They circled my desk
I drew flowers on my page
The bell rang; I stayed
Born with hair of a lighter brown,
A gentle soul in his quiet town,
He walked alone where visions spoke,
Through heavy air and battle smoke.
No crown of gold or feathered crest,
No tales of war upon his chest,
Just one lone feather was in his hair,
And lightning painted bright and bare.
Not born to rule with a chief's command,
He won the hearts of his own homeland,
From Rosebud's heat to Bighorn’s sound,
He guarded all he walked around.
He shared his meat, he fed the poor,
And kept the winter from the door,
A shelter for the weak and small,
He gave his heart to save them all.
When worn by hunger, cold, and tear,
He brought his people home from fear,
Yet freedom could not be contained—
A soldier's blade, a sudden stain.
He fell not broken by the foe,
With quiet courage, letting go,
A wild, free spirit, brave and deep,
Who gave his people space to sleep.
Now laid to rest where whispers keep,
In secret ground he takes his sleep,
Near Porcupine Butte's lonely height,
Hidden safely within the prairie night.
Words, they say, are a powerful tool
To share thoughts and express emotions.
Instances, there are, when they are less potent,
In moments spent in meaningful silence.
When understanding life is taking a toll,
Direly confusing and overwhelming,
A minute of solitude will calm the soul,
And escape the noise, often troubling.
When tempers soar, anger flares,
When utterances cut deep within,
Trading no speeches, nor even a stare;
Is a fire doused by water, resembling.
When an idea shared is taken for granted,
Like a wind passing, no bearing, no weight,
Wisdom dictates that dignity be protected;
To keep mum is a clever sleight.
When the soul seems to go astray
And wanders an unfamiliar path,
A quietude may help find the way,
And heal all personal scathe.
G rant me, Oh Lord,
I nsight that I may see what must be seen.
V anquish the spirit of selfishness within me.
E xpel the desire for vengeance.
M ake me forgiving that I may be forgiven.
E radicate temptation to all uncleanliness.
D o not turn away from me Oh God.
I nstead restore me to Thy favor.
G ive me intelligence that I may understand.
N eaten the way before me that I may see clearly the path that I must take.
I know that I have disappointed You oh Lord.
T each me Your ways that I may be pleasing in Your sight.
Y ou alone are my God and You are all I need.
Amen
The dancer with no legs
moves swiftly around the room,
knocking over the vase, and
gracefully turns to the window.
"I wish I were like the moon,"
She calls out into the night.
Her vain wishes like stones crash
through the window toward the stars.
I shift my legs to keep
one from falling asleep.
"Sometimes, I want to fall asleep,"
She tells me, “And never wake up."
Her strong arms lift the body
from wheeled chair to sofa.
And somewhere in the distance
Her stones splash into the ocean.
Donald Trump's in trouble
He does not know what to do,
He is too sick to govern
His whole life has gone askew.
The people who surround him
And advise him every day,
Are not patriotic,
Their only interest is in their pay.
Money, Money, Money
They cannot get enough,
They are not concerned
With any moral value stuff.
They have no time to think,
Of any other things
They are fully occupied,
By pulling Donald Trump's strings
This is becoming easier,
Now that the President is ill,
He is too sick to govern
This is a sad and bitter pill.
His staff shows no compassion,
For the position Trump is in.
He needs guidance and direction.
To do nothing is a sin.
He should step down now.
With the encouragement of all,
It would be a way how to
Show some dignity after a fall.
Nothing can make up for the hurt you get
When you're humiliated or in debt.
It certainly stirs a sour feeling of bitterness and regret
When realizing that trusting people is never a safe bet.
But the solution is not being indignant or upset.
Don't let people injure your vanity.
Or accept their deceit and abuse with alacrity.
What's life without dignity?
It's just a poor, useless soil
That crops nothing however hard you toil.
Don't let despair overwhelm your soul
And lead you to strange impressions.
Your spirit yearns for freedom not control.
So there is no need for concessions.
Just keep dignity as your lifelong goal.
PLEASE TAKE OFF YOUR HAT
DONALD TRUMP DID NOT DO THAT
SUCH A SILLY PRATT
The flowers died on Monday
Yet they rose again on Sunday
They found every way
A way, to be alive
They faltered and they stumbled
A rocky path amidst the struggle
As the sun rose high and bring
A beam of light, a ray of hope
How does one look back
At the painful pass and yet smile
Bloom in their bright colors
Where even memories falter
Swinging and dangling their leaves
An angle with its wings
A heart pure and merciful
From the war it waged inside its mind
The days comes by
Bringing new moments to light
High above the sky
Where those past all lie
A flower with true dignity
From riven ways and lent-for heaven’s vault
we clime on breath enwrit with slender ink,
each word a sworn avouchment ’gainst the dark,
each line a stout denial unto Lethe.
