POEM: When Butterflies Aren’t Free

The butterfly has landed
A monarch of unspoiled nature
As we’d taken over
Urban land escapes
Of green carpet bombing
Convinced that lawn enforcement
Must be
On our side
Sow naturally lying
In trails
Of never ending growth
A cancer
Given the bird
To seed
And unkept dirt
In wild life
A refuge from sow called civilization
When butterflies aren’t free
As sum
How we are frayed
Too
Look out
The blinds
At nothing more
Then a sterile guardin’
Of mother nature
Missing awe
The flap about roil visitors
Immaculate preconceptions
And unworthy neighbors
Taking flight

This poem is inspired by my unkempt and unpoisoned backyard.  The memory is blazoned in my mind of reveling in the wildlife frolicking there being gleefully trumped by the serendipitous and regal appearance of a Monarch butterfly just feet from my face.  The earth is man's only friend. Bulgarian Proverb POLITICAL BUTTONThankfully, my neighborhood is much more free from widespread lawn poisoning than many Toledo neighborhoods.  I reel a bit whenever I see a lawn poisoning sign — yet another mourning representative of the sow called dawn of civilization.

I have a high tolerance for clutter and the apparent chaos of the wild we call nature.  I feel somewhat deprived and spiritually constipated amidst meticulously ordered lawns and landscaping, particularly when I know their maintenance requires poisons.  Such attention to pain staking order oft strikes me as an attempt to safely fence and order our external environment to address whatever felt chaos there may be in our life.  Also, I suspect that we too easily resort to the violence of poisons to enact our sense of order in the world, particularly when we are willing to surround our very homes with poison.  Awe of this was told me bye a little birdy and angelic butterfly.  May we find a way to live in peace with awe of our neighbors.

P.S. This poem employs the allusion to the play and movie, Butterflies Are Free, about blindness and seeing, and misguided attempts at mothering:

When butterflies aren’t free
As sum
How we are frayed
Too
Look out
The blinds
At nothing more
Then a sterile guardin’
Of mother nature

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POEM: A Truth Foul

If you should believe
The hole truth
And nothing
A butt the truth
You may well be
Full if it
Perfectly primed
For letting go
Unable to be taken
Any more
By a singular won
Given
By an other

This poem, like many of my poems, can be understood (or misunderstood) many ways.  Mostly, this is a poem about both hubris and hope.  If we are so full of ourselves in our ability to ascertain the truth and we are skeptical enough to find believing nothing as a dominant mode, then we may very well dangerous to others seeking truth.  Hubris is the blinding arrogance of our own experience of truth as the dominant mode.  This is typically matched by a substantial discounting of others’ experience of truth.  Hubris is cynicism producing and the enemy of hope.  Hope is able to blossom when our perspective is genuinely open to others’ experiences and whatever current ideology we hold is alive enough to grow in the light of the living truth in other living beings.  This is typically paired with a humble attitude toward our own limited body of experiences.  I see true humility as a right-sizing of our place and role in the world (and universe).  True humility, as most commonly viewed, is not being too big or oversized.  Of course, true humility is also served by us rising up to whatever responsibility matches our particular endowment of moral agency and power.  Being too small is a vote for humiliation, not humility.  The line in the poem, “Unable to be taken,” similarly cuts both ways.  “Being taken,” as duped or cheated, is perhaps one of the most unwelcome and trust betraying realities in life.  I suspect that it is difficult to overestimate the effort we will employ to avoid such situations.  Similarly true, “being taken,” as in being taken by a lover or experience of overwhelming awe, can be profoundly life transforming in previously unimagined ways.  I think that the openness and vulnerability inherently in “being taken” inextricably links both forms/meanings.  Hardening oneself to being duped or cheated likewise hardens one’s ability and likelihood of enthrallment.  By cutting ourselves off from vulnerability and intimacy, we rob ourselves of its upsides, in essence throwing the baby out with the bathwater.  I posit that living a life that is not adept at being taken is a life that to that same degree is not fully lived.   May you find hope and enthrallment that is worth infinitely more than whatever you have been cheated out of life.

