Awe is awe, there is…
That Witch Is
You more than might
Find yourself
Underneath
The power of the whirled
Wear there is
A river of awe
That witch is
A mirror tributary
Too the foundation
Of awe being
Beyond time
Hear and now
Fore amor then a spell
This poem is about America’s crazy Uncle Sam…
That Uncle Sam
Most families long for
A more perfect reunion
Yet halve won
That is that
Crazy uncle
Proffering to drop
Like a bomb in nation
As is
Offed the case
Won of our own
As like as knot
Stuck in a box pining
Fore choice
In completely
Lodged together
Craven for the vote
As much as kin dread
Chosen won
Chosen family
Pointed Canon
There it was
So pointed
Their canon
At me
They took
Their best shot
Over and over
I was
Soar too fine
Out
De-spite
There best efforts
Holy as could be
Came from ails wear
That greatest alloy
Of mine
Touched
And untouched
This poem is a bout the inescapable realty of each of us having an ideology, a set of assumptions that are chosen, cannot be decisively resolved, and that guide one’s basic decision-making and way of life. Importantly, at least some of our ultimate commitments in life lie in this debatable domain.
This poem juxtaposes this with the recognition that such basic assumptions are open questions and can even be legitimately viewed as arbitrary.
Owed to Lindsey Graham
“When elephants fight, the grass gets trampled.” –African proverb
Regarding the passing
Of that fighting elephant
Just saying
In the roam of some shithole in continents
Served cold on a silver platter
From that grate state
In the deep
South
Sow grave
Wee can wrest assured
There will
Be done
Awe for gotten
That sting of death
A switch between elephants
Or more appropriate
Knew and approved sycophants
And if there is won thing
A greed
This might be
Too soon
This poem was inspired by an image germinated in conjunction with two other Toledo poets at last night’s “Uncloistered” poetry reading, Pella Felton (birds as poems) and Kerry Jensen Trautman (peach pits thrown onto side of road). As usual, I suspect, a trifecta of Toledo poets can beat the four hoarseman of the apocalypse any day of the weak…
The Pits
Awe left
Of the fruit
Of life
Is the pits
Caste in a fallow feeled
As sow much garbage
Still
Fate has aweigh
Much like you
Long a go
Ceded too
Forgotten recesses
How ever refuse
Miss taken as heir
Breathlessly portending
In parent idleness
As won must
Merge with the wrest
Seamingly in conceivable
Varily sum how germ innate
Soully to root
Knot in sympathy fore sum devil
Abut a symphony of generations
Gone be for you
In countering
The only passing
Of time
And who peers on the seeing
Creatures farmerly known
As birds singing
Poems tweeting
In that abiding peachy nature
A little peace of haven
A mother’s kind nest
Baring fruits beyond recognition
“There was a rogue peach tree on aside of a rode which know won new wear came from, and poems, formerly known as birds, tweet.” –Anonymous
Weeping can be freeing…
I Weep
I here
Ten thousand days
In a soul moment
In each
Anew mourn
I weep
A river
Sow prodigious
A loan
Soully culpable
Of washing
A weigh the see of blood
There is know
Word
To de-scribe
What is ridden in my heart
Onto the smallest of vessels
What can be holed
Such a momentous crest
Awe that is aheaded form me
I cry duct
And what might
These tears be
As eye
Re-lease life
Blood without the cells
Free and unstoppable
Opiate of the Masses
“Being drug, through religion, the most wonder full I ever metaphor…”
From seamingly know wear
He professed
Rather proud of hymn self
“Religion is the opiate of the masses.”
As offering
Himself high Marx
Too sum unanswered preyer
Well founded
As some church rejoinder
Pain tension to awe
That might be
Immaculately conceived material deference
Or at least critical mass
Is there abut one
Answer
Too getting
Tight
Taut at the school of tautology
And endanger of getting
A pinch parochial
And drug allot
“Opiates are the opiate of the masses.”
If it is
Too be taken
Literally
This poem is about solidarity and the peace that can abide there in…
The Column Before The Storm
In awe the trouble of the whirled
I could sea it
A disturbance in the farce
As uncounted a mass
In their numbered daze
And a tsunami of the dark asides
A bout
A choiring
A mist blinding desperation
Wading for what?
The heavens to fate changing tides?!
Know
Wear might
The answer wrest
Soully from what is
Awe ready
As wee stand to gather
In solid-heir-ity
As the column before the storm
Expect the unexpected.
Got Unexpected
I got unexpected
Word
That swinging lick
A bit more harmony
A bit less harmonica
Alternately sucking and blowing
When my 90-year-old dad died last, his last months of care were made possible by refugee and immigrant caregivers. This poem was inspired when I heard someone speak of the fact that people of non-western cultures are raised to revere elders and that it is an honor to care for them. I hope that America can come to, learn the incalculably beautiful contributions that immigrants and refugees make every day to improve awe of our lives…
Children Borne Agin – Owed to Refugee/Immigrant Caregivers
“A daughter, unknown to me, came to, care for me, in my owed age, awe due to the travailing, a cross, the earth.”
