So much do, so much say, words come
endless minds wondering
Losing sleep like insomnia but I do not claim
Pills or excuse to your conviction of insanity
Same as I who knows what of their actions
Why a heart love so much it hates
Can not destroy love through destruction
It's desire passion of kindness at its best
Are we ashamed of who we become as a nation
That our fight, dignity to freedom falls
In hands those who wants kill us all
Where sin no longer confess but life itself it is
Forgotten commandments to good, burn like flag
Trading your life as the killer pulled trigger
Our behavior, only yourself to blame
Consequences you point if to save your own neck
Radical wars rage but not of peace and change
Concept not logical to theory is only an idea
Where truth to reality you cover eyes
Devastation of chaos a body lays maimed breathless
Their life, was it worth decision of your actions
Another world, unlike evil about to unleash
Defend your own, die like a man; not cowards
Can America be saved desolate grave souls breath
Or face their own demise at hands of demon men
With a vestige of myself within me,
she tells me to hold her firmly.
she is prone to misery
prone to death,
cause she is the curse herself.
she's afraid that the cacophony of finks will consume her,
and it will slowly start to euthanise her,
The body is alive and sound, working effortlessly,
cause it's the heart that is scarred for an eternity.
Now i am the one with a facade,
beneath that, there's a carcass of a breathing body
maimed by so many....
Eleven months without physical harm
is a blessing she cradles in her arms.
One more month remains of living unchained.
Soon life might lose the dread that threads alarm.
As his time serving overseas dwindles,
her coerced endurance holds less kindle.
Her thought onslaught is worry fraught and serves
images that swell in her heart and nerves.
She lives aware that one second can swerve
a life into despair no one deserves.
He might die or be maimed at the finish line.
In her mind, September is a landmine.
Fears make wishes to become unaware,
be numb to thirty more days of warfare.
She knows as a premature lamenter,
she wants sleep until the end of September.
And the storks drift inland,
landing on the sand's hungry mouth.
Salt-bleached cabins line the shore,
waiting for their stone eyes to inspect
Which baby should be delivered next?
Ah, yes. There is a home of sawdust,
where the panels have begun to cry.
They watch the tumbleweeds scrape the
foundation, and they quiver.
This child is ever so quiet, it's
as if it somehow knows what waits.
Glass voices begin to boom sharply,
the bottles of whiskey are seashell shards.
Into the open window it goes, that
tyke. Thrown onto a stained cot.
It scratches; its skin blistering with a hellish fever
Yet the child sucks their thumb and hums.
When the stork comes back to see,
whatever this child is up to,
who this odd little thing might be...
A desk with crayons, paper,
and notepads heavy with solemn prayer.
But at least, it has dodged Death's claws.
For in the bedroom door,
there is a knife slash so
perfect, it should have maimed.
I rather remain untethered, unruly, and untamed
In this world in which some expect me to always feel so ashamed.
I rather shun all of those whom made my heart feel so maimed.
A nobler theme needs more sublime art
In order to its honorable nuances impart;
And thus may famous muses of niftier writ
More tastefully craft this little lyrical script.
And if generous gods of superior rhyme there be,
Who with pure ease mellifluous tunes compose,
Then may such these tottering lines indite with me
And delve deep where rarest musical gems repose.
Where do love’s purest pearls lie
Beneath this bland ancient sky;
Where hug and kiss their warmest
Elusive touch pulsate at its best?
Truth is maimed and denied its form
And falsehood has become the norm;
Who knows any place she still thrives
Wholly unsevered by knavish knives?
And hope no longer blossoms
As it did in sweeter days of yore,
Now she’s worn out to the bottoms
And angst and doubt rule to the core.
And peace completely extinct is:
Chaos and strife now carry the day
And gallivant about in their hubris,
As mourning sufferers tearfully pray.
Oh, maple tree
you still stand free
how can that be
Tornado claimed
at you it aimed
now you are maimed
We planted you
fifty years flew
so full you stood
You live, still true
with limbs askew
and splintered wood
With grace, you stand
upon this land
for all to see
In our front yard
where we still guard-
Oh, maple tree
Warm day when we sailed, sailed, far, far, far away
Went looking for a theatre and a role that we could play
Didn’t know of the price that we would have to pay
Or of the lives that would be lost forever on that day.
And I wonder where they’ve gone
With their faces in the mud and the running of the blood
Could it be that they’ve found peace?
With their young soul’s early release
From those whizzing bits of lead
Or is it all just in my head and there’s no joy when you’re dead.
Did right by man, but we both did wrong by God
Looked his way and the devil gave a nod
We were used as instruments of greed
Helping gutless men satisfy their evil needs.