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POEM: 24/7 on I-75 — Owed To Trafficking Noise

24/7 on I-75
Only herd
In the mourning
Quiet scarce
With the engines of freedom
Racing vicious cycles
In know way asking, “who cars?”
As you whirr
The buzz of the high way
The humdrum of civilization
The muffled rumble of capitalism
Consumerism trucking along
For what too commute
A bird’s eye spew
Of see oh too
Few
Know reason
Fore petroleum free way

This poem blends the high octane themes of noise pollution and petroleum pollution.  I typically notice the rumble of traffic in the morning as I am waking up and lying in bed.  This reminds me that silence really doesn’t exist in urban settings; we just tune out background noises during the busyness of our daze.  Passing my one-year anniversary without a car, I find automobiles and traffic increasingly alien to my preferred modes of being.  Someday, I hope to live some place where deep silence is easily accessible.  I suspect that the leisurely whispers of God may be best designed and intended for lovers of silence.  As it stands, the earth seems more populated by riotous dudes.   May you find the silent spaces in your life full, filling.

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POEM: Carrots and Sticks

He came from the sticks
And had
Little taste
For carrots
He wood
Just as soon
Beat you
As raze the son
Those Sunday mournings
Long a go

This poem is about the vicious cycles of violence passed on from generation to generation.  Hurt people tend to hurt people, regardless of the presumed cause of the hurt.  You Can't Domesticate Violence-POLITICAL BUTTONThis violence hits home most commonly as domestic violence and abuse.  This poem alludes to a violent Saturday night, perhaps fueled by alcohol, and the brutal aftermath the next morning and often wringing far into the future.  When brutalized by violence, its victims often find themselves withdrawing from relationships and/or focusing on violent solutions as a perverse equality matching their experience.  Victims of violence may find the less tangible incentives of intimate relationships elusive: “And had/Little taste/For carrots.”  May we all find safe places, free from any form of violence, to experience the sometimes elusive, yet invaluable, intimate relationships with others.

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POEM: Gift Hoarse

The dumb bell rang
As he looked
The present
Like a gift horse in the mouth
And in every witch way
Reckon as knot so fine
Looking forward and backward
Of what might be
Only seconds
As has been
A head and behind
And in know time
Looking down
The apple of his eye
Given in digestion
And looking up
The wrong end
As scene through faulty means
Only now
As passed tense
Or posterity perfected
As dumb founded

This poem is about living in the present, the eternal now.  Like they say: if you have one foot in the past and one foot in the future, you’ll crap on today.  In this poem, it happens by looking up the wrong end of a gift horse.  That was Zen - This is Tao - FUNNY SPIRITUAL BUTTONMany moral lessons are more easily grasped as cautionary tales, rather than straightforward instructions on wise weighs.  This paradox linking foolish and wise is elicited by the first and last lines of this poem, which, not surprisingly, employ puns to say two opposite meanings in a singular phrase.  The opening line, “The dumb bell rang,” signals both complete uselessness, a bell that cannot ring, and a call to silence, as a way to better experience the present.  The last line, “As dumb founded,” wraps up with the twin perplexity and wonder of realizing that silence can offer a quality of experience that will only be degraded by the static of past thoughts and/or the noise of unrealized futures.  May you find yourself, completely, in the present, that is your gift right now.

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POEM: Morning Has Broke

Mourning is hear
The bell tolls fore thee
Riiiiiiiight
Whatever
Get up
You had
Left
Right
Left right
Left

Simplicity Trumps Affluence [Royal Flush] SPIRITUAL BUTTONHere is another Monday mourning poem for all who may be ambivalent or outright hate their work, particularly the screeching violence of an unwelcome alarm clock.  The division of time into precise compartments is a relatively new phenomenon in human history and human experience.  The rise of the clock as an often stress-inducing taskmaster is perhaps the heart — or ticking bomb — of civilization.  As money measures — quite poorly — the success of most of our tasks in living, the clock all-to-often chops the organic flow of human experience into well dissected but not so alive remains.  The interruption of sleep by loud noises is a particular pet peeve of mine.  Alarm clocks often enforce inadequate sleep and this too little rest is notoriously bookended by a fretful inability to get to sleep at night.  Of course, the nearly inescapable pressures to book it all day arrest most any probability of nabbing any re-creation or sublime sabbath.  When Things Aren't Adding Up in Your Life, Try Subtracting SPIRITUAL BUTTONThe clock serves as a proxy for order but may very well create more disorders than it harmonizes.  This poem uses the familiar cadence of military drills — Left, Right, Left, Right, Left — to allude to the presumptive violence inherent in such a go go, make it happen culture.  This swaggering onomatopoeia resonates more with martial law than the deep harmonies of nature and the human spirit, which transcend left and right.  I find that encouraging folks to break rank in order to reconnect with their deepest harmonies is a recurring theme of mine, energized by an evangelical fervor.  So, if you are Riiiiiiiight…Whatever/Get up/You had/Left, may you uncover reinvigorating re-creation at every turn.

