On the stickers written in black and white
Are our last names on the return address.
It’s been almost a year since we took flight,
When the ocean sprung us from the egress.
We were once so close, now so far apart,
Finding ourselves stuck in separate nests.
The courses we had never planned to chart,
To find a life that we thought was best.
I fly across the sky in search of you.
Hoping I will come to rest where you lay,
To seek the blessed love that we once knew.
If I were to reach you, I would never stray.
Like Lovebirds who stake their devoted claim,
Their tender lodge be writ one and the same.
I AM SICK OF HEART
TRUMP TEARING NATION APART
ICE AND VOTES TO START
ADDRESS TO NATION
ALL HIS IMAGINATION
VOICE HIS FRUSTRATION
I asked the sky at night,
where is the star that once was mine.
The sky replied in dejection,
the star that once held your affection,
now lives in the street of your heart,
where road are yours but path belongs to her heart.
SMITH IS IN A MESS
GOT NO HELP FROM HER ADDRESS
MOST THINK OF HER LESS
( Through ChatGPT Discussions )
_____
My Dear People of Earth;
The United States has been given the power to destroy the world. That is a terrible power, god-like in scale but god-less when abused.
We acknowledge therefore, that with this power comes a greater obligation to serve, not to dominate; to heal rather than wound.
As a nation rooted in a tradition that teaches 'Love for ones neighbors', we now commit that power; not to war, but to the flourishing of life.
We will begin funding the means for every human being on earth to access clean water, food, medicine, education, and dignity.
We will support systems of governance that center life, truth, justice, and beauty. We will no longer impose ideology but walk beside those who dream of A More Humane World.
We will help establish a secure global exchange system that is transparent, ethical, and accountable to make this possible.
We will convert the machinery of death into gardens, schools, and sanctuaries.
We will do so not because we are perfect, but because we repent of power without conscience and now turn our hearts toward A New Eden Realized.
_____
.
Ed tried to write a poem
for the first time in his life
However, in so doing
he scared away his wife
She read it once
and thought him mad
And though her reaction
made Ed sad
He posted it on a website
where many fillies view it
Who think that Ed has good horse-sense
~ He’s no longer cause to rue it
I approached the familiar chair,
And sat, breathing out the stress of the day.
Looking around, familiar faces with almost-remembered names
Flashing back and forth on the TV.
In my hand is just water,
But it feels like a tell.
I sit, all my possessions within reach.
Everything that makes me what I thought was
Unique
Fearless
Strong
Is hidden behind my leg.
Embarrassment and shame engulfs me again.
Another hotel lobby, because no bed welcomes me.
A bag filled with donated miscellaneous mystery meat
Cans I bow down for, gratitude for something
For something someone found.
From Easter, or Christmas, 15-20-30 years past.
No good for people,
To the homeless it's passed.
The chair is familiar.
It is the chair I sat in when I realised -
Pity is not low enough,
Disgust is not deep enough.
You know how you feel when you see them.
Sat outside because no one welcomes us in.
Will the real Slim Shadies please stand up ~
and so they did, and corruption ruled the night—Poet
stand for tyranny
applaud for injustices?
their presence mattered
2/24/26
The State of The Union Address
Spectacle of a Trumpian stump speech:
Showmanship at times maudlin, at times macabre
Purple Hearts aplenty, Congressional Medals of Honor
Tales of American heroes to stir even the yawners
110 minutes of non-stop vaudeville ~ a true marathoner
I write to speak,
Of feelings folded neat,
Of dreams untold,
And words left incomplete.
A letter — meant to travel far,
Needs an address, a name, a mark;
But mine — they linger, sealed within,
No stamp, no post, no destined kin.
To whom shall I write
When no one waits?
When the heart itself
Locks its gates?
Some are written out of fear,
Some in silence, held so near;
Some for love I’ll never claim,
Some for guilt without a name.
To the unknown, the lost, the dear,
To shadows I hold close and clear,
I write — not to be read or known,
But to whisper truth to my own.
These letters rest where secrets blend,
Pages of thoughts that never end.
They are my diary, my unseen friend —
The letters I’ll never send.
The love song with no lyrics
that is the reality of my life.
The empty tin with no noise
that is my cry.
The holes I patch
Open up new wounds.
The pressure of pain bursts out loud
like a broken water pipe.
All my memories are stored away
in a dark cloud
that rains
every time I recall
the fantasy of our love.
You wanted laughter,
so I rehearsed a smile.
I tied my soul to my words for you.
I learned to hold the storm,
swallowing the thunder
so your sky stayed clear.
The beautiful storm,
the sweet salt,
the calm sea,
the perfect love
oh, what a fantasy.
I patched the flame
with borrowed words and lullabies,
played our record
until it ran out of words.
I became fluent in silence
just to keep your peace,
but it screamed inside me
louder than love ever did.
I held the door open for you for so long,
I forgot how to close it on myself.
Oh, the irony of love.
Every smile I wore for you
left bruises on my soul.
Now I drown in the floods
I never let out.
And I wonder…
was my love letter
mailed to the wrong address?
This is your home address, you said
Seems like so many years ago
Now it’s a memory asset
We don’t live there anymore
The lawn has grown a bit too high
No one shall come to sweep the leaves
From the doorstep, and the sky
Hangs down low over the hills
Your flower beds are in decay
No one will care for the tree
The changes came, you went away
Too soon, left no address for me
In Springfield’s hall, a young man stood,
And spoke of threats that none withstood—
Not foreign armies, but seeds within,
A nation’s ruin born of sin.
Today, his warning feels alive,
As fear and doubt among us thrive.
The law bends under weight and strain,
And justice falters, flawed, profane.
Pardons shield the loyal few,
While freedoms erode as tempests brew.
Policies divide, compassion fades,
And fragile trust in darkness wades.
Lincoln’s voice still calls us back,
To mend the breach, to seal the cracks.
A nation’s strength lies not in might,
But in will to guard the people’s rights.
On the one hand we are told not to blow our own trumpet and be humble,
One the other hand we we must express Love for ourselves,
And through the worlds not stumble,
Or our lives will get lost in the concrete jungle.
So how do Love ourselves less without getting into a tangle,
Or Love ourselves more without risking that for which we angle.
Since we cannot loves others from any angle,
Without Loving ourselves from any angle
We must look at the subject from a third angle.
I suspect if we make the best use of our talents,
We will be demonstrating Love of self to more than our parents,
And will have no need to blow our own trumpets outside our own tents,
As scouts are good at trumpeting news of anyone with talents.
You know,
I am a restless woman from ages past,
Who does not know the address of her home.
I am searching
For the address of my home.
The house where I was born
Held wealth that was never mine.
I worked,
Toiled,
And through all joys and sorrows,
I was a companion,
Yet remained an outsider.
In the house where I went
After marriage,
Carrying countless dreams,
I was known as the girl of another home.
I managed both home and outside,
Yet still remained an outsider.
Now I have grown old,
And my son is the master of the house.
Even now, I do not know
The address of my home.
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