The challenge of humility is of being too large OR of being too small…
Right-Sized
Life could be scene
As posing two problems
Thirst of all
Too be bigger than
What is called for
And lastly
Being sow small
Knot up to learning
That lessen
Be for me
And perhaps most of awe
What does it
Mean
Kind of oneself
Amor or less
Right-sized
And what might
Vary well
Make the whole deference
From won moment
Too the next
The shrewdness of winning and losing is not a natural ally in love and relationships…
Taming of the Shrewd
“We can cleave as one, or cleave as won, but we can’t due both.” – Cleave Jones
Ø my love
Could you be
A little amor
Shrewd
Said no
Won ever
Won over
Buy the gravity
And cunning
Of wily coyote
Falling for it
Ø the gravity
And other
A sordid
Looney tunes
There is nothing
Amor dangerous
Than being rolled
Played
In whatever
Might be
Won’s doody
In tiredly passable
Soully to be couched
In living
Room
To be entertaining
Asleep at the we’ll
Due this
Or due that
The ultimate intimate
Con sequence
Of walking that lyin’
In the thick of
Likely or lovely
In taming of the shrewd
We’re one
Calls home
This poem was inspired by my niece playing the role of Beatrice in Bill Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing…
Sow Few Nobles
The whys shake their aheads
Fore a town with sow few nobles
Too be so fortunate
Or knot
Much adieu
A bout nothing
Big brass bulls
Proffering vacant busts
Any won in the no
Know bulls
Largely reproductions
This poem is a bout that dance between empathy and enraging injustices…
Roughly, The Sighs of a Heart
“The human heart is some wear around the size of a fist.”
The other
Day I saw
A gripping tale
Of a man in the street
A singular fist razed
In that open heir happening
You sometimes see
Out and a bout
Shaken
Bye the whirled
That rhythmic fall
And rise
Over
And over agin
As if
The chants of a life
Time
Beyond being herd
Beyond ups and downs
In bodied lyrics
And impassable climax
As earth fucking heaven
And awe coming down
To that storied fist
Roughly
The sighs of a heart
And awe I could
Due
Is re-member
The beginning
Of the end of my arms
Are fists
A different kind
Of beating
That pump action weepin’
Leaving
Spent shells
Littering the streets
And still
Awe I could see
Was an opening
And closing
Opening and closing
Opening and closing
A super natural dance
In the art of life
Sow gripping me
Once agin
Creation is singularly awesome!
Imparts Are Imparts
I was taken in
Awe of the flora and fauna
Creatures big and small
And just entertaining
How might
God be
Hold this see of creation
As won
Greater or lesser
Then another
And eye soully came to
In a singular flash of incite
Breathing life into
Awe there is
Imparts are imparts
Cleaving as one
Unmatched and wholly
Yet never the same
Ever more
Life has boundaries. May we respect those boundaries…
Book Ends
We live
Fore the time being
In a whirled
Sow illiterate
That disrespects
The bookends of life
The sacred nest
Of awe human life
And the reverence
Of Mother Earth
Soully making degrade
In the mettle
We choir for generations
And regenerations
Wee must depose the gauntlet throne
Parading their disdain
Too end life
As we no it
In a vane tempt
To buy pass realty
And billions of other subjects
We must read the future
And the passed
To a sure good
In awe
Of the book of life
Sow trying to live a choice life…
Is It Passable?
Is it passable
Won’s hole
Life spent
Caught in the balance
Between overwhelmed
And underwhelmed
Everything screaming buy
Nothing left
Yet still
Presence
Joys sprinkled
Long the wayside
For you
Just wading
Waste hi
Is it passable?