Instead of wondering when your next vacation is, maybe you should set up a life you don't need to escape from -- Seth Godin quote POLITICAL BUTTONWhat Money Can't Buy - Medicine But Not Health, A House But Not A Home, Finery But Not Beauty, Luxuries But Not Culture, Amusements But Not Happiness POLITICAL BUTTON

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POEM: Love Is Scored

He did
Not necessarily
Believe
In evil
Though he found it
Much easier
To commit
Than endure
And hear in lies
Won lessen
As love is scored

The man who speaks of the enemy is the enemy himself. Bertolt Brecht quote PEACE BUTTONThis poem is a tribute to apologists for evil everywhere.  The lesser of two evils rationalization is perhaps the all-time most popular moral shortcut.  Unfortunately, when evil is embraced, morality is cut loose.  The “necessity” defense is actually an abnegation of moral agency altogether, pretending that no choice exists.  Of course, where there is no choice, there is no morality, or perhaps more conveniently, no immorality.  So much for freedom marching on!  For you can’t have freedom without its twin: responsibility, that bully big brother.  The face of the enemy frightens me only when I see how much it resembles mine. Stanislaw J. Lec quote PEACE BUTTONUltimately, one’s own responsibility is morphed out of existence into an other’s accountability.  He “made me” do it.  As we become an impersonal — and amoral — force for precious accountability, we polish a veneer of morality, all the wile avoiding personal responsibility for our own actions.  Most simply put, we become mirrorly a consequence of evil, our moral agency be dammed! We become an effect of evil rather than a cause for good.  Morality necessarily involves restraint, the project of limiting our choices, hopefully to good choices, among all possible choices.  The key point is that it focuses on self-restraint, not other-restraint.  It's hard to fight an enemy who has outposts in your head. Sally Kempton quote PEACE BUTTONThis shift of focus on accountability of others, presumably punishing evil, is classical psychological projection of one’s own shadow, dark side, evil onto an other.  No doubt, evil happens.  No doubt, evil costs dearly.  Projecting all responsibility onto others serves the convenient purpose of shifting the cost away from our own costly choices.  No doubt, morality is costly — just as evil is.  Enduring these costs is the stuff of a moral life.  This is the price of true freedom.  Evil runs over the good for evil ends, for its own sake.  Good revels in the good for its own sake, and somewhat paradoxically, lifts up, invites true freedom for others’ sake as well   If No Enemy Within Enemy Without Cannot Harm--PEACE QUOTE BUTTONHalf of the moral life is the willingness to live into what we know to be good.  Half of the moral life is enduring the inescapable effects of evil, what we no to be evil.  Only God knows the half-life of evil.  While it may be a truism that we do not get out of this life alive, we can live more than a half-life.  May you live fully!  Moral choices may be unclear.  Moral choices may be extraordinarily difficult.  Still, moral choices are always a choice.  To deny this is the paltry heights of amorality and a brutal equivalency of evil with good.

May you find wide-open love stronger than shadowy hate in your life.

Who is a hero? He who turns his enemy into a friend. The Talmud quote PEACE BUTTONTransforming hatred of the enemy into compassion lies at the core of all religions. Sister Helen Prejean quote PEACE BUTTONOur enemies opinion of us comes closer to the truth than our own. Francois La Rochefoucauld quote PEACE BUTTONPEACE QUOTE: Met Enemy He Is Us PEACE SIGN BUTTONIn the practice of tolerance, one's enemy is the best teacher. Dalai Lama quote PEACE BUTTON

