A little soul geometry for the journey…
Gee I’m a Tree, More or Less
Twenty questions begin with three
Mineral? Plant? Animal?
Or fore
Bigger than a bred box?
Sow what
Is the point
Just two points is a lyin’
Three points is plane
Four points allows some space
Five points some time
Six points
Well that is
Another dimension
And sow fourth, fifth, sixth
Gee I’m a tree
More or less
As I am
Soully
Won point
Death throws its ugly efface in hour direction with unending chaos, violence and destruction. People of good will, lovers of life, let’s not fall for the barrage of sucker punches…
Death Throws
It looks as if
It’s just
Equal
Opposite reaction
Of perpetual temptations
Inviting ancient evil
Beyond that
We ever new
Life
As death throws
Us
Hurling through the err
And in countering sin
Some daze
As black as pitch
That screwball
Impossibly wandering
If can or will hit
Striking out
Or home run
Standing bye
Quietly as a waver
Won knight stand
Mirrorly a fling
Or sum radical commitment
To swing a weigh
And how sow
When death throws
In during such a game
Be on guard
In unending doody
As winging your way
And what kind
Of hit
With fans
In the offing
As a spire to sore
Be care full
It’s catchy
Weather you like it or not
That faculty too
Let fly
When its knot so easy
The spirit is elusive…delightfully elusive…
Defying Any Yarn of This Knit Wit
My relationship with God
Closer than kin be
Defies any yarn of this knit wit
Seaming beyond owed fashion
And awe ways wanting amor
Is clothes enough
And sum times embarrassingly
A staggering naked truth
When throne adore open
As irk some movement
You can’t help it
Your mine
Starting to race
Rather than settling
For some kind
Rather than exact likeness
Let alone inconceivable love
Such peek experiences
Exist soully
As fact simile
And poor reproductions
Such as the looking glass half fool
Maid by quick studies
And tidy hows
Forever next
To godliness
And cryptically helled fast
Unsurprisingly
Up on reflection
You may find me
A little slow
Just sow
Perhaps you don’t see me
As a bug splat on a win shield
Shrouding woos
I AM
And to the quick
I may peer mystifying
In such disorienting joy of fun hows
Never truly wanting
To have words
Simply that soul plan
Mirrorly word
In uni-verse of poems
Quiet awe the better
If you list closely
You just might here
If you have more than won ear
Fore that blinding seeing
A covet us hand out
And alms like a beggar
Mouths agape
Drunk in
Such a bewildering
Stand still
Beyond belief
Having came to pass
Billions of time before
When you least
Expect it
The winners circle
In a generations-long raise
Of a delightfully tiny child
Ten thousand times mother lapped
Right What You No
I rebel
There for I am
Author in life
More than won in many
As biographic all
To be penned
At the hand of some
Wholly ghostwriter
As if
Roughly drafted
To be
Seeking only that unending
Oh pine in
Right what you no
Rise above
Whatever fear
Of deaf
Too your life
Being red
As may day
Light be found
Breaking a weigh
As a scribe to life
That crack sublime
Even as ill luminating
More than double blind
Suppression of first amendment rights is marching on domestically, while the middle east is racing to war, cheered on by Donald Trump.
Bright Red Lyin’
There is blue
There is red
Partisans of many stripes
Yet agin
There is a bright red lyin’
Weather blue bloods
Klan
Or feds fed up
Overwhelmingly concerning
In the ploy and deploy
Of militarized forces
Putting down civilians
Exorcising their first amendment rights
As a tack
Too the heel
A poem about the “riots” in LA.
