Sometimes when I due things my weigh, it just leads me back to the eternal truth that things work out better when I employ awe.
That Hire Power
That hire power
Put me on
Notice
Halve it my weigh
A small Jōb
Alight wait
Fore whom shall I send
That cache in heaven
Mysteriously helled
Back
Just as I AM
Employing awe the while
The inane static of life often drowns out the good works and awesome joy that undergirds and fuels those “of us” who are building a better world day by day. May your good works and joy be abundant and contagious.
Replete the Sounding Joy!
We interrupt
The ongoing nightmare
Of insidious take aways
To deliver
YOU
This anti-commercial message
The arc of won’s life
Full of heart works
Weather one
Two by two
Or masses of rabble
Inviting won and all
To join the largesse
Circle possible
Encompassing the maximum
In powering the closest to awe
A revolution free of spin
Boundlessly renewing
And miss giving out of the question
As the answer ever peering
The manor of just us
Replete
Replete
As well
As replete
Sum more
This poem peered early this morning. The muse strikes again! This poem is a poet’s poem, and a tip of the hat to one of my favorite poets, Rumi. Who is that says you can’t feel the sublime standing in a pile of number two…
Unentitled Number Two
Awe is write with the whirled
Surfing the chaos
Affront of me
And awe sow still
Standing in
Sublime feeled
Sow Rumi
Know better plays
To be
This poem is a meditation on the notion of a broken heart opening up and oozing life despite whatever hurts may be experienced.
Letting Loose Averse
I let loose averse
Only too here
What may happen
As words sore
So long
A cross
Ether this or that
Too what might be
As eye a weight
A mirror echo
Or anew ballad to my heart
This death shed
Only now
Oozing life
From every pour
Fore sow much as
Won soul wading
Enjoining
You unleash
A relenting heart
And paint this town red
Much of the brutality in our world takes the form of a war of attrition, where “the more titanic of the two” calculates that they can outlast the damage to won an other. This raze to the bottom abodes well for a vanishingly small segment of humanity. This poem looks to a way passed — contrition, a turning away from harm as a necessary mean to get won’s way. May we learn that one side fits all.
Attrition Verses
Attrition versus
Contrition
Each second a prelude
To every yearning first
Every our
The only raze worth finishing
Beyond all means
Surpassing interrogation
From wents attrition peers
As some holy goes
Where nobody no’s
The blessed won
Sown in fits and starts
The more titanic of the two
Pain in wages
Of a calculated wore
Of dis integration
Where down to nothing
Brutalized souls and flesh bared
Till the last man standing
The gravest of endings
Enshrining as hollowed ground
Buy passing from here to kingdom come
Small mounds of common ground
A juggernaut of a terrain
On time forever more
Fallowing every eerie order
Given to broken hearts and heads of stone
And what remains
A future full groan
And only Abel
To dis tend
For blooming eternity
Snowballing in Hell
The winner of our discontent
Every piece passable
Every share undone
Life in rune
Anew language of love
A remorse code
Presents itself
Stairing into the abyss
Of what might
Be hole
Between naught and ought
Is there know room
In the inn
And outs
Of human kind
And what bounty may be put on
That peace passing
Under standing
And a mist awe of this
A genesis takes us back
Just seeded
By contrition
Rooted by eternity
Boughing to awe that is now
Unfurling futures
Wherever heaven shines
As you may know, I am a convicted felon, for refusing to register for the military draft, way back in the 1980’s when draft registration was reinstituted. I found such a mandate offensive to my conscience and world peace. I don’t do war. There is a quip that is meant to confirm your earnestness as a Christian: If you are a Christian, would you be convicted of it in a court of law. I suppose as a Christian pacifist this proved to be true for me. Nonetheless, I am a great fan of Gandhi’s perspective of “I am a Christian, a Muslim, a Hindu, and a Jew.” I would add a few others, such as Buddhist and Taoist. Of course, the above quip applies equally to the adherence of any serious belief system, as to how does it perform in the real world. What I am not a big fan of is the criminal justice system. Thus, this poem.
Believe Ability
In earnest he asked
Are you a Christian?
I replied
Tried and convicted
In a court of law
Though I must say
In awe sincerity
I am not convinced
You can trust
The criminal justice system
Legalism, however exacting, cannot truly capture the sublime wisdom of the heart and conscience, nor the courage to transcend legalism. Legalism is better at capturing bodies. Legalism is fundamentalism, the enemy of true religion. And sometimes true religion requires that we become enemies of the state.
I am quite convinced that there are many many Christians who would not consider me a good Christian. Similarly, I suspect that there are many Hindus, Muslims, and Jews, who would not consider me a good Hindu, a good Muslim, or a good Jew. Still, I could die in peace with the epitaph: “He was not easily branded.”
If you like this poem, you may want to check out “I am” and “Not the Usual Joke” and “A Bout a Helpful.”
This poem is a tribute to won of the keys of life, that is that the journey is more important than the destination. On a more earnest note, may integrity and honesty make a comfortable home in your character. On a lighter note, may kindness and joy be your constant companions. And if in doubt…join the dance.