Worth the admission prize…
Meet Up
I must admit
When God and I meet up
I keep minutes
Though in awe
Honest
Seams amor
Like ours
Somewhere between
Novel
Punch line
Or just teas
Weather God’s plays
Or my plays
Awe ways a hoot
And no madder when
Fore ever
Hows of worship
For awe people
There is a cosmos inside of us, just as import to the cosmos around us…
That Vast Nest of Inner Space
Let me
Way in
On this microcosmic scale
That vast nest of inner space
As more sow
A dream catcher
Then some type
Of a computer
Peering awe
The more sow
As a journey of passions
Taking up
Interest teller travel
Wear the goaled standard
Is amor
As light years
Than hard years
Soully finding ourselves
In mysterious plays
That in is capable
Of saving our assesses
Braking through new frontiers
While re-moving
That circumspeck from my I
Begging the quest in
Can you go the distance
Wile not
Leaving
Won’s skull
On imaginable adventures
Of storied epic odd sees
And awe that
The longest longing
There is
To one’s heart
Resistance is natural. Resilience is integral to nature…
Good Reeds
Are you up
For a good reed
Beyond getting bent
In during the furious
Winds of change
And with standing
Holding fast
To won’s nature
Grounded
Rooted
It’s knot a madder
Of weather
Blow hards everywhere
As marsh awe forces
Abide even
The swampiest swamps
And hurricanes
Like a breeze
This poem goes out to the COP30 climate conference from the mouth of the Amazon about won passable future…
Fossil Fools
Deep in the future
The alien archeologists landed
Long after the human raze
Was extincting to hi heaven
What did they unearth
A well populated mummy earth
And wile sum remains
Were but dust
The masses were fooly preserved
Fossils
And still
They were Abel
Too learn much more
A bout humans
From their carrion luggage
As snuffed from stuff
This poem is about hubris, specifically that dividing lyin’ between our powerful tendency to favor our own interests, subjective or not, over others who are often reduced to means toward ends, without equal favor. I find the axiom that God rains on the just and the unjust as the ground for my sacred appreciation of what I consider the holy grail of Jesus’ teaching: love your enemies. As a mirror human soully made in God’s image, I find that I need a lot of help living up to this…
God Rains on The Just and The Unjust
Right as rain
Assured of it
That dividing lyin’
Between hymn self
And awe others
For ever object-ing
Possessed with his own
Point of you
And his titanic share of the reign
In a cold, cold see
And fantasies of being grounded
Never subject
Too God’s rein
And the parent possibility
Of being
Washed up
And up agin
Settling for just muddling
Beyond avail
Soully doubling down
On this double blind
Weather effacing tear drops
Or unfathomable joy
Know won gets
A way clean
As some manor of umbrella
Under heaven’s care
Soully re-nude
To the whirled
And the grate unwashed
Much of the life of a plant goes on unseen under ground in the root system. I suspect that most of the good work in humanity happens largely out of sight…
Undergound Man
Won might not see me
As I am
In this whirled
Blow the surface
Down at the plant
Awe of the time
Being grounded
Rooting
In liquid life
Connected to above
And though in the dark
Made of light
Till
Under ground, man
NOTE: This poem’s title, “Undergound Man” is a bit of a riff off of one of the most iconic existentialist characters from the writer, Fyodor Dostoevsky. This poem is an alternative to the alienation and shame amidst ironic egoic superiority that typifies existentialist narratives.
I find that the urgent and not sow important often overtake and undertake the less urgent and amor important…
Life and Death Import
His sway was won of
Much urgency and little importance
A bit vane
Having
That inclination down
As being posed to
Much importance and little urgency
The things that never get
Realized
Even sow
Life weights
Fore him
Welcoming him in
Those many lessens
That may vary well
Lead him to amor
Vital presents
And out due
Going won better
Awe that life has
To offer
Of life and death import
Beauty Skulks
Beauty skulks a bout
Content to live on the fringe
Beyond the frayed
Gently weaving our story
In the margins
Not lured buy the bait and switch
Of the spot light
Rather bathed in that savory light
Illuminating awe that is homme
Inundated by the common scents
Of the streets
Leapfrogging that in trance
Of the fragrants
Abiding the seats of power
And voiding
That too effaced ruse
With back to beauty
We live in plays
Without fences robbing us
Our soul boarder
Cultivating hope
Growing peace
And harvesting just us
The opposite of faith is not doubt, it is desperation…
Desperation Not Suiting
Weave awe confronted
Hopelessness looming
When hour best is dammed fear
A posit of faith
Mortifyingly making degrade
My basis uncovered
As sensitive embody ensoul
As lonely craven
And sow wanton
Hear I AM
In jeopardy
Categorically for a gazillion
What is God’s udder goodness?
