POEM: Promedica My Ass — Owed To Branding

Logos used
Too mean
Know ledge
Like that age owed ad vice
Would you jump off a bridge
If every won ails did
As in sayin’
Bye your good will
As money oozes from the non-prophet, health care (sic) system
The sores of philandering philanthropy
Well, come to PR medica
An unholy owned subsidiary
Of Tourette’s Industries
You will swear
Buy them
Weather you want to or not
Their marketing deportment is
As good as goaled
As black as poets inc
Greasing their wills
Stuck with irresistible pitch
As verbally contracted
Not worth the pay per
Printed upon
Yet this awe
Will in deed
Make it passable to live
As resistance is feudal
And being
Penned
Is what poets due
Indubitably
Sow branded
As live stock
For tolled
Too get a rise
The Tao jones
Working in our flavor
Over and over and over
Un-till bank rolled
In a dark ally
Buy and buy
Hour justifiable salivation
Attending too in trap meant anon
Agin and agin and agin
Fore the yoke is on-us
Awe the more
Fore the fire brand
Not with standing
In a flesh of genius
Is incensed
As won red scent
Becomes too
Until udderly crying out
In an unherd-of steer
I love the smell
Of nay palm
In the mourning
High noon
And too fly by night
Sullen this, sullen that
Soully worried
How irate
In some won ails size
Butt, its my skin in the game
Lonely hoping
Knot to be found
Within and without
My pants around my knees
As its only
My panties in a bunch
Over
Awe that madders
Poetic license
And corporate patronage
Some body
Has to
Pay the piper
To keep your roost ere plumbed
As upright as it comes
Why cant you
Say “uncle”
You know
Like that rich uncle
Who wants you
To sit on his lap
And tell you
Bed time
Stories
That will mark you for life
Butt kept mysteriously in a family weigh
As long
As in your genes
As in c’est la vie
Or sow, I’ve herd
As if
We are posed to be prod
Of being cattle
Scarred I’ll go
All Gandhi on you as
BE the beef
Awe the wile beating a different conundrum
Refraining that whole eat me thing
The mark of the best (sic)
Or rather sic sic sic’s
Sow fresh and hoary unholy revelations
Indulging vain wishes for dead presidents
And CEOs
Men of letters posterior to autograft
Ass-ever-rate
In playing defense
At my offense
With such propriety, proprietary and property
For my own good, posedly
Their mirror deflection
But, but, but, but, but
Except two a t
And so
I’m bare assed
And without
They’re money
You’re nothing butt
A bum
And the rush
Too be just
THAT

I am not a big fan of branding, whether it is of livestock or in corporate public relations. I was inspired to write this poem because at a regular monthly poetry reading they secured a small amount of funding to pay invited featured poets. Will Work For Universal Health Care POLITICAL BUTTONThe source of funding included local community foundations plus the nearly ubiquitous ProMedica, the largest health system within the Toledo region.  I have come to call Promedica, “PR Medica,” because of its often over-sized logo and branding in Toledo, aka ProMedica-ville, is nearly omnipresent in venues big and small.  I found its intrusion into the local poetry scene offensive, particularly because I am an iconoclastic, anti-commercial poet who specializes in addressing social justice issues.  This was a little too close to home for me.  I announced before my open mic reading that I did not want to be considered as an invited poet.  I suggested that to de-commercialize this reading, sending back the portion payed for by ProMedica, along with a strongly worded letter (might I suggest F and U), would be in order.

This is not the first time that I have unleashed my poetic visions against ProMedica.  The first time I devoted a poem to ProMedica was when they sponsored a state-wide poetry contest on the topic of anti-hunger with an honorarium to the winning poet that would befit and maintain the status of starving artist.  My unsubmitting, unremitting poem: Speaking With Spoken Sword: Owed To Hungering Fore Anew ProMedica.

Health Care is a Right Not a Privilege - PUBLIC HEALTH BUTTONSingle-Payer Health Care - Everybody In, Nobody Out POLITICAL BUTTONProMedica, if you want to combat hunger, pay all of your employees a living wage.  ProMedica, if you want to fulfill your mission and redeem your non-prophet status, devote 0.01% of your revenue toward advocating for universal health care, everybody in, nobody out.  Until then, you can bye this poet all you want.