Giant Chain of Keys
He had
Spent
His live long daze
Securing the keys
To the Kingdom
Until that most fateful date
Turned up
And he was
Startled to learn
Dumb found
There were no locks
And having stumbled up
On a joyful gait
His giant chain
Of keys rattled
Like a tambourine
And he joined the dance
Weather to tell the truth or not? Forecast for today: shit flying, and the gravity of this doubted. The largesse of falsehoods seem ingrate supply in daze like this. Grievance politics seems as worth wile as cache. This poem may not sanitize such shit, but it does satirize it.
Making Shit Up
All said with a straight efface
Game on
The whirled has flipped
Off to the razes
The gravity of a legion of heavy situations
Sad as might be
In verse
Let alone in reality
Make up a grate reversal
Proffered by the effluent and well-to-doo
Awe a bout
Some fickle madder
And lodes of doody
A choiring everyone ails
And their cousin hurl
In some far flung dump
Wading to sea
If only
Can void certain certainties
As that wandering if
Shit flies
And wear in sticky
Blessed be the peacemakers. It will take awe we have to secure peace. May the fog of war give weigh to the tsunami of love rising in the see of humanity.
Beating The Conundrum
The peacemakers cried
Everybody for everybody
For everybody to here
One side fits awe
Yet so-so many
From won side or the other
Unendingly decry
You are giving
Comfort to hour enemies
As the warring daze
Blurs into darkest night
And countless mournings
The dawning
Of just
Enough retaliation
Know one
Really no’s
The fog of war
A mist our shared genesis
And reckoned fate
Souls seizing
As riot and wrong craft
Anew fuse
And insanity repletes itself
Over and over
Over and out
What will
It call for
To tap out
A fresh rhythm
Awe that meters
To sublimely no
Such cacophonous carnage
One way or an other
It will take our all
Whatever time we have is a gift, the greatest of which is the present. Now is the the time for gratitude. Now is the time for love. Now is the time to dance.
A Fete for Awe Time
Is it incurable
Dis ease
Marked bye a fever
Pitch
Yet not dark
Only light
Stuck to my sole
Wear a gait for awe
Is not a gate at all
In stead
An endless ring of truth
Espoused
More like
Walk in park
More love
A dance
Floored till the final round
And while some may take lead
From whatever comes to pass
The blest of us
Still follow
Our spirit glide
A fete for awe time
This poem is a small tale of serendipity where even the small stub of a toe could lead to large discovery, and weather this discovery turns out to be a blessing or a curse may also deep end on serendipity.
The Stub
He wondered
Round the desert
Fore what could have been
A madder of daze
Or forty years
Stubbing his toe
On what
Turns out
To be
The top of some won’s world
A pyramid
Of time in memorial
A vocation to some
A vacation to others
In far aweigh lands
From dust to dust
A ticket too
The wresting spot
Of dead gods
Unearth
The mother of awe mummies
Famously on display
In museums
Hereafter leaving us breathless
Having lost site
Grace fully unaware
Of a mirror stub of our former footing
That effortless healing
Of that unassuming god
Somehow taken
For granite
That big tow
Buy past
Bye small oblivions
Until wee too are bared
Inquest to be made
Hole
War is fertile territory for hyperbole, to put it kindly. More to the point, war is built on lies. Big lies. Little lies. Really big lies. Truth is the first casualty of war — most of the rest are civilians. This poem takes to task the media as lapdogs snacking on convenient lies than doing the actual work of reporting and fairly integrating the inconvenient truths strewn a bout.
Repleting Lies
The secretaries of war called
Mirrorly won more
Press conference
Designed too replete lies
And for truly scrappy correspondence
In bedded journalists
The tip of the spear stuck
Wear truth lies
As only wore propaganda
And naked fiction frozen
As lockness monster
A hit and myth undertaking
Increasing make believe ability
As parrot with irrelevant dictums
A vicious cycle of knews
Re-hearsing and re-hearsing
Till their grate reword
Reckoned just
Doing their jobs
Aping muck rakers
This poem is a tribute to the deinstitutionalization of religion into a more open space.
Hows of Worship
She asked
What was my house of worship
Who could say
It is
More
Of a field
And the pews are very different
This poem is more fun if you get that “pews” are also smells — just putting the P.U. in PUNS!
I Adore
I stumble up
On the hows of awe people
Soully to learn
I adore
That witch awe of life
Is hinged
And I am holy framed
The truth of which
I cannot bolt
I am udderly dumb founded
Still and facing my mum
Howbeit
I thought myself clever
And I wished
To keep a lid on it
Only to uncover
I am ajar
This poem is a rather large upgrade to the old joke: “When is a door not a door? When it is ajar.” A door opening is common parlance for an opportunity or invitation to something new. I have come to understand that in an overly pushy world where people are rushing to “make” things happen, that the better part of wisdom is persistently inviting others to positive change with a minimum of force. While I have been known to regularly jar people’s thinking, my point is really to unjar there thinking. Ultimately, adore is only adore when it is ajar.