Down right effacing
Libel to God’s will
Holy unguarded
The naked truth
That desperation
Doesn’t suit me
Well
At awe
Overflowing
As amor
Then weather
Frayed of life or death
Awe a bout
Willingness
To be
Cared through
What might
Follow
This poem is a meditation on life being a fluid situation…
The Shape of Water
It was a fluid situation
Matched soully bye
That mettle
Ground
Staring at his naval
He was blind at see
Taking on water
Flailing a bout
Every scene without
An act
Making nothing of awe
Down for no account
Soully to find
Know madder what
He was
Out of shape
And fore what?
That moment of surrender
The wrest at sea
Aft loosen it
Only then
Real eyes
That third act
Caring us with the wins
The shape of water
And common ground
Oh what would give
To take
It with you
Getting wind of won self
And holy grounded
Yesterday, a group of eight Toledoans met with the staff of Ohio Senator Jon Husted. This visit was a follow-up from a visit last month where we presented several specific questions to be answered in this visit. There were no answers — not even whether we would or could get answers at some possibly defined time. Part of our quest was to ascertain if and what hard boundaries the senator might have on some of the key issues of the day, e.g., genocide, sex trafficking of minors, deporting our neighbors without due process. None identified. The sense of the group was that we are beating our heads bloody against a wall, of, at best, impotent staff, and a presumably intransigent senator nowhere to be found. We will persist, though eventually these monthly meetings will likely end up with a protest outside the senator’s Toledo office — where the staff can meet us at our office. This poem is my first shot across the bow.
Amoral Architecture
Infrastructure weak
Infrastructure weak
Infrastructure weak
The infrastructure bill
Is due
Unimaginably passed due
Our moral architecture
What remains
Of what is right
And left standing
In a no standing zone
Soully whispers
Herd in dark coroners
Of our body politic
Ever lusting echoes
In eternal silence
Of those who didn’t make it
And those who did make it
Fallowing, the sociopaths
Well trod on US
Even sow, we question the same
No answer
Know answer
Passing the buck
To the poor
The good news on the cheap
Wile corporate prophets
And corrupt politicos
Say buy buy to public goods
And dearly departing common cents
To be discontinued
Buy the way
The human raze
They lamely posture
What are we, maid of money?
Taken, the goaled
As neighbors made strangers
With coppers
The faceless and nameless
And what is the lessen?
There is no mettle, class
Soully taut propaganda
Chaos and corruption
Or better yet, just incompetence
Mean wile
The rich get richered
And the poor get dick
Always going back on
Word
Their final solution
Taking leave of US
And never budge it
As moral document
Without papers
Taking out verbal contracts
On us
Not worth the paper printed on
This poem employs an image the pops into my mind concerning our body politic, that is, poop throwing monkeys…
Monkey Kings
Proud to a fault
As they whir
Citizens
Of sorts abiding
In a banana republic
Run by poop throne monkeys
A hit!
They were fans of it
The warm comfort of familiar feces
Of what they were
Very culpable
Due
Whatever
They want
And if things go south
Go wiled
Fore they have
The ultimate gag
Their klan destined banana
Amor perfect union
With broad
A peel
Courting disaster
Butt given the slip
Awe too often
Falling for it
Obeying
Unlawful gravity
Creating won cries after an other
Making other monkeys uncle
As the poop flies
Gathering
These somewhat united states
Of riot and wrong
Disheveling it
With just their over head pleas
What’s dung is dung
Be for the awe might he
The king wading fore his foot stool
Never peering
To be pooped out
And the subjects
Of daze gone buy
Shrug it off
As best they can
Clinging too
In every weigh
At least
They do do something
I suspect that we are moving into a “black pill” era in America, where deep alienation, learned helplessness, and nihilism corrodes much of ideology of any sort and left-right divides provide less and less explanatory power in our body politic. Perhaps the new slogan will simply become “politics madders.”
No Thy Ideology
He didn’t really care
To shop for an ideology
But what he did no
Was that he only wanted
Won with fringe on it
Afar right will do