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POEM: Life As A Breeze

Life peers to me
As a gentle breeze
With fragrant harmonies
In the tenderest victories
Know longer bought a bout by yielding hope
Prospecting in rock
Dead set, vane certainties
Or coarse inclinations
While a sole breath moves through me
Not ever posing
As superior
From above
Securely skeptical
Of won scoffing up
A flunked up humanity
As a praising sneer life experiences
From the cryptic
As a well found cynicism
In the phase of unmerited bounty
On a head of the game
As dead or alive know matter
As inspiring expires
Weather we apprehend or knot
And how ever we reckon our peeps
It is realizable
Still possible
Life sucks
Or with equal viability
Life blows
Seemingly a parent either weigh
A cruel duplicity
Winds of change
Running lapse around you
Leaving won too
Giving no quarter
And only making spare cents
As scorn points
Awe the wile know one wants
Too be still
As the heart beats
Have the time
Know longer wanting
Just deserts
A trial of tears
And fated watering whole
Pooring out
As in is capable
Only too fine life in such delugings
In this tempest of life
Wear wind and water
Meet on earth
In a saucy plan it
Of surf and turf
Wandering whether
Life is fare
A mist such room and bored
With awe of its chinooks and grannies
Ever present ciao time
Reigning in time
And timeless
A mid week prostration
And fateful eras
Wrest a spell
As a right full heir
Fore life is a breeze
Only to be
Bared at see

This poem is about the ethereal nature of human life and the breezy character of the human spirit, where success has more to do with experiencing fragrant harmonies than vane certainties.  Ever Wonder? SPIRITUAL BUTTONMy skepticism about skepticism partners with my playful heart as hope and willingness trump willful crass pragmatism or cynical “realism.”  Apprehending such tender truths is better realized as believing is seeing more so than seeing is believing.  Hope, gratitude, and unmerited generosity open our hearts to seeing better than through stacks of the thickest and most erudite reams of scientific reports.  A fruitful life of the spirit is a prerequisite for a meaningful and abundant life.  In a paraphrase of the Bob Dylan lyric, “You don’t need a whether vane to know which way the wind blows.”  May you follow the winds of the spirit without overly kneading to no from whence it comes or where it goes…

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POEM: Peppered With Violence

Bland and tasteless souls
Often pepper with violence
The salt of the earth
Writing a vicious cycle
In rehashed seasonings
Winners of discontent
The Fall’s harvest
Yet even sow
Hope springing eternal
And summers of love
As have know choice
In what sow ever fallowing

Spring is a season of hope.  It may very well be no accident that the Easter season coincides with Spring.  Spring is a profoundly palpable metaphor for resurrection in nature and inhuman experience a cross human history.  That Spring follows Winter with perennial reliability seeds hope amidst the fallow seasons of human life and those cold spells witch bedevil the human heart from claiming its natural endowment of patience, hope, and love.  Awe of the seasons of human life must navigate the epic realities of violence, proffered as both the cause and solution to all of our problems.  Violence Will Not Silence Us POLITICAL BUTTONLife coexists with death and death coexists with life in the undulating pulse of human experience.  The fear, even hatred, of death presence us too hour rationalization of lethal violence as the irreconcilable solution to an inescapable dilemma.  Unfortunately, such fear and hatred, blithely beating the conundrum of war and repression, is incongruous with the true pulse of life.  Winter happens.  And sow does Spring.  The eternal question posed is weather we cast our lot with Spring or Winter.  To wear due wee target our lives?  Untoward the tender shoot, or effacing bearing lives?  Either weigh, Spring shows up.  Due we poor our lives in too the riches of this earth, even if not living to seed what happens, daring that life will cede us?  The quest in is up to us.  Will we lift more than a single finger to the won-ness of humanity?  I, for one, will root for all of my tender buds to emerge from winter.

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POEM: The Wanders of Love

Sow marvel as
Love wonders
Among uninhibited meadows
And the forgotten in down towns
Wile in difference razes
Its ugly ahead
Only out lusting
Less than a flower
And eyes never looking into

This poem is and ode to the frolicking sovereignty of love.  As the great theologian Forrest Gump might say, “Love is as love does.”  The World Doesn't Want To Be Saved, It Wants To Be Loved -- and that's how you save it POLITICAL BUTTONLove doesn’t seem prone to be tied down, although occasionally some try to nail it down.  Love likes open feels and seeks out the intriguing gaze of the homeless living in the neck of the woulds of vacant homes aplenty.  Mean wile, the close-fisted strike out in idol exploits, only to have, their lies work, slip between God’s fingers, gleaning less regard, then a flower, in ayes without a parent purpose.