Rights in LA LA Land
If you give
Rights to won group
Soon you have to give
Rights to everyone
Propagating like weeds
And right now
There are rights in LA
Not sow
Says the right
In LA LA land
We’ll halve
Aside order
Of fascism
Crack down
Crack up
We’ll
Something
A bout crack
The Kommandant-in-chief is a crack horror
A fiend in high places
Below is an ekphratic poem (a poem written about a piece of art) of one of my favorite funny/ironic paintings at the Toledo Museum of Art. The painting is titled, “The Marriage of a Saint.” It looks like a shotgun wedding to me. A lass, perhaps the pregnant bride may have been knock up by another and the groom is a “saint” for marrying her. Maybe the saint of a groom took a vow of celibacy yet still wanted a kid. Who knows…
Marriage of a Saint
Perhaps godliness lies
In a clerical air
Of hands tied
With the debauched
Potbellied
Or merely balding
Bride
Kidding herself with some ab solution
Ripe to be holy groomed
Celibating the reputation of a man chaste
Conceivably the quickest rout for true north
Or southern hospitality for a marred women
Pulling out aplomb at a wedding
Shotgun aimed at one’s foot
As unquestion ably the bell tolling for thee
As a tone meant
Fore whatever maybe
Spousing beliefs
In awe that is maid flesh
Is for you too divine
For more info on the painting, see: https://emuseum.toledomuseum.org/objects/55180
Stuff is going down. Things are heating up. The big grift is escalating its violence in La La Land.
Escalator
Little did we no
When he came down the escalator
The escalator soully went down
Even when things heat up
Too many are helled captive
Buy his demagoguery
An oily slick not see
Seen as just
A chiseler of his own bust
A damn nation grifted
A hole lyin’ of descendants
Made
Farced
To live with the con sequences
Regardless of what is
Going down
For me, writing poetry is a fearless and irreverent process, ever recognizing that irreverence can be the highest form of reverence. The words left on a page are mere soul droppings. A collection of such droppings of skewered sacred cows may be leather bound, but cannot capture the holy uncowed.
Leather Bound
I have skewered
A thousand stampedes
Of sacred cows
And should I ever
Get bored
And a bit dried out
I could deliver
That end
Product
That leather bound edition
As a mirror shell
Of that sacred
And holy uncowed
Stumbling Up On
I stumbled
Up on
What the
Gravest gravity
Could not keep
Down!
Guns don’t kill people; bullets ripping through organs, flesh, and bones do. GUN VIOLENCE = MEANNESS X FEAR
Guise With Guns
It hit me in a flash
Seeing through
Guise with guns
They are more frayed
Than I am
In efface of weepin’s
More be deviled
Possessing weapons
Fore all won knows
It’s a bout
Barren arms
And that piece of mine
If you can never have
Enough
You might
As well
Gauge it to be
A canon
The mortar that holes together freedom
As sow much more than passing ordnance
Burying bodies of evidence
Daze upon daze
As in life
Taking
Lazy aim
Lo, the necessary evil of the hood
The bravado of white hats
Look out
Up on that green
And burgeoning red
Of renegade lawn enforcement
Caught
In a cross fire
Upgraded from sticks and nails
Preserving the clan
Defending their own
Bye all rights
Wise guys
Ready and Abel
Smoking more than grass
A while back, I discovered that I had “misplaced,” lost track of 126 poems in my 500-page working poem file that is filled with unfinished poems, “uncollected poems” that I haven’t yet published in my annual-ish printed collection for my family. I highlight poems in red to indicate that I have published them online, or at least as a draft blog entry “in the cue.” This discovery has highlighted, first, that I am even less organized than I thought, but, most importantly, that the tsunami of poetry in my life is more than, well, swell. Of course, I wrote a poem about it!
On the Order of 126 Lost Poems
Like an old friend I haven’t seen
In quiet some time
I get down
Catching up
With infinity
More than many
Right and left
In a whole
Life time
Cleaving to unspoken plays
Ultimately knowing
I can’t
Keep up
Still
The visitation ours
Divine
We have officially crossed the Rubicon, hereafter known simply as “con,” regarding health and public health. We are wholesale throwing away $billions$ for what makes little cents. The net we are trapped in is a profound net loss. Health has always been subject to the realm of snake-oil salesman, but the age of anti-science as king will deliver a cruel senescence for our not-so-United States of America. We are infatuated with notions of “natural” and “clean,” yet mock science. We hitch our health to a few “zero risk” fantasies, while gaslighting the huge array of public health challenges that actually determine our longevity and healthspan. This is a golden age for grifters only. We will live, though shorter and sicker, with dirtier air and water, a more toxic earth, poorer nutrition, more bankrupting and baffling healthcare, and more precarious and unsafe communities. Welcome to America — grate as it may be, try not to fall through it. RESIST! You have many options.
