(“Citadel of Light Merit Badge”, 2016, original pen and ink)
Battle For Your Mind
We live in a time of upheaval and change,
Challenge and war,
But the biggest battle
Is what some call “jihad”
An internal struggle of light and dark
As a soul makes their way along the path.
But along with the esoteric jihad
There is the exoteric, external struggle for your soul,
And battle for your mind,
A battle between the Death-eaters
And the Life-givers.
In this battle of temptation
Desertion is always an option,
And as many times as we may vacillate
What matters most is where we finally settle.
And in an infinite universe
On a timeline of eternity,
As Led Zeppelin said,
You can always change the road you’re on.
But once we know how it will end
Then the momentary ups and downs
Cannot confuse and distract us.
This is the Path of Seeing
The path of no return
The warrior path
In the battle for your mind.
(9/16/25)
("Rainbow Body" detail, 2018, original encaustic)
Today I noticed on a website I use for book reviews
All eight of my poetry books
Suddenly have a fresh new one star review.
Sadly though there is no content to these reviews
Nothing to sink my teeth into and learn from
Just a single star
Which simply means, “I hate it.”
But these are the first reviews or ratings
I have ever received in ten years now
Of publishing poems
So I will take it
Mostly because I have no choice.
It is a free world after all
And so if we engage with it
We shouldn’t be surprised
When it engages back.
The beauty of getting only one star reviews
Of course is it doesn’t get my hopes up
Hopes of becoming rich and famous
Influential and significant
Because I know, especially now,
None of that would be true.
(9/15/25)
Observing driving factors of world influence, i note the word 'road-map?'
Also percentages and interest methods
In banking..The value of such against
Pure human values.' And are big buisness
Involved in major and macro developments?
I leave the reader to draw their own
Conclusions.?
(“Creation Myth Merit Badge”, 2016, original oil)
Death Cult In Our Midst
There is a death cult in our midst
Some you can tell, many you can’t
Until they open their mouths
And out comes the hate for Life
And cheering on of Death.
Everywhere you look you can see the cult
Online, on TV, in movies and games
Where death and destruction
Is glorified and normalized
And you score points and win
When you kill.
The line between fantasy and reality
Thus blurred and/or erased
Leaves US where we are today
Broken and divided
Fearful and emboldened.
What does tomorrow bring?
More death
The cult dreams, whispers, chants and sings.
More death
Until only the pure remain.
(9/15/25)
Call it karma, call it fate, call it destiny
There is a force unseen that blows our course.
And yet as we roll and tumble
We wish to be free
And so resist
Shake our fists in defiance of the gods
And innovate, invent and imagine our way
Into a better life.
But still we suffer pains and dissatisfactions
With every up and down,
Still we roll and tumble
Along the path of our destiny.
But the spark of freedom catches and glows
As we feel it is our right to be “Me!”
My body my choice, my mind my choice
My life to be self-determined…
As the path divides and turns
Into a broad tangled delta
Before the sea.
Where does it all end? We don’t know
But we can see
The desire to be our own gods of destiny
Unleashes every possibility
From Pandora’s transhuman box of demons
In our lust to just be me.
(9/15/25)
these were adorable snow boots but they leaked
my socks are wet now and I think I’m getting frostbite
It is at least a hundred yards back to the house
why did I have to buy beauty instead of sturdy?
each step in this deep snow is miserable
My teeth are chattering now
Why does anyone live in Minnesota in January?
I cannot wait to get inside
I made it alive, my icy cold socks are plastered to my toes
I have difficulty pulling them off
I put two socks on each of my feet
Put on my cozy pajamas and start a fire in the fire place
Out the window I can see the snow
It is gloriously pretty from inside.
Twinkles and glistens, sparkles with bluing.
Maybe everyone should live in Minnesota.
(“The Night Sky”, 2014, original oil)
Lila, at Play
The world conforms to the wishes of those in it
Not necessarily to what we want
But certainly to what we need
Mirror-like in reflecting all we bring
Yielding to all we project.
And so cultures throughout history
Create their own world view paradigms
For the next to build on
Or tear down.
The modern world is still the age of reason
Ruled by logic and mechanical processes,
But it hasn’t always been so
And it won’t always be so.
The world as it is
Conforms, mechanically or playfully
And that depends on us.
I don’t know about you,
But all things being equal,
I’d rather live in a playful world,
Not one devoid of reason
And immersed in magic and mystery,
But one in playful balance.
Where plants can talk and animals listen
Where sunlight heals and sings
Its ancient song
Weaving lattice bridges
To distant stars
Across time and space, mind and matter,
Linking then and now, us and them
Together.
(9/14/25)
A soft wind whispers
early September.
The year is passing
and you are closed
for good.
You were more
than brick and mortar—
You had a heart.