May you be wholed the wonderings and wanderings of love, and not miss take what might be sow impotent after awe.

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POEM: Until Hell Frees Us

Be very frayed
Terrorism comes
From know where
Deep in the recesses
Of kindergarten bullying
Capital vocations
And martial lawlessness
Awe rapped up in won’s highest I deal
Those unspeakable prophets
In security
Detained indefinitely
Until hell frees us
Ever more reckoning
The other
Who war like
A mirror reflection
Knot of won self
But a puerile of grate wisdom
Selling all
Having bought it
With bigger barns
Taking life easy

This is my third published poem in a row on the theme of terrorism.  You might say that I’m on a role in combating hypocritical fearmongering and conveniently overlooked accountability for vicious cycles of violence plaguing our whirled.  War: What Are We Frayed of? ANTI-WAR BUTTONThe prison of necessary evil is the bedrock upon which militarism is built.  Of coarse, the jailbirds sing oft-repeated jingles of in-group unmistakable righteousness and the presumptively incomprehensible evil descending upon their already worrisome state.  Fear is the only effective tool to fuel such jingoism and blind obedience to longstanding systems of oppression that conveniently turn justice into just us.  That such fear can swirl in a sea of privilege is the fundamental disconnect that makes chronic injustice passable.  Pointing out profound privilege and hyperbolic fears is heretical to the god of war.  Not surprisingly, the god of war, Nike, is well characterized by the slogan, “Just do it!” which has a singular ring to rule all idioms.  The inescapable prison of the permanent war on terrorism, with violence begetting violence begetting violence, based on the damnable logic of necessary evil, can only end with the absurdity “When hell frees us.” As Dante, in Inferno, signaled in his sign at the entrance of hell, “Abandon all hope, you who enter here.”  How can we free ourselves from this parent prison of necessary evil that infantilizes our moral development, and stultifies children of God into spawn of the devil?  How burden some is at the crux of this issue.  What must we sacrifice?  What must we cede?  What must we feed?

Bringing about peace and justice to the whirled is formidable work that takes a lot of time to cede itself and seed itself.  In the mean time, there is a need to endure sum violence, as an existing reality with its own inertia.  This brakes the cycle of violence.  As well, we need to address the causes and grievances powering violence and dis-empowering nonviolence.  This is required to prevent violence from seeding itself, and to feed nonviolent alternatives.  This breaks the cycle of violence.  This is not easy.

That violence can save us is as owed as life and death itself.  The myth of redemptive violence is deep-seated in human history and culture.  Walter Wink put it best: “The myth of redemptive violence is the simplest, laziest, most exciting, uncomplicated, irrational, and primitive depiction of evil the world has even known.”

This poem ends with a tip of the hat to two of Jesus’ parables.  First, the parable of the rich fool (Luke 12:13-21) who has so much that he tears down his barns to build even bigger barns, only to have his “eat, drink, and be merry” life on earth end precipitously.  Next, the parable of the hidden treasure, a pearl of great value, for which we will trade all we possess for it (Mathew 13:44-45).  That pearl of great price is peace.  May each of us be barnstormers for peace, not barn-storers fore violence.

Our lives can begin the long weigh to peace when we get beyond the myth of redemptive violence.  May we each critically examine our own privilege and personal hurts that prompt us to take the low road of violence.  May we each meditate and daily work on awe the things that make for peace and a whole, new world.

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POEM: A Brother Lying

Prey fore the dead
In the name of Jesus
In resurrection of those soully asleep
Getting a phallus rise
Out of Christianity
That is, US
More sow then radical Islam
In violate fundamental lists
Dissembling faith, hope, and love
As our trinity project
Our won God triumph a writ
With a Cain due attitude
Over awe that is Abel
To spill the good word
Buy blood crying out
Too me
From the ground
A brother lying
Knot knowing
The hollowed meaning
Of I am
One’s keeper

I often write about stuff triggered when I hear the news.  I listen faithfully to Democracy Now on weekdays.  It’s not unusual to stop in the middle of a show, or even a news story, to write a poem about something that touched me: a phrase worthy of seeding a poem, an issue baffling human kind, or simply a heartfelt emotion.