We’d be better off with spears, gases cause much more than tears
And the chemicals for some, maimed a generation yet come
Won’t you listen to what I say, it’s not a matter of who should pay
I’d rather that all such things would cease and we could all just live in peace.
Did right by man, but we both did wrong by God
Looked his way and the devil gave a nod
We were used as instruments of greed
Helping gutless men satisfy their evil needs.
Sometimes love makes no wink a prompter
That steers nothing in proverb
Just as accusation bets to cluster
To course lie a divest herb
Sometimes love fears the acclaimed politician
In whom assurance is reach an Everest
Forfeiting the maimed academician
Which arouses hope but to shatter it
Sometimes love is cruel
To affirm its case off benefits
Bursted out of the duel
Wary of trust on high twists
Sometimes lust is loss
That looses heart's crown
For servant chances toast's roses
Rolling to set sighs off laughter fun
Sometimes love consumes
It costs aging kindness be thrust
To foster blindly for homes
And key the heart's distrust
Sometimes love fume to entomb
That gladden craze; fists doom pleasant
The untold fair treatment costume
Never ceased to coil craze just
Before that comes to being
One must have neglected many a warning
That signals letting go as bravery
Which would have been savory
Watch the doubler tongue
Foaming adaptively to stung
The president’s bombing kids again.
Blood on the ground, ash in the air,
schools and playgrounds destroyed the same.
And I’m sitting in my ing rose garden,
silk garments pristine and
picking past the petals stained red,
nose clogged with the scent of flowers in the air
and not those that lie mangled,
torn to pieces,
eternally tormented on the ground.
What a privilege it is to be removed,
to have my head buried in this American soil,
ears chock-full of it so the only sounds
that bypass my earthen defenses
are high-pitched laughter
and commands to bend low
under the current state of affairs.
And bend low I do,
down to the bushes that haven’t been maimed,
the stems of elderly jade
that prospered by disturbing no one
and instead shining with untouched beauty.
My heart turns to stone with every headline,
that same jade replacing vein after vein.
Soon enough I’ll be a statue of enchanting green,
dazzling in the sun,
mouth open too late in a silenced cry
in my own damn rose garden.
In a coiling maze
mortars fume.
Crimson cadavers
dye the verdant soil.
Poison spears plunge
craters into young flesh.
Scattered moans rise
into the sorrowing air
of deafened canons
and carbon.
No succour or welcome
for the maimed.
Only ghosts
of peace.
We come into this world, just inklings of the people
We will one day be, little lights – like stars
Reflecting what God has for us, so many possibilities
"All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us."
Will we light up the world with our smiles?
Will we throw caution to the wind with our visions?
Will we send joy into the broken and the maimed?
Will we destroy the darkness with our gentle?
We come, hoping to grow into our purpose
Find the meaning, the reason, the intention
We come, without expectation for perfection
Knowing we’ll mess up, make the wrong choice
We come, knowing the angels are watching,
Ever revealing the light at the edge of each shadow
The abundance of a love that lasts throughout forever
Reminding us why we are here, and things come together,
Assuring our souls that we’ll know the One who silences
All the fears living inside of us…. Yes, we come into this world, unknowing spirits
who’re told by the One who created us to show the world
That love is real… and He sent us to reassure – He is ever near!
a photo moment for the pretty blonde singer
she is hustled into a tent with soldiers who pretend to be happy
this is Viet Nam 1969
They have seen many young men killed and maimed
But at this moment they paste on smiles
pretending all is well
incase their loved ones see this photo
knowing it might be the last time they might see them in any photo
the pretty blonde singer stands sassily in her white gogo boots
knowing nothing of the horrors these men have seen
she is hustled out as fast as she was hustled in
a five-minute photo op
propaganda to try to pretend it was not as bad as it was
There is always something
unspeakable in what remains—
a fractured spectrum of what once was,
scattered in the leftover bits:
half-maimed, dismembered,
and quietly rejected,
in what we scrape into the compost bin.
Every spick and speck reeks
of the aftertaste of endings —
with our recycled grief and rejection
dissolving in the detritus
of what we could not finish.
He walks alone through the hush of morning,
dew balancing like prayers on blades of grass.
above him, a red kite wheels as geometry drawn
and for a moment,he forgets what we’ve done.
the earth is still kind,still spills blossom from trees
we’ve maimed all that is good with our distain
let rivers write sermons through concrete and spillage.
yet even now,she forgives us, the mother can be kind.
As he stands beneath a birch that grows despite the plastic
coiled at its roots his hand touches the bark there’s warmth.
Its life refusing to retreat from it greatest enemy homoerectus
the weight and menace of opposable thumbs.
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