Part of being young
Is a belief in the power of hope
Part of growing up
Is the realization that hope
Has nothing to do with actual life.
Like Yoda said, you either do or don’t do
There is no try, as there is no hope.
This is just part of growing up, but
Some of us have been dumbed down
So our growth has been slowed
And so our idealism lasts well into adulthood.
It takes a combination
Of high hope and low IQ
To support communism, you know,
The political and economic philosophy
The depends on other people’s money.
Its supporters are usually divided into two groups;
The poor without much to lose and lots to gain
(Or so they hope)
And the elite who know wealth concentrates at the top
No matter what economic system is followed.
Low IQ is essential,
And sadly also accompanies being poor,
Because the actual result of communism
Is just more poverty and less freedom.
All around the lessons of history are clear
And yet all around its students put on blinders
Hoping, against all odds, with their stunted IQ
That this time they will get it right.
(8/20/26)
I finished writing in my head
And reached to type it, but alas
I dropped the text, and it fell dead
Just crashed to pieces, like a vase
Words on the floor at random order
Glint in the sunny afternoon
I wrote them narrow, they get broader
And jumped away, to die too soon
Words quickly rot, but some look fresh
Like fruits in autumnal decline
Few nouns shine, like burning flesh
Verbs ill-begotten, spilled like wine
Visceral fear I tied with hope
What was the purpose, can’t recall
Hopes rolled like pebbles down the slope
And fears ended with great fall
Words on the floor, farewell, my dears
I need to clean the room today
Brush off the trash of hopes and fears
They weren’t needed anyway.
Dismally dashing, clashing cankering, sunken ravines
Braved the batterings of the black, heaving sea
Seized upon the cyclical stream ‘lined ‘long the wind
Yonder b’yond the decrepit hail,
Nailing mine knees upon this hill.
I sang by a bygone cheer, a childish chortle
Honed where, and whence
Mine woes wade with homeward hopes.
Now, where one dare awoke,
a-top such the slope
To sing a song that shall beat at the bulkheads,
of the boats borne below
A sonnet sung to arise with the seeds of the soil
Arise as a rose
Manned with the majesty, the masculinity,
Of the man within me.
So to see the afflicting affections,
Of the sanctity without me.
So to see and reel in the eel,
Of un-static enthusiasm.
So to know, mine might may deem me,
Not the man within me,
A dastardly indelicate dame.
11//5//2026
The small experience gave color
to a clouded evening
of tedious bread, eggs,
orange juice, purchases,
and responsibilities.
The church bells
are not chiming
outside this song
and a fly isn’t mocking
my sincerity.
“The grass is
greener”
on your side
of the train track
where there is less trash,
crumpled beer cans,
and your sunset
has more colors.
“There was a ragged man
who followed in our
footsteps,”
but I am sprinting
toes to heel
on the cement clouds
overhead.
Gravity shakes her tired head.
Suffocating in the sheer darkness alone
Shaking insane while I’m on the phone
Blinded by the moonlight tonight I must say, must say
Binded by the misery of yesterday’s dismay
You ought to let me go…
Or you’ll reap what you sow
Just know I love you so
Just know it’s not the end, you know?
Honing my hopes and I’m coping with this sorrow
With a pitiful mindset…not longing for tomorrow
Honing my healing hopes
Holding on to the thick ropes
Roaming around towards home, feeling less than human…lost in my sins
I’m somewhat further away from the tomb of my past terrible shenanigans
Picking up the pieces
Hearing your messages
Laughing at your jokes
Falling down again
As the road increases
Guides me through the passages
Of the fears and hopes
That we shared then
Driving out of Jansel Square
Heading towards Marroway
Passing by the Garden market
Taking photographs
And the trees were bare
I didn’t know what to say
Rising from your Wilton carpet
Pippa barked at us…
In the budding year
when skies are drear
I hope to hone
with mind and bone
gilded words of fire
designed in love’s attire.
As merry bees rouse
and swarm ripe boughs
may glad verse run
before the first sun
like streams of honey
to gift me money.
The French panties Bob gifted wife Sue
brought a comment that made him feel blue:
“Hon, I doubt these will fit
‘cause the bottoms are split!”
Bless her heart. She just hasn’t a clue.
Godot won’t come this evening
Maybe he will next year
To see if we still need him
His healing words to hear
I think he’ll come at last
So every night I wait
Cause in Godot I trust
Each time when it's too late
Godot, what have you brought?
I'll ask, and he’ll reply
“Wasn’t it you who thought
To see me for awhile?
There’s nothing new indeed
Except its not the same
Except the one you need
Forgot to call your name
Rely on your believing
Don’t doubt her love, its true
If she won’t come this evening
Some other time she’ll do.”
Storm Within Me
Dusky clouds
Gather within me,
Blazing thunderbolts,
Where weird worries spin and bounce
Like storm gusts.
All such clouds
Will shortly dwindle,
Wild winds will soon wane,
New hopes and dreams will then bloom
With new sun.
Strong heart grains as gild
shone hope on her dream draped palace.
In time cracks reshaped grains
into hapless dream gratis gravestones.
Feelings, like storms, disrupt the inner peace and leave the future uncertain
Hopes, like mountains, seen and far away to reach
Desires, like eternal, keeps running and stop’s nowhere
Thoughts, like lightning, shine, disappear, and keeps coming
Tears, like rains, clear the clouds and leave it’s
Sign
Life, like ocean meets river, people comes from various channels with infinite waves, some to live and some to leave
Early Summer Haiku Edited
ripening cherries
hanging on trees in daylight~
bats feasting at night;
at morning sunshine
wastage and garbage on ground~
harvest hopes shattered.
Beneath tin roofs and between rusted walls,
their dreams hang like torn cloth
patched, and faded , in the wind.
A cracked bowl, a child’s laugh
hope drawn in a poster on broken walls.
Where's it told what tomorrow brings
who's in control pulling the strings
it goes to show
we'll never know
who's to say what's around the bend
down the road or at day's end
we'll never know
and so it goes
what's in store for wrong or right
in bright moonlight or on the other side of night
we can wish altho'
we'll never know
tho' we've been making plans
and scheming schemes
since time began
still we're hoping
and dreaming dreams
but until it's history no more mystery
mild or severe
we'll never know 'til time's become
water over the weir
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