The literal life and death issues of war and peace, militarism and pacifism, have been close to my heart my whole adult life.  The latest flavor of this is the unending war on terrorism, which easily commiserates with virulent patriotism, nasty nationalism, presumptive racism, and irreconcilable religious bigotries.  Our unconscious privilege, convenient distance, and well-earned ignorance of world affairs is complicit with any easy alliance of violence as a lazy alternative to costly self-sacrifice as the true weigh of incarnating justice for all.  Nominal Christianity and its state-sponsored sheep, hawk a cheap grace bound only by an unequaled military budget and unquestioned reverence for a mercenary class.

I have a more generous perception of a frightened citizenry in deed resorting to violence in an increasingly secular, postmodern worldview.  Violence seems inevitable, certainly unendurable, without a resilient weigh to measure the sacred worth of an other, a brother human, who peers threatening.  I have a less generous view of normalizing violence by those aspiring to be religious, deeply commuted to any of the major faith-based worldviews represented by the world’s religions.  In the case of the U.S., the purported rock of our moral lives is Christianity.  I assert that an honest appraisal of American Christianity regarding its world military domination is that it is ruggedly cross.  War and Peace - What Would Jesus Do? FUNNY PEACE BUTTONAmerican Christians quiet reliably in efface of violence, instead of bearing the rugged cross, demand the blood sacrifice of “others” as their savior.  To this I can only say, “Jesus Christ!”  Whose image due we bear?!  What about state violence has to do with the heart, life and death of Jesus — other than the fact that it was state violence that executed Jesus.

To add insult to injury, the budget-sized war we christen as terrorism, we blame on Muslims, or worse yet, on the sacred tenets of Islam.  The real competition may be about who has the shallowest understanding of their religion: nominal Muslim terrorists or nominal Christian war apologists.  I strongly suspect that the farces of Christianity have killed more people than the farces of Islam.  Regardless, the age-old story of Cain and Abel, shared in the sacred texts of both Christianity and Islam, plays out over and over: brother kills brother and denies the essential nature of their kin relationship and how family should care for one another.  May people of faith lead the way in ending violence between all peoples.  This goes triple for “People of The Book” (Jews, Christians, and Muslims).

Browse anti-terrorism designs.

Is Killing In The Name Of The Prophet Worse Than Killing In The Name Of Profit? ANTI-WAR BUTTONTerrorism War of Poor War Terrorism of Rich--ANTI-WAR QUOTE BUTTONWar Is Terrorism With A Bigger Budget ANTI-WAR BUTTON

 

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POEM: Lamenting Violins

Wince agin
Their is a terror
In the fabric of our lies
Buy and buy
An other
A tact
Against our weigh of life
As if
Versus from the Koran
As mirror dogmas eating dogmas
And due what
We no best
Selling sects
For a faction of the true accost
As so so frayed
To efface the music
As lamenting violins
Playing well on the civilized aside of the border
Though knot so much on the other

Ending Poverty: Anti-Terrorism that Works - POLITICAL BUTTONI just wrote this poem in the wake of another terrorist attack and the ongoing repose of colonial rule.  Is terrorism some kind of wake up call?  That is, to our highest hopes and ideals rather than our lowest, most base instincts. Terrorism may be likened to hating the alarm clock but loving the wages from the work of imperialism.  The alarm clock is part and parcel to the work necessary to grimly reap the wages of sin.  In this case, imperial power is simply the ability to make the wages of sin somebody else’s death, not one’s own.  Will men and women of good will tolerate this?  Ask not for whom the alarm clock wrings, it wrings for ewe.  Human Rights: Anti-Terrorism that Works--POLITICAL BUTTONThose living in so-called civilized nations pretend that it is they who value human life, yet, how many Americans feel comfortable, even giddily patriotic, to kill ten, a hundred, or a thousand “others” to save a singular American life?  This commonplace logic is like water to fish.  In the real whirled, it is like blood to the world’s peoples.  May we not be swept away in hour fear and lifelong privilege.  Wake up!  There is much more than first meets the eye in a world of just us.Justice for All: Anti-Terrorism that Works--POLITICAL BUTTON

 	 Religious Tolerance: Anti-Terrorism that Works--POLITICAL BUTTON

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POEM: A World Without Boarders