A cross
This plan it
Its children
Flee their homes
And the vary borders
Which helled them
Too land in anew land
As stitch to gather
As much as they kin
They’re broke in hommes
Cared aweigh
Sew sew much
In knew hands
Of the largesse seem stress
As off spring springing from
That mother land shared by awe
Cradled in owed country
Peering to honor there elders
Nurse themselves
And others
In the end
Of life
Carrying on
Anew
For those who can’t
Help hoping
Cultivating dreams
Soully laboring for new generations
That is
Un-less
Of coarse
Un-till
Impossibly harrowing
The plowman plows under his own
Lode of crop
Craven winter’s wrest
This poem reflects upon the oncoming storm of broligarchy versus the people…
His Soul Vacuum – Owed to Broligarchy
“I don’t want to be, like, Hoover.” – President Donald “Broligarchy” Trump
His soul was a vacuum
For money
How ever
His expectation that others have to
Proffer him any amor
Is delusional
And what might
Come his weigh
May come a cross as pitch
Forks in the road
Witch is more familiar
In compassing
Tar and feathers
Straw men
More sow
Sticks and stones
Then flesh and blood
Ah men
“Those who make peaceful revolution impossible will make violent revolution inevitable.”
― John F. Kennedy
It may not be my busyness, but today I feel a scrap of hardy har hard work…
Idol Wrest
“But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law.” Galatians 5:22
They saw life in have
It is what
It is
And other stuff
Life is
Hard
Work
Without quest in
I AM who
To no
The deference between
Hallowed disciplines
And hollowed toil
For mirror hustle
For the bustle
As know control over
Won self
One love
The hole law
Of sacrifice
Of others
Con fronting
In mete grinder
And still
Moving
The fruit of the Spirit
Untouchable
Offering
A sweet spot
Sow choice
In the travails of this whirled
And brutal necessity
As if it whir
Taking
A brake
From awe
Things good
For there are labors
Of love
That give berth
To joy and peace
From mother patience
Creating hommes
Kind nest
Good nest
Faithful nest
Gentle nest
The answer to wresting
From wince control peers
I am an unrepentant idealist. My view is that if you don’t have clear boundaries, “red lines,” that you are willing to live and die for, then the drift toward some version of amorality or sociopathy becomes insufferable and life becomes holy compromised. This poem lists three boundaries that should be maintained without exception: 1) NO genocide, 2) NO sex trafficking, and 3) NO climate calamity, collapsing our global ecosystem — or put in the vernacular, not shitting where we eat, live, work, and re-create…
I Deal List
They did
Not bother
Too right
Me off
As I deal list
Axing only
My existential boundaries
So so spare
No genocide
No sex trafficking
No climate calamity
There is know pleading
In sanity
In the court of fools
Getting in the flow of life is easier, then you think…
Wins Blowing
“The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. So it is with everyone born of the Spirit.” – John 3:8
“Water is fluid, soft, and yielding. But water will wear away rock, which is rigid and cannot yield.” – Lao Tzu
“Hold on loosely, but don’t let go.” –from 38 Special song, Hold on Loosely
He might
Go witch ever
Weigh the wins blow
Knot subject
Too the gravity
Of any given
Present
Knot like water
Sow moving
Reigning unjust
And just
Falling fore awe
Toward the center
Of gravity
Untoward when countering
Resistance
Beyond time
Depending on the temp
Awe hail
May brake
Loose
As there is soully one secret
Wear the wind blows
No one no’s
In life, a race well run is found in cultivating win-win situations, not winning at all accosts…
Victory Lapse
There is won thing
A greed
He was taken
Bought
Into
Power, money, status
His raze well
Run
And the soul thing left
His will
To power
His victory lapse
A Spiritual Homme
We came to, believe, in a power greater, then ourselves.
There is only one thing more dangerous than talking about God – that is NOT talking about God.
Daze came to
This
I was tolled
There is a power
Grater then yourself
There is a God
And you ain’t it
Off coarse
I came to believe
In this soul truth
Of what
I am
Not in control
That lowest common denomination
In which I can live
Where I can
Feel free
To call up on
Other denominations
And still
Remain
As a spiritual homme
For others to mete up
If they sow choose
Here is a poem about the private-public-private beach sandwich pictured below. This crammed public beach near South Haven, Michigan, is sandwiched between ample private beaches unoccupied…
Vacay’ing In Dependence Daze
Hear as I share a kittle
Piece of mine
Apportion of realty show
The dealin’ America
My own
Private beach
As owner US
In loo of such common good
Water wee
Going
Too due
In hour end of the pool
Round the public square
Nationalism seems to me to be an over-attachment to geography and an under-attachment to people…
Celebrating the Forth
Won mourning
I awoke
Parently in the land of my berth
Recalling
I had herd
Something
Or other
A bout
Flagging borders
I just
For the life of me
Could knot re-member
From wince I came
Soully left
Questioning
How was I posed to
No what was right
The insistence of absolute sovereignty of the state is idolatrous and unhealthy for its subjects, and definitely unhealthy for all “non-citizens.” I vote for planetary citizenship and limit aliens literally to aliens (for the time being)…
God Less America
Where equality reigns
There is a sublime reckoning
Soully a bout
Adding up
God less America
Still, idoling on
Equals God
One nation under
A legend in its own
Mine
Mine
Mine
Not quiet learning
The after math
Today’s poem is a reflection on the oft shallow love of one’s own land, called “patriotism.” In this July 4th summer season, this poem is a tip of the hat to the “T”…
Unflagging Loyal T — Owed to a T
We are the won
And lonely
Dam nation
Of America thirst
Wear ails might
I want to be
Sow with it
In its cursory virtues
Helled to gather
Awe in the same bout
As sum type of commune a T
Occult of personality
Gimme liberty
Gimme death
Of what sublime
Due we under stand
And still
A mist fateful daze
Wee get win of
In dependence
Exploding onto
The seeing
And wore out
That rather
Unflagging loyal T
Well suited
To sum her days
Truly coming forth
