The late-summer track runs blue with deep shade,
While cicadas rasp in sun-whitened trees;
And ask what secret lives inside the breeze,
You clasp my hand where sandy gullies fade.
I show the compass, by the years decayed,
Whose faithful needle leans, and never flees;
We watch the foam that feathers on the seas,
While on the shore our wandering steps are made.
You ask where north goes, in your small voice calm,
As though the world was just this morning born;
You spy a blue-tounged skink beneath a thorn,
And hold a broken shell within your palm.
The compass points its north through dusk and foam;
Your wondering hand points farther still—to home.
life can be funny or sad
depending on how it goes
I have had girlfriends say they would never love again
they invited me to their big wedding day
I feel that never is a very long time
why put the word never onto anything
I said for many years not to say never
never is not in my vocabulary.
like the rock for the centipede
or the shell for the hermit
take refuge under the moon
as the world goes quiet.
with silence like a serpent
taking shelter from the wet ground
anchor in gratitude
for the day that was had.
amidst your silenced tongue
there are sentences waiting to be spoken.
amongst your alienated adversities
awaits acceptance.
A PEEVED OFF DOUG FORD
WITH TRUMP, HE HAS STRUCK A CHORD
NOW TRUMP WANTS FORD GORED
Your chuckle delights
The loud sound made by small feet
- A new beginning
A new phase
Needs sacrifice
You have to let go
Of who you are
So you can become
Who you want to be
Something goes for something.
You got to let go
Of all that's draining
Endowing what's nourishing
If you want to fly
Give up everything
That weighs you down
Be like the Phoenix
From ashes to a new life.
Limericks written in Limerku form where words are counted, not syllables.
To some contest hosts, it seems to be very inconsequential
Perhaps they see poetry by a living brain as nonessential
What a disservice to the human hand
When AI poetry should receive a reprimand
Users have no shame in winning. They're positively nonpenitential
So easily now they've learned how to cheat by utilizing
the way AI allows, by using the means of humanizing
No hesitation over which buttons to click
and what they post is a goldbrick
Lines of blah blah blah, unappetizing that needs closer analyzing
The sponsors I continue to write for have dwindled low
Never would I post something that was empty of emo
Poetry should come from heart and soul
And if anyone cares... truth be told
Those who take unearned wins, I label them a bozo
If your voice holds no flame, just the echo of night,
A hollow refrain with no spark to ignite,
Then let the stillness rise, let the quiet remain—
For a word without fire is a breath without name...
Then let the stillness rise, let your whispers take flight,
For the dark cannot teach, and the void gives no light...
And if your words burn, but they blaze for your name,
A wildfire of pride that consumes without aim—
Then hush now, my soul, lest you fan your own shame,
For the self-willed are dust, and their embers betray.
Speak not for the sake of the sound in your chest,
But to carry the light that the Heavens have blessed.
For the lips that confess with no hunger, no awe,
Are but shadows that dance on a temple’s cold wall.
Oh, speak with the light or surrender to Grace,
Let the Divine fill the unspoken space.
For the holiest tongues know when to be still,
When silence is worship, when love is the will.
Oh, the Divine fire glows,
Where the humble heart goes,
In the quiet, it shows—
More than speech knows.
Standing on a billion shoulders,
together we reach great heights.
Proudly, we scream the stories of our lives.
Someone ought to give an Oscar to all of us—
rewarding us for our deeds,
for living the fullest,
for crying the loudest.
The moment we came to Earth,
we all added unique paint,
each one sparkling the world,
the beautiful canvas, in the end,
together we prepared.
We solved the great mysteries of the universe,
dominated infinite fields,
yielded lots of love,
the cheerful Earth we together keep.
We all are artists—
great ones,
evolved the world,
lived through every hail,
studied the magic,
together we sail.
The future holds a different genre.
Climbing the ladder of eight billion Oscars,
they will reach a higher peak,
a more vibrant canvas we'll seek.
Darkness
envelopes soul
rising screeching thoughts instilled
missed unseen jagged light escapes
heaviness weighs my heart
The wise often say,
what goes around comes around—
circles keep their word
one kindness completes a round,
returning on next cycle.
Bad karma lingers
only while the lesson sleeps—
turn the wheel with care,
one kind act with open arms
can loosen yesterday's knots.
Gaia watches still—
not with anger, nor with praise,
but with patient roots—
every footprint, every deed,
done with care, reaps worthy praise.
there goes my life the minute you walked in it
Taking the dog out for a short walk
On the ground and in trees birds I spy
All the time to God my Savior talk
Then the mockingbird called from the tree
A crow's caw was his short, sweet white lie
As morn's dew clung to spider's web free.
I then was 'neath oak's shadows that sway
Morn's light spread damp dew's diamonds awry
Daylight has awakened, thanked God, prays
As those clouds drift 'pon summer morn's start
Barn swallows weave patterns in the sky
Those bees 'mong purple cone flowers dart
Now a whip-poor-will sings light away
Thinking of you my eyes tear, I sigh
Then clear sunset ends another day
I'm thankful for these precious moments,
Each step that I take before I die
Sunshine, rain, surviving these last months
It doesn’t depend on a choice but rather
You have it innately, or not
Though it can’t be derived from mother or father
Inevitably, with a lot
Of all other merits and habits they can
Subliminally pass to you
Either you belong, or you’re not one of them
Who live as if splat in two
The national mammals like to care about
The superior meanings of their tribe
But what goes around swiftly comes around
In reverse, from another side
When it comes to a whirlwind of echoes
The nationals can’t discern
Their own voice, and from what of ghettos
A heavier smoke returns.
it was third platoon’s turn to leave
the safety of the wire
our platoon’s mission
search and destroy
the air was like a sauna with no relief
the jungle closed in on us
blocked out the sun
our packs weighed on us
as we humped twenty klicks
without a break
our jungle fatigues
hung heavy on us
failed to wick sweat away
from our bodies
we felt as though a
salty monsoon had soaked us
Johnson, on point, was
out in front probing
for the enemy
we all hoped the day
would end peacefully
we spread out
to lesson our chances
of mass casualties
we reached the village
mid afternoon
it was deserted
even the water buffalo was gone
we ripped up the floors
in each hootch looking for
the hidden enemy-but found none
when we finished searching
we pulled our Zippos from
our pockets and lit
the dry straw that served as
a roof on each one
and watched as the hootches roared up
in flames like a Roman candle on July 4
our lieutenant signaled for us to
take a break and we sat among
the debris some smoking
cigarettes others catching some zees
no one was
going home in a body bag
our day was a success
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