Now you rest in shadows
in the downtown.
You still bear the voices
of those who came in
for a burger or a drink
also playing video games
or sports.
I still hold in my heart
how you cared for
the servers working
their way through college.
They were the dearest friends.
But mostly I remember
the Friday nights when
I stood on the dining porch
and you urged me to sing.
I still hear the applause.
I still hold dear the night
when I painted a waterfall
while nursing a drink
in your loft.
O how a blank canvas came to life.
Each morning the sun shines
but your lights are off.
Sparrows dance in the sidewalk
and chatter by the front steps.
But as I drive and take a look
I sing my song for you.
Nonsectarian
(for Charlie)
A friend asked me recently if I’m still a Buddhist
And I replied no
Without telling him I’m beyond labels.
To me Buddhism and Christianity are no different
In being just different expressions of dharma,
Dharma being Sanskrit for truth.
Today I heard a Buddhist prayer
Of wishing to become the kind of being
Who makes everyone happy to just see.
And I laughed out loud
And thought, “Hell yeah!”
I want to be that kind of person.
And not to just make them happy,
But to laugh, and play, relax and
Loosen the chains
That bind their heart.
I know I’m not that person today,
But I thought of someone who was,
And how all over the world
Those chains are now loosening
And people are feeling strong and free
Even as they cry in grief.
(9/13/25)
When my mother in law died a few years ago
She did so at home before dawn one summer’s morn,
And my wife and I went over and sat around
For a few hours as her dad cooked us breakfast.
All the time her mom’s body lay there
Slowly cooling in the living room.
And what was remarkable
Is that for such a low key and unassuming woman
Gale filled the whole house
With a palpable peace and stillness,
Unlike one I’d ever experienced before.
Today I feel that same kind of blessing is being felt
With the passing of Charlie Kirk,
Except instead of filling a single house
His spirit is filling the entire world.
Let that sink in for a moment.
We’re talking about a once in a millennium kind of soul.
(9/13/25)
A Meeting With Amitabha
On my way to meet with Amitabha
The Buddha of infinite light,
I ponder my life, my place in the world
Its trajectory, and my mortality.
Who is it that dies? What is it that goes on?
And where is this infinite light not found?
We all die, but how we do it
Makes all the difference.
They say how we live is how we die,
And so if this gives any solace
As we live our life, directly knowing what that is,
We get a glimpse what our death will be like.
The beauty though of being alive
While we are alive
Is we can always change its trajectory.
And so I head out to meet the Buddha Amitabha
As he sits resting, ever peaceful,
In his infinite light.
(9/13/25)
I walked through storms with nothing but fire,
Dreams grew heavy, but lifted me higher.
ALL MY SHADOWS BECAME TEACHERS OF LIGHT,
I turned my bruises into courage at night.
I carried burdens that bent my back,
Still built bridges where the ground was crack.
BENEATH THESE HILLS, MY ROOTS HELD STRONG,
Even in silence, my spirit sang long.
The world tried caging what I could be,
But destiny whispered: “Fred, you are free.”
COURAGE REQUIRES WOUNDS TO FIND ITS SONG,
I wore the pain and still walked on.
From protector to leader, I carved my name,
Through trials and scars, I mastered the game.
DESTINY IS WRITTEN IN UNSEEN HANDS,
Yet I rise daily, to claim my own lands.
I AM THE ARCHITECT OF MY OWN CAGE,
Building freedoms eternal, from age to age.
Lost Days
Lost in the darkness
lusting for a way out
Lurking in the blackness
longing for the tunnel
Blinking at the vague emptiness
stirring the hollowness
scaring the shadows
Scattering the darkened clouds
surfing for a ray of hope
Roaring at my doubts
as l map my way home
The Chronicle
The chronicle is changing
The wind
whispering another tune
The people
now wearing tainted faces
Mirroring the times
Telling all a different tale
Life is full of steps and stages
As we learn what it is to be alive.
And every stage is marked
By the recognition that we were wrong
About what it is we now know.
Like a box within a box
Or nesting Russian dolls
Continually we open onto a new world
A new level of understanding.
We talk of insects and crustaceans
Reptiles and amphibians shedding their skin
But we do it too, just more subtly and subjectively,
And as more evolved beings, continuously.
What is it we shed besides old dead skin?
Old dead ideas, outgrown, outlived
Making way for the new
Slowly changing the programmed self
Into a newer version, gradually adjusting
Our identity
With software updates
That continually need the bugs worked out.
When does this all end?
Never, Life says
With every new layer of skin.
(9/13/25)
Specific Types of Narrative Poems
Read wonderful narrative poetry on the following sub-topics:
christmas, 4th grade, funny, high school, kids, life, middle school, nature, rhyme, 3rd grade,
and more.
Definition | What is Narrative in Poetry?