Mother earth bids us
What rend must we pay
For such fear in dwelling
In apprehending tenets
In discriminating borne
Giving no quarter
To mother and child
And presumed fodder
Taking the place
Of wear every won re-sides
Drawing lyin’s in the sand
And hiking up shields of water
In a tsunami of divine just us
As fences of steal
Wherever we land
Keeping out nothing worth wile
As per sever demeanor
From our guarded kind
As all is wall
In the confines of what is ours a loan
Yet in efface of
The largesse attract of common ground
Enjoining to gather
What is the lease we can do
Inter or gate
Only wanton to ax
How to occupy that territory sow dear
Between haves and halves not
As humanity cleaves
To that intrepid hope
Of a world without boarders
In habit awe
As kin to won sky
Our only limit

This poem addresses the theme of borders and the human propensity to divide us up into cliques, clans, classes, and territories.  Such divisions are often to the detriment of the common good.  While often under the guise of security, such social stratifications unjust as often reinforce lazy conveniences and guarded advantages.  No Human Being is Illegal / No Ser Human Es Ilegal POLITICAL BUTTONIn this great nation of immigrants — and conquistadors to indigenous peoples — there has been much political rhetoric about building walls.  Xenophobia and scapegoating seem to have found more openly vulgar expressions in contemporary politics.  The peeling back of the veneer of civilization may simply be a necessary process to move from unconsciousness to consciousness of institutionalized racism, first-worldism, the seeming necessity of permanent war, and xenophobic fears of all sorts.  As our ways of life reveal themselves as ways of death, the choice for life becomes more clear — perhaps not any easier, but clearer.  This poem begins with the context of Mother Earth and human mother and child.  We are all children of Mother Earth, who only considers walls and borders as scars on her beauty.  Each of us is a child, daughter or son.  We are all brothers and sisters, cousins and kin.  We are one humanity.  We either realize that blood is thicker than water or our water will be thickened with blood.  We are all boarders on planet earth.  Activism Is My Rent For Living On This Planet -- Alice Walker quote POLITICAL BUTTONNo human being is illegal.  Nation states only deserve to exist inasmuch as they serve humanity and Mother Earth.  Without such stewardship, we just might find out the hard weigh what a world without boarders looks like.  May we rekindle a deep affection and connection to awe of our sisters and brothers near and far, for the healing of the world.

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POEM: To The See Tossing

Even
As a serious looker
She wore a millstone
Round her neck
Never experiencing a vocation
Long enough
Too go
To the see tossing

This is a Monday mourning poem for awe of you wage slaves.  It is far too common for working folks to dread their work, particularly Monday morning.  I suspect that the overwhelming majority of workers have fantasized, perhaps even planned a little, about embarking on some other vocation than their current trajectory of work and career.  Given the tumultuous nature of many workers’ work life, I am at times taken aback by how “even,” or even fateful, they seem, and how even relatively few “serious lookers” actually take the plunge into the apparent abyss.  I reflect on my own multiple years process of disentangling from my own long (17-year) career path and “regular” job.  After taking the plunge, my income dropped precipitously and my quality of life catapulted to previously unimagined heights.  As deliberate, measured and astute that I thought I was, I profoundly underestimated the benefits of taking the plunge.  This counts as one of the greatest lessons I have learned in my life.

This poem alludes to the metaphor of a millstone around one’s neck and being tossed into the sea, found in the Bible, Matthew 18:6-9:

“If anyone causes one of these little ones—those who believe in me—to stumble, it would be better for them to have a large millstone hung around their neck and to be drowned in the depths of the sea. Woe to the world because of the things that cause people to stumble! Such things must come, but woe to the person through whom they come! If your hand or your foot causes you to stumble, cut it off and throw it away. It is better for you to enter life maimed or crippled than to have two hands or two feet and be thrown into eternal fire. And if your eye causes you to stumble, gouge it out and throw it away. It is better for you to enter life with one eye than to have two eyes and be thrown into the fire of hell.”

This passage sets a high bar, the death penalty, for causing a child of God to stumble, to block the highest hopes in life.  This is a powerful condemnation of the bosses and powers that be that crush our dreams in the coarse of their business.  I don’t blame workers, wage slaves, for their predicament.  They deem me mad because I will not sell my days for gold; and I deem them mad because they think my days have a price -- Kahlil Gibran quote POLITICAL BUTTONStill, the stakes are high for the oppressed worker.  Better to “enter life” maimed or crippled than live in hell.

