to
whine, I reverse the fog that
clutters my mind, the dance in
soil just a ruse that produces
an occasional flower, endless
higher power,

and inspiring winds that turn
poems from springing weeds,
slithering snails, the dodging
lizard, jumping into an apple
tree now killed.

I did not see through the success
of the tomato at last; but in
watching it strive, doing my best
to water it daily, I found
reasons to sit down, plant some
words—

a skill not fully mine but God’s
ship to blast.

I Find it Fair

18 Monday Jun 2018

Posted by in Gratitude, Life, Overcoming, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry

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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
bad day.

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
nearest dictionary.

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
dream,

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
on Google—

It’s flammable!

So why…

put it inside?  Me?

Huh?

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
good cooking.

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.

The Mass of Things

16 Saturday Jun 2018

Posted by in Gratitude, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Universe

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The sky with earth, clouds keeping
it tight, swirling day and night.

I did none of this, but responded
when made with breath and…

Thanks.

***

The mass of things that made us;
the sign of times that create us—

Songs sung in gratitude for the chance
to dance, wide open or by the fire
of a closing stance,

no breaks for the wild world, only
thanks for the mighty swirl,

those things—all of them—I did not
do to deserve life.

It was given, a simple gift; we walk
by the river or lake, must seek a good
life to make it great,

True brilliance not from me but
grabbed after pausing, lending
children a hand, starting a new band,

whatever I with God on a daily
schedule think to make.

It doesn’t always go my way, but
smiles happen when I anyways
Thank.

Gratitude is the key to health, and
when we speak health we receive
it, ask Mary Baker Eddy or better
yet the positive prolific poet
named Ella Wheeler Wilcox!

Hers are gems for the man or
woman trying to find their child
inside.

The way to heaven not for men
and women but girls and boys.

You’re eighty years old?  Where are
your toys?

Smile and play, now!  Thank what you
thank, and pray thanks for now!

We did not do this!

We did not put this mass of things
together, but the wise among us
know how to thank for it;

So thank Something for it, make
a great day happen—forget the rest!

Sing a song that’s within from heaven
to your chest!

Give your life to a higher Power,
I call it God, you call it what you will;

to disagree with trifles is a bore,
and to smile and have fun is best.

History Knows

15 Friday Jun 2018

Posted by in African, History, JFK, Native, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry

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We’re obsessed with now.

We’re so sure of our reports, that
this or that thing caused this, and
it all happened this week.

The shiny balls bounce, “Trump
is tweeting again,” but history knows
why he is.

What is a Trump “president of the
United States?”

First, the States are not united,
all of them pulled together and
over the years have bullied
minorities, starting with the
American Indian, then of course
the African slave, then the
freed slaves, to name a few.

“United States of America” declares
itself so, historically, as a bastion of
hope and freedom for white males.

European people.

Next, we fought some wars, replaced
the sixth commandment with the
second amendment, made killing
“good.”

We killed and killed some more, got
good at it, and prided ourselves in
winning wars, winning territory, often
overlooking original sins against black,
brown and other people—

the “country” had an official line,
ones drawn by…

White males.

****

So we fought World War I, jumped
into Europe, played hero and “won.”

Instead of being humble in victory,
and mourning all the dead on all
sides, we raised our hands and did the
flapper dance for the next decade—

most of it all over the German people,
who we made pay for starting that dang
war.

We could have graciously helped them
to their feet and forgiven them, but
we drove the stake in hard—

enough to create Hitler and a backlash
good enough to start another war,
and the Jewish holocaust.

The United Nations formed after
World War II, and unlike the Kellogg-
Briand Pact of the 1920’s, this world
peace gig seemed like it could really
work until the American government
ratified its CIA, who along with other
nations kept waging covert wars
behind peace talks.

Shaking hands with the right, stealing
and killing with the left, hiding
documents and lying in the name
of “National Security.”

“Everybody’s doing it” was surely
put forth as they gathered on the
White House lawn in cloaks and
dagger outfits, a ruse of not-so-
funny don’ts and do’s in front
of Truman, Eisenhower then
Kennedy until they killed him
in 1963.