Medical Free Dumb
When it comes to
Medical free dumb
Don’t be a guinea pig
Just be
A run of the mill pig
And not with standing
Giving pigs
A bad name
As pork au natural
Here is a short poem about the increasing virtualization of our lives, meme-ification of our minds, and shallow aspiration of becoming “influencers” in pop culture. NOTE: The poem is shorter than this description!
Rendered
What might be
The end of humanity
Sum type
Of cataclysm
Life rendered
Pic me!
As wee awe
Turn
Into memes
Having
Gone
Viral
Neutrality and wishy-washiness can be evil. I suspect most evil in this world is under the guise of: “I’m just doing my job” or “That’s not my job.”
Guilty As
“I know your deeds, that you are neither cold nor hot. I wish you were either one or the other! So, because you are lukewarm—neither hot nor cold—I am about to spit you out of my mouth.”
–Revelations 3:15-16
“If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor.”
–Desmond Tutu
They were neither
Hot nor cold
Little was
Their own
As just
Doing their job
Or simply knot
My Jōb
As spit in image of God
They were neither
Positive nor negative
Guilty as uncharged
I love the John Lennon lyric, “Life is what happens to you while you are busy making other plans.” I find that awe the best comes to me when I don’t expect it. Expect to be surprised! This poem expresses this experience for me, especially about writing poems.
It’s Awe in the Shoulder
There
I am
Stuck
On aside of the wrote
Certifiably thinking
I don’t know jack
Nothing
Too spare
Then
Awe of the sudden
Hi jack
And after a while
Immaculately
Tired
With awe
That I AM
Accompliced
Here is a poem about voluntary simplicity. Poverty is brutal. None the less, seriously leaning into “more for less” can unleash deeper “values.” I have learned to relish having “more time than money” and shedding less satisfying consumer-oriented impulses. I have found great wealth in slowing down and letting life flow over and through me more sow than “making things” happen.
Udder Simplicity
Hear and now
Lean
Into poverty
And loan some virtues
Thrifty abundance
Thanks giving
Without stuffing
Timeless
Without
Pretense or tense
Priceless
Within
Transcending the buy and buy
And if you should find yourself
In cross country
Keep on truckin’
With semi voluntary poverty
What
The whirled takes
God returns
A gazillion times
“We must learn to live together as brothers or perish together as fools”
–Martin Luther King, Jr.
Dwelling on This Earth
I reflect up
On awe the violence
In this whirled
And what peers before me
As a sore lack of courage
And even amor
A soar lack of imagination
Of living together as won
It seems that at some point each of us ask, “Why me?” How often have you asked yourself, “Why not me?”
Whys Guise
Who no’s the troubles
I have scene
Is it just
A madder of time
As I find myself
More than prone
In choiring mines
Why me?
Life in treating me
Grate times for awe
And still I here
Of chorus
Enjoined
By a simple quest in
Why not me?
That mortal ask
Weather ascertain as can be
Or just smite due
A countenance
Of praise or preys
The secret of whys guise
Every wear
Box-ers
There are box-ers
Who are liable
Round
After round
After round
Too box you up
Don’t swallow that red punch
No madder
The jeers and cheers
Vacate their premises
Having
Gotten
Through won’s head
Privy to the inestimable can
Scrapping
That which castes a side
Surrendering up
What could’ve been
A contender
Roped in
Buy sellout crowds
Married to the whirled view
Of rings that are square