POLITICAL POEM: Heir Conditioning

As things went south
South goes north
Truly
Global warning is real
There is an arising
From the fires in bellies
And home fires burning
In efface of doors closed
Windows open
Those crazy few
Committed
Those sober many
Just sane
Mete the seventh generation
Au natural
As a sentry
Before being
Borne
Heir conditioning
The owed
Fashion way

This poem goes out to global warming activists and awe those in people’s movements growing in solidarity and size.  This poem was triggered this mourning from Predator-in-Chief Donald Trump’s executive order seeking to restart the Dakota Access Pipeline in a direct challenge to native american treaty rights, clean water, and a sane energy policy.  Environmental Justice NOW POLITICAL BUTTONDonald Trump, Brexit, and the latest rise in right-wing, authoritarianism will likely spur the uniting of growing global movements and local direct actions to counter such regressive policies and social conditions.  Globalize THIS - ENVIRONMENTAL RESPONSIBILITY [earth graphic] POLITICAL BUTTONNative peoples are, and have for thousands of years, been on the forefront of protecting Mother Earth.  Such formidable force and wisdom will confront the frightful farce and foolishness of authoritarianism, oligarchy, patriarchy, capitalism, racism, yoda, yoda, yoda — there is no try, only due.  In the missed of this generation, we will find our true north, hearts warming to the seventh generation.  We will find a weigh that cannot put down the arising of peoples everywhere there is injustice and anywhere there is injustice.  Just US first will be met with justice first.  The reckoning is arose, know madder what you call it!

Feel free to browse more global warming, climate justice designs:

Steward Ship - Planet Earth Picture-POLITICAL BUTTONToday, humanity faces a stark choice: save the planet and ditch capitalism, or save capitalism and ditch the planet --Fawzi Ibrahim quote POLITICAL BUTTONMOTHER Earth POLITICAL BUTTON

Got Clean Energy POLITICAL BUTTONOnly when the last tree has been felled, the last river poisoned and the last fish caught, man will know, that he cannot eat money. Cree Indian Prophecy quote POLITICAL BUTTONThere Are No Jobs On A Dead Planet POLITICAL BUTTON

 

ELECTION POEM: Democracy Takes A Dive

Like that
Mourning do
After a cold night
Looking over
That nasty bluff
When the populace says jump
As if
Only culpable
Sane
How high
Falling for everything
Accept gravity and physics
As mirror opinion
Reproving such an eminent nadir
As democracy takes a dive
For the biggest dip ever
And with celebrated ruins
Hour only hope
As tour US industry
For what’s left
Of the wrest of the world

This poem is dedicated to that huge, really huge part of America that is looming amidst shock and fear of a Donald Trump regime.  Sometimes the Empire Makes a Bad Call -- POLITICAL BUTTONI am definitely not a fan of things having to get worse before they get better.  It's A Planet Not An Empire POLITICAL BUTTONI intentionally rejected that notion wholesale years ago.  While we can learn stuff by getting hit in the face by a 2×4, this is a bankrupt rationale for hitting people in the face with a 2X4.  In a Trump dystopia, the biggest dream I can muster is that his capricious governing will cause American empire to falter in its hegemonic domination of the rest of the world. [editor’s note: I had to add “dystopia” to my blog’s dictionary]  Trump’s America first credo is, of course, perfectly aligned with traditional and endemic American exceptionalism.  ANTI-WAR QUOTE: Price of Empire America's Soul -- PEACE SIGN BUTTONMy hope rests somewhere in the neighborhood of one’s greatest strength becoming one’s greatest weakness.  While many aspects of a Trump regime are uncertain, there is little doubt that hubris will not be in short supply.  May progressive and humane forces take advantage of whatever cracks may appear in the predominance of well-disciplined empire.  May we forge a future beyond the false choices of neoliberalism and fascism, a future of solidarity and equity between all peoples and justice for the planet in which our life ultimately depends.

Feel free to browse anti-imperialism and anti-empire designs.

NEWS: TPP Declared Dead — Good Riddance Trans-Pacific Partnership!

In the wake of Donald Trump’s election, President Barack Obama has ended his push for passage of the Trans-Pacific Partnership (TPP), the largest free trade agreement ever sought.  The Free Market Costs Too Much POLITICAL BUTTONThe TPP is dead.  	 Corporate Crime - Privatized Profit, Socialized Debt [Coca-Cola parody] POLITICAL BUTTONI am hard pressed to think of a larger giveaway of the power of the people and good governance to corporate power than the TPP.  Good riddance!  This is a huge win, undergirded by years of activism by millions of people across the planet.  Candidate Trump campaigned strongly against free trade agreements, second only in emphasis to immigration control.  Candidate Clinton switched her former support for the TPP to opposition during the campaign.  Clinton advisers spoke openly of its eventual passage under a Clinton presidency.  President Obama’s perplexing insistence in pushing the TPP, against most in his own party, congress, and the American people, kept alive and relevant candidate Trump’s vociferous opposition.  For those mourning, with good reason, a Trump regime, this may be the best news we see emanating out of the Trump earthquake, perhaps ever.  So…celebrate this big win, and get back to the fight.