Far too often it seems that cheaters and brutes win the day, and honest and kind folks get the short end of the stick. This poem is a meditation reminding myself that character, whether good or bad, and whether of an individual or a nation, produces destiny. In short, you can’t cheat reality. The means produce the ends. The ancient wisdom of character is destiny is a version of Gandhi’s famous, “Be the change you want to see in the world.” Of course, one person doesn’t get to create (or destroy) our collective destiny, but we each get to add our character to the world, moving the world in one direction or the other. Character matters. May the world be full of hearty characters with robust character.
Destiny is as Character Duhs
They temped to hide
But it is futile
Character has its weigh
High and low
Weather a punch in efface
Putting on a show
Or a subtle wisp
For awe to see
Relentless ripples
Haunting echoes
There is a deep order
In each accede
Destinies of every kind
Reality can knot be cheated
Even if you can’t see it
This short poem goes out to all of you planetary citizens out there.
Citizen Ship
They had no papers
They’re citizenship
Written on their hearts
By Mother Earth
This poem is another meditation on hope, timeless and timely. Hope seems to have a life of its own, and seams intent to share that life. Sew spread the knews.
Whether Proof Hope
Hope is its own kind
Of fuelishness
Powering our resistance
Sprung from an earth
Wear grief and rage
Grind us to dust
And wee are watered
By sees of tears
A crucible of mud forumed
And from what due we rise?
That divine see’d
Peering sow obvious
From fruit borne
And flesh embracing
That undeniable genesis
Rooting from eternity
A kernel leading us to light
That delivered us hear
That winsome loosing
Of bearin’ earth
Wear some like mighty oaks upon us
Many more like reeds
With standing
Any assuming gale force wins
And many money wounds
Beyond any concept of fare
Abides an inconceivable savor
That tasty solace
Of succors everywhere
In juries whether proof
Beyond questioning
Who dares lick our source
This poem is a glimpse into my somewhat demented mind. I am not really sure what inspired this poem. This poem is not based on a real story. Nonetheless, here it is. Poetry happens. Please feel free to not be imprisoned by it.
Caged in Key West
From my jail cell
Feet from the bars
And salty see
A flip-flop flatfoot
Bore his bear feet
Of which I was captivated
No less than by concrete and steal
His ingrown toe
Was his true engrossment
Not some little con
Unable to look aweigh
The saddest fact being that
This was his best feature
Too early in the mourn to lose my lunch
This farce-fed prison gruel
Left but a residue of gratitude for his
The truly pedestrian crime
And pondering if I
Destitute and lawyerless
Were his tender
I’d require a double shot of gratitude
Just for being on this side of the bar
Listening to whoas all day long
While I have a grate deal of confidence in my well-founded opinions, I can get lost in sharing these opinions with those who have no interest in listening to them. Even if I am right, the shadow of self-righteousness can be long and insidious. This poem is a reminder to myself, and anyone else interested, that there is a more patient, more grounded way to be in the whirled. Plus, then, when voice and action arises, they are less likely to be reactive to foolishness and more likely to be aligned with positive change.
The Rode Less Travailed
Life was rife
With lacks and lackeys
And I was on my high hoarse
With no won hearing me
Peering to me
As a fete worse than deaf
Where listening is for the birds
And talk is cheep
Only then to be struck
By a deferent weigh
An untrying action
I planted my feat on the ground
Fore a more quiet rooting
Me on
Firmer footing
And growing patience
I listen
I spy
With no bugging
I find myself moved
More by warmth
And just reign
Life is loaming large
And dancing is a breeze
Life is teeming
With deep timber speaking
And tender reed swaying
And when my voice rises
There is but one measure
Improving upon silence
That well being
And bed rock of fecund action
Life is complicated. Many of us use this as a rationalization to avoid decisive action. This can leave us in a morass of moral confusion. If we a fine line a ledge, the slightest movement may result in profoundly different outcomes — such as falling of a ledge, or not. The difference between right and wrong may not seem much at times, but they are opposites. This poem is yet another meditation on the wisdom of relying or over relying on fine probabilities (statistics) versus qualitative certainties (moral knowledge). Modern society is inundated with statistical probabilities, such is the good foundation of much science. But, we can get lost in all the calculations of life. There is a good reason that calling someone “calculating” is not a compliment. My best practical suggestion regarding “life is complicated” and its ensuing confusion, is to simplify and focus on the many fewer things that you know for certain, that is, your basic values. Wile the whirled may be a swirl of confounding, by keeping a focus, a center around the fewer sure things, balance becomes reachable. May you find clarity and balance in this oft bewildering whirled.
That Fine Line
Can you tell
The deference
Between who and what
Matter and anti-matter
Creation and destruction
Between everything
That’s possible
And nothing
That you can do
Madder and anti-madder
The parent riffed between
Loving
And just
Scorn points
Down with stuff
And up with attitude
Getting awe this
And being
This
God presents
This fine line
Where you must
Live
Between distinction
And extinction
Between discreet
And excrete
Faith and certainty
The devil sells you an admission
To know where
Obscure plays
Between meaning and mean-ing
A rock and a hard place
Read and red
Between the lyin’s
Forever grasping
And never under standing
The deference
Of worship and warship
Some wear
Beyond the same owed ship
Every won occupies