Hands erst in thrall do now the aether shape
with sigils forged of cinder, ash, and balm;
the orphan’s moan, the widow’s fervent cry,
lie twinn’d upon one consecrated leaf.
No tongue herein is beggared or despised—
the hush’d confession, clamant plea alike;
the scripture born of weal and wounded flesh
doth pace as peers in kingly even-stead.
We sing of marches loos’d from iron will,
of Right relearning how to quicken fair;
for Peace is not engender’d out of hush,
but sired by heedful ear to elder griefs.
This labour is no idle courtly sport,
nor dalliance of metre, wit, and breath—
it is a synod call’d by mortal hope,
where Mercy mounts the throne of trembling Fear.
Here, in these staves, the world recalls itself:
that Freedom waketh when all tales are weigh’d,
and Concord draweth first untroubled breath
when every soul long mute is bid to sing.
This is not a call to polish perfect rhymes
for quiet shelves in softly lighted rooms.
Take up your pen to map the fault lines,
where silent injustice shakes and booms.
Do not just sing of doves and olive trees,
but of the root that cracks the prison stone.
Write the plea that rides the stubborn breeze,
and turns a whispered truth to common tone.
For every ledger listing war's grim cost,
write one clear line that grief cannot erase.
Be the first, defiant green of frost,
the quiet anger shaping a kind face.
We are the scribes of heartbeats, not just years,
the gardeners of hope in fields of fears.
Somewhere, a mother teaches her daughter
to carry water on her head without spilling-
balance, she says, is everything.
In another country, a different mother
teaches her son to carry his name
without flinching when strangers mispronounce it.
We are all learning to carry something.
The refugee carries a photograph,
edges soft from touching-
proof that home was real.
The prisoner carries tomorrow
in the calluses of his palms,
counting days like prayer beads.
What if peace is not the dove
but the earthworm, turning soil,
making everything fertile again?
What if justice is not the gavel' crack
but the quiet hand that helps a stranger stand?
We build monuments to freedom
while forgetting freedom is built
in the small spaces between us-
the breath before forgiveness,
the moment we choose to listen
instead of turning away.
So here is my offering:
not grand words carved in marble,
but this-the admission that I am still learning
to carry the weight of your name,
your story, your right to be here,
as carefully as you carry mine.
Almond skin glistens with sheen of sweat.
Welted by whip lashes, marred, scarred.
Steady resolve not to cry.
Slave but in name only.
Eyes plead with heaven.
In agony,
dignity
one ups
pain.
In lands where silence used to reign,
Where voices cracked beneath the strain,
A whisper rosea gentle cry
For justice true and freedom high.
From broken streets and shattered dreams,
To fields that echo with the screams
Of those unheard, unseen, unknown,
A call for rights began to grow.
The right to live, to breathe, to be,
To walk this Earth with dignity.
To speak, to learn, to hope, to thrive
To live a life, not just survive.
No chains of colour, class, or name
Should bind a soul or feed the flame
Of hatred's grip or power's thirst
For all are equal at their birth.
A child in war, a mother’s tears,
A silent crowd that hides its fears.
The cost of peace is often steep,
But worth the mountain it must leap.
For peace is not just silence held—
It's hearts and hands that must be meld.
It’s justice served with open hearts,
And building bridges, not war carts.
It’s teachers teaching without fear,
And truth in every voice we hear.
It’s choosing love instead of hate,
And opening every locked gate.
Human rights, our sacred flame,
Are not a gift they bear no name.
They’re not reserved for just a few
(Lada, October 2025)
Lada, our own Glorious Aryan Ruler
Noble Slavic goddess of love, beauty
And fertility, although alas, spayed.
It’s interesting how every dog is unique
And yet every breed consistent
With its own genetically determined
Physical, mental and emotional qualities.
And although some breeds are more noble than others
Not all dogs fill their archetype’s shoes equally.
But Lada is the exception that proves the rule
The noble rule of her not so pure Aryan blood
Being a cross of East and West
Anatolian Shepherd and Great Pyrenees.
Top dog in our pack, ruling with deep growl
And a mouth big enough to hold and subdue a pug,
But always with a heart
That somehow knows exactly what to do
To keep her pack in line
While inspiring her humans
To see her inherent nobility and canine dignity
And not just meet the whole lotta love she gives
But rise to her example.
(10/30/25)
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