Life is the miracle awe around us. All we have to pay is attention.
Life Shows Up
Mother Earth roots
And sun kisses
The flower makes scents
With neither yes nor nose
The chemistry of life
Shows up
Out of thin air
And a peace of mud
And like wise should
A bee-ing
Show up
As well
Awe the more
Food for a queen
And then some
I can see how people find opposing all wars as problematic, and see situations where they would organize mass killings of their enemies. Frankly, from an international law and human rights perspective, I think that it is impossible in practice to wage a lawful war. I see war is inextricably entwined with war crimes. However, what is beyond my moral comprehension is how anyone can condone genocide, and, practically speaking, any “probable” genocide. This poem captures this “conservative” anti-war sentiment of the ease of opposing all genocides — without any need to be anti-war in general.
Genocide Heirs
My life
Occupied
By anti-war activity
Has found a simpler weigh
In certain daze
A deeply conservative thorough fare
Just opposing
Genocide
That clear-cut path
Never halving to resist awe wars
Soully the next one
Bard From The Sky — Owed to Ode
It was plane to sea
That he wanted too be
Immortal eyes
A high
And might he quest
In
Flying hi
And lo
That mystical soup
And what can return
Ashore thing
Topping billions of ears
A sum what saucy evolution
Tapping infinite patients
Till the hear
And now
Plunging
The heavens
And deepest see
Fore to heel
That consummate sore
And unfathomable landing
Let a loan
A flight
Jack it
Or sum kind
Of master peace
Bared at see
Consumption kills.
Ever Lusting Foolishness
I am acutely a ware
Of that chronic foolishness
That swarming our planet
A product of consumption
And awe that passes
As wise guise
We reap what we sow.
What Kind?
My neighbor planted a seed
I asked him what kind it was
He simply said
“Look for its fruit”
Each year I posed
The same question
His answer was always
The same
After some years
The fruit revealed itself
My patient observation rewarded
My neighbor soully observed
My satisfaction
“An apple tree only produces apples”
Though every sow often
We must wait for the fruit
To bear its kind
The most simple accede
Of nature
This poem is an ode to my dyslexia and mysticism. I, a scribe, my neurodivergent perspective, naturally playing with dancing words and ideas juxtaposed, as an apt channel for mysticism, a love of mystery and cryptically unfolding life.
Sow Backwards, NOW WON
Hear
I AM
A loan
Wince agin
In affront of compute Her
Sum would say
Yet what
Am I
Too due
Sow backwards
Halving experienced the won
Now
Giving in
In giving
As a dyslexic and a mystic
Fine Her naturally super
Life is a mysterious dance.
Dam Water
He lived
As dam water
Over the top
Knows diving
In the gravity of life
Catching the sun in a thousand ways
Soully to dance with bedrock
And the open see
Haunted bye
That unearthly genesis
Wear it awe
Began
Mysteriously still
Running
Long before
Any given dam
The resistance will persist until further notice. And upon notice wee will grow even more.
Aye, Will Rise in Three Days, Yada Yada Yada
We will resist austerity
As we root in abundance
We will resist authoritarianism
As we vote with our feet and bodies
We will resist violence of all stripes
Those who are assaulted
We’ll have their back
On every affront
We’ll make our stand together
The strongest peace knowable
One side fits all
In awe the power of love
Hearts uncaged
In efface of means and ends
By all odds
Enduring shocking means
And grievous ends
Even dying in the streets
Even dying in prison
Aye, will rise in three days
Aye, will rise in three weeks
Aye, will rise in three months
Aye, will rise in three years
Aye, will rise in three decades
Aye, will rise in three centuries
Aye, will rise in three millennia
Aye, will rise today and every day
Victory every moment
Well fought
I wrote this poem on May Day, 2023, and didn’t publish it online till now. On occasion, I walk or bike across my neighborhood, the Old West End, to sit outside the Toledo Museum of Art, to write a poem or two. Typically, I don’t have any particular theme in mind; I just await inspiration. On that May Day, inspiration came early. I was biking past the house which I affectionately refer to as “the anarchist house,” where beautiful unicorns and friends of awe congregate irregularly. As I approached the house, I noticed a group of folks on the porch enthusiastically “air masturbating” upwards to the sky. They were yelling at a police helicopter that was noisily flying low and circling the neighborhood over and over. This policing was disturbing in so many ways. I couldn’t help but belly laugh at the creative and energetic welcome they gave to this disturbance of the force. The seed had been planted. Within an hour, I wrote this poem and gave a handwritten copy to the lovers of peace and quite enthusiastically. I was invited to read this poem at an upcoming poetry reading at the Collingwood Garden, and I debuted it publicly there. I LOVE THIS NEIGHBORHOOD! Warning: this poem contains explicit versus of pigs flying.