Due, you need a vocation.  Longing enough/Too go.  However slim it may appear, may you find that ever precious opening to life-affirming vocations…

 

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POEM: Spring Has Sprung

Winter is passed
And still
What is dung is dung
Yet in concert with nature
Sow becoming
A sublime movement
From the bowels of Mother Earth
And her thirst borne sun
Spring has sprung
From her fertile eyes
Perfectly teeming
With body and soul

This is a poem for the first day of Spring.  This poem celebrates both the cyclic revitalization of nature through the seasons and the inevitable arisings of social movements from the What is dung is dung of politics.  I frequently harken back to the theme of hope springing eternal.  If you are discouraged about the apparent lack of change in the world, just wait, change happens.  Even better yet, just wade, into such a fertile — even overripe — environment for change.  Both Mother Earth and the collective souls of humanity beckon your participation.  What is that I see breaking through the once cold, hard dirt…

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POEM: Sea of Love

I was lost
In a sea of love
Only to find my way back
To this world
Look in my eyes and sea
All that I have
For you

Love is a vast place; one of those places where you can recharge your soul or simply folic in joy.  Love has an otherworldly quality to it.  Not too surprising, if God is love.  Love is a poor respecter of man-made conventions, known to turn conventional wisdom upside down.  The weighs of love are not easily subject to human calculation or even put in words, especially for prose.  This short poem alludes to this ineffability by its being made known through the eyes, the windows to the soul.  Love is not prone to half-ass measures, offering All that I have as the only proper homage to love’s nature.  While the experience of love is difficult to quantify or put into words, its nature is to share itself with another.  May you love find you and the eyes have it.

The theme of this poem reminds me of another short poem of mine:

Divine Lover

One day
I asked God
What is it all about?
There was only silence
But with the look he gave me
We’ve been lovers
Ever since

 

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POEM: The Miraculous Doubt Her

Due
You believe
In miracles
Yes and know
Awe or nothing
Beyond your current
Imagination
And resounding may be

This poem of hope and expansive imagination is intended to both stretch and comfort your heart and mind.  There are wondrous things of which we know little.  Not knowing doesn’t have to lead to fear or anxiety.  Not knowing can spur curiosity and leave open a space of immeasurable size where hopes call home.  Only the haughty portend that there are no marvels outside the reach of human finitude.  Willingness to explore, hope, dream, and chart fabulous possibilities is the perfect complement to willfulness, a tenacious navigator of gutsy hope amidst fields of dreams.  Life can be harsh and disappointing.  Yet, inasmuch as we are the captains of our own fate, we are built for sailing, not the safe and limited usefulness of harbor.  While it may be trite that life isn’t fair, there is little doubt that life is excellent!  If your life isn’t a miracle, I strongly suspect that this isn’t the fault of God, real or unimagined.

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FREE POSTER: King Trump, Queen Hillary — ARISTOCRACY RULES, Resistance is Feudal

Even in America, the so-called home of the free and leader of the free world, we can’t seem to escape the rule of aristocrats.  While we escaped a Jeb Bush candidacy, we may be stuck with a Donald Trump and a Clinton as the major party candidates.  Is America’s bench so shallow that it must rely on wealth and family lineage for a government of the people, by the people, and for the people?  Just remember: RESISTANCE IS FEUDAL!

FREE POSTER: King Trump, Queen Hillary -- ARISTOCRACY RULES, Resistance is FeudalFeel free to share or download this free poster: King Trump, Queen Hillary — ARISTOCRACY RULES, Resistance is Feudal

Resistance is Feudal-FUNNY POLITICAL BUTTON

Check out Top Pun’s election and third party designs.

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FREE ANTI DONALD TRUMP POSTER: I Cannot Tell A Lie, I Built A Wall Around My Heart, And Mexicans Are Going To Pay For it

OK, I couldn’t resist commenting on Donald Trump.  Here is my take on his heartless presidential nominee campaign.  May his bigotry and proto-fascism fail big.

Anti Donald Trump POSTER: I Cannot Tell A Lie, I've Built A Wall Around My Heart And Mexicans Will Pay For It

Check out these electoral politics, third party politics, and anti-Republican designs.

 

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