CIA kept its rule of the USA until…

the present day, but the leash is
very long, you might not notice them
unless you loved the Kennedy hope
of the ‘60’s, miss it, and miss truth.

JFK wasn’t perfect, but by ’63 had
grown into a man of peace, amends,
just a little naive on the power of
covert ops and the growing target
on his back.

“They wouldn’t do it, would they?”

They did it.

Cowards from behind a bush, covered
it up just as in Latin America they would.

A pattern attack, this time in our
own land, Julius Caesar by Brutus,

JFK by CIA, Howard Hunt and all those
ticked off Cubans killed or captured
or wounded when Kennedy balked
at helping take the Pigs’ Bay.

But did all that make Donald Trump?

Not yet.

***

Look at Cold War, from Kennedy’s murder
to Vietnam, the CIA’s baby, the path
clear with LBJ, then Nixon to execute
this impossible but profitable fight.

(At least our families are eating?)  Wide
that path to destruction, and boom!

The “American army” blowing a darn
good path through Southeast Asia!!

***

But we “won” the Cold War!!!

Right?

The wall came down in 1989…

Right?

A good day.  A great day?!?!

Make American Great Again?  Reagan
says, “Yes, We Can!?”

Or was that Obama?  Definitely this:
Clinton and the Americans rubbed the
victory in Russia’s nose, and like in
1930’s Germany, we had created
another villain.

This one, named Putin, rose and rose,
and rose some more and again, until
he rose to a place that he could
get his sweet revenge.

Put Trump in the White House; put down
Hillary Clinton and the U.S. dance
with Global Authority, democracy and
another frickin’ flapper dance across
a fallen enemy!

***

History knows, even if the news does
not, why the news is crazy, sad or
weird today.

It’s none of those things, but is a perfect
growth of history’s seed.

We planted everything that is reaped
on TV today.

Mothers and babies separated at the border,
the UN reprimanding the USA!

Puerto Rico shunned and neglected
by a racist regime in the USA!

Putin smiles, a short-lived win,
revenge is sweet, the games may
begin—

Politics and history lost in the eyes
of a child, God’s will charging on—
the aware forging a narrow path,
Wyatt Earps, Bob Muellers, Truth
and Comey with your morning coffee—

John Adams against the Hamilton
frenzy, Lao Tzu and Jesus himself
offering truth against all this hoopla
walking around the White House
dangling pardons and tax scams.

God is good, Trump is not, but seek
history before you judge him or
the present moment too harshly,
for history’s to blame and they are not.

Xenophobe

09 Saturday Jun 2018

Posted by in Immigration, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Political Satire, Race, Racism, Satire, Xenophobia

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Let’s stick together, fend off
the other.

We used to be an “other” long ago,
but not me that was my
progenitor, not me—let’s go!

I’d rather be dead than caught
in the web; liberal diversity’s not
for me, I’m a Christian, just
the type who’s white, ticked
and armed, so back off.

Someone once challenged my
right to kill.  They were invading
my house, so I had to defend, but
in the army learned that shooting
for the torso of a human was
defending so killed him.

One must defend one’s family—
which is everything.  Blood relations,
keeping America white.

They say this was native American
before it was white European but I
kinda’ think that’s Fake News.

I ignore God when I want to
and cheer at Liberals’ defeat,
this is a war and I wanna win so
let’s kill as much as we need to
let’s win.

Stop ‘em at the border, kill
‘em if we must, build a wall,
Jews will not replace us.  Divide
and conquer’s not the devil’s
line—Believe Me!!

Let’s go to the rally!  Are you going?

So much winning; I love it
how we won all those wars.

Vietnam was fake news, we won
that too!

Kennedy had it coming, I love
CIA movies and their covert ops,
I wish I could take one now,
see all those babies separated from
their mothers at the border,
I’m Christian but the kind that
likes White Jesus, and sick
of the politically correct brown
one they cook up downtown
in what will become a sanctuary
city if we don’t spread Trump
fever fast and build that damn
wall!

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.