What Comes: Of Police Helicopters
A site be held
What is won too due
In efface of masturbatory policing
As circle jerks
A distant SWAT
Evoking new heights of calling out
The pork of militarism
Redefining Toledo rockets
Unsuited!? Knot at awe
Hitting their Mark
Or Jack – off to the razes
Having launched an act of resistance
Of which sum may muse
Better held in private
Lubricating freedom
That is
Until pigs fly
On this May Day
And if this is just
A great big flail
To attention, those who do not under stand
More than saying
Come again
Life can be tops.
Sow It Goes
Life gives
Sow much more
Then it takes
Back
And fourth
That first for life
Round and round
It goes
Where it’s tops
Nobody no’s
Solidarity, cooperation, and trust create a future worth living, and a present worth fighting for.
Other Wise
They tolled US
Of gaining
And regaining
Competitiveness
And awe the wile
Wee look to each other
Solidarity
The foundation of civilization
Cooperation
The glue of awe good will
Trust
In vestments
Wear there is won humanity
The psychotic notion that greed should be the engine for good has long been capitalism’s premise and wretched selling point. The grifter-in chief has “successfully” weaponized this to turn all of US into rubes. This poem elucidates the roll of government…
The Roll of Government
There was won thing
A greed
We should manipulate
Our base in stinks
Suckering others into good
Sow
Here’s the hooker
Only in this trick
Johns
Trump
Some conspiracy theories are beautiful.
Dihydrogen Monoxide Conspiracy
Water is life
And awe is well
Writing poetry can be surprising.
Awe, Led, Goaled
Awe I know is
Words are alchemy
Turning led to goaled
Before I may even no
What that is
Fly By Night Day Traitors
He con me
Threw me a curve
And I banked on it
The fool faith
And unmoored credit
Of US
Re-lying on treasury bonds
Presidential Sharpies™
And that stock mark it
In dig nation of traders
Specializing in careening futures
Hollowed securities
And fading dollareds
Chiseling into the fecund bed rock
Of beautiful tariffs
Everything is big
In taxes
For the little guise
Not sow much
For the rich
Here is a playful poem about the silence essential for me being an outspoken, unspoken word artist. Also, this poem teases one of my rare envies, that of having musical talent — which I do not have.
Calling Inaudible
If I had
Some musical skill
I’d compose theme songs
For friends and passersby
But a greater wisdom
Has granted me
A silent kind
Other wise
The curdling reprisal
Of care he attune
By all means
Might serendipitously bequeath me
Silent as well
In the same plays
Stuck in my ahead
Joyfully unable
To get it out
Inspired by the mean and chaotic slash and burn of our federal government. Wons agin, welcome to new mismanagement.
Meaner and Leaner, Have Way There
The fat cats
Broad caste
The D.C. shuffle
Their latest arrival
A Department of Departments
Certifiable as nothing like
You’ve seen before
Set fourth as goaled
In ovation for themselves
Allot meaner
Not sow much leaner
Poets are famously unread. Me even more sow.
That’s Wearing on a Poet’s Life
How trying
Too due the impossible
Mirrorly transcribing
Words of God
In some unspeakable language
As indecipherable a diction
Cloak a verse
Abetting my hide
On it
As crazy as home lessness
With peep whole seeing
Write through you
As walk on
Bye
It’s hard to know what is borne from incomprehensible places.
That Shrouded Berth
It was one
Of those moments
Wear my life seemed incomprehensible
A fit
That others did knot
Care to see
Yet I was made
To wonder
If this was the vary spot
That God new from time to time
That shrouded berth divined
Yet carrying on
How ever untended
Frankly, More Than Speaking – Owed to Pope Francis
“Preach the Gospel at all times, and when necessary use words.”
– Ironically, words misattributed to St. Francis of Assisi
There are many weighs to live
And Pope Francis chose
Servant leader
Acceding the Gospel
With bountiful good knews
Radiating listening
Graciously responding
What manor to live in
And wear
Called
Home
What mode of transportation
Long the weigh
What shoes you walk in
What shoes others walk in
And what a bout
The wrest of us
As daze turn to weaks and ears go bye
People of all sorts
Will debate weather
To live in mercy and solidarity
In efface of great lessens
That lode of gentle admonition
Quote others carefully
Awe the better without words