Feel free to browse more designs on economic violence and corporate greed:

Corporate Greed - The Other National Debt POLITICAL BUTTONCapitalism is Not in Crisis, Capitalism is the Crisis - OCCUPY WALL STREET POLITICAL BUTTONCorporatocracy Is Not Working For Me POLITICAL BUTTON

Growth For The Sake of Growth Is The Ideology Of The Cancer Cell -- Edward Abbey quote POLITICAL BUTTONCAPITAL PUNISHMENT: Those Without The Capital Get The Punishment POLITICAL BUTTONThe TRICKLE DOWN THEORY Is The Principle That The Poor, Living On Tables Scraps of The Rich, Can Best Be Served By Giving The Rich Bigger Meals -- William Blum POLITICAL BUTTON

Stop Socialized Risk Privatized Profit (STOP Sign) - POLITICAL BUTTONClass War - I Thought We Won That When Corporations Were Declared People and That Money Is Free Speech - OCCUPY WALL STREET POLITICAL BUTTON

POEM: Mad Happy

Well
I never
Happy to be mad
Mad too be happy
This might be crazy
That maybe fitting
Ante this and ante that
Given fighting chance
And unbelievable odds
Of uncounted to won
Beat up and up beat
Pleased as punched
As if
To be found in rare form
A sure fire Job
Employing awe
Mourning and knight
A play full
Of blowing people’s mines
Seeing red
And knot blue
Sow far fetched
As inconceivably making merry
Like straight out gay
Tickled pink
In efface of one’s enmity
Having enough
If only
Mad happy
Pleas
To get with it
Awe the rage

The origin of this poem emanates from a conversation where I found myself declaring an intent to be the happiest angry person and angriest happy person in the world.  The Truth Will Set You Free - But First It Will Piss You Off POLITICAL BUTTONSuch paradoxical conundrums are emblematic of my life experienced internally and presented to the world in awe its parent confusion.  Such a paradox is close kin to my persistent existence as both an intensely serious person and a person practically incapable of being serious.  I feel that I have a fare grasp of the systems of pain in plays in this world.  I also feel a keen sense of the unbearable lightness of being.  In short, perhaps too short, my life is weigh existential.  I have a deepening appreciation for anger, even rage.  I strongly suspect that to be a highly conscious person on this planet might require an intimate relationship with outrage.  	 If You're Not Outraged, You're Not Paying Attention POLITICAL BUTTONOutrage can be a profoundly humanizing experience, providing energy to respond to palpable injustices.  Also, simply experiencing the anger over loss present in all injustices, whether mourned passively or actively, seems to represent a form of connection, even solidarity, with persons experiencing injustice. May my madness deepen my connection to others and synergize my commitments and capabilities to struggle for justice for all.

Got Outrage POLITICAL BUTTONYour Getting bOLDER So Act Your rAGE POLITICAL BUTTON

POEM: Naught For Prophet Fun Razing

In the crucible
Of the well-heeled
And the, well, heeled
He surrounded himself
With corporate persons
Naught for prophet organizations
Possessed buy a cutting edge currency paper thin
The filing and folding kind
Their foundational hope
Nay only hope
To raze money
Life too be spent
Saving the whirled
From that witch
Is free
From the guilty floating
As the innocent sunk
Of sum cache
Their soul barometer

This poem is my tribute to the nonprofit industrial complex.  A fare characterization of non-prophet organizations is their never having enough, money that is — just, like the rest of our culture.  I have found both the focus and distraction of money in nonprofit ventures as a poor substitute for their supposed liberation from the stock aid of profit.  The noble missions of most nonprofit organizations have become largely moat points collared by the circular nature of rivers of money.  I am a huge fan of Jesus culling out our culture with surgical simplicity: “You can’t serve both God and money.”  More Hunger for Love Appreciation in World Than Bread--PEACE QUOTE BUTTONThe notion that money is the root to our salvation is anathema to every high ideal aspired to in faith traditions across time and cultures.  Today it is very fashionable to talk about the poor. Unfortunately it is very unfashionable to talk with them -- Mother Teresa quote POLITICAL BUTTONThis world has bred, many kneads, in the grand inquisition of the yeast of these. The wretched view of chasing money from mourning to knight gives rise to few.  The many have material needs, indubitably.  Yet as Mother Teresa so aptly noted, “There is more hunger for love and appreciation in this world than bread.”  The poor will awe weighs be with us.  As we pour ourselves, in too the world, may we be measured buy such worth sow much more than money.

Where there is no wealth there is no poverty. African Proverb POLITICAL BUTTONIn a country well governed, poverty is something to be ashamed of. In a country badly governed, wealth is something to be ashamed of. Confucius quote POLITICAL BUTTONNobody Gets Into Heaven With A Letter Of Reference From The Poor -- Rev. James Forbes. Jr. quote POLITICAL BUTTON

The Comfort Of The Rich Depends Upon An Abundant Supply Of The Poor POLITICAL BUTTONThe rich will do anything for the poor but get off their backs. Karl Marx quote POLITICAL BUTTON If You Think that the Poor are Hard to Get Rid of Try the Rich-POLITICAL BUTTON

Please feel free to check out Top Pun’s anti-poverty and economic justice designs.

IN DEPENDENCE DAZE POEM — A Little Colony PR: Owed Too Puerto Rico

If at first you don’t secede
You will be tried, tried agin
Taking atoll
Largely unheard
Feigning liberties
In centuries owed looming freedom
Weave earned our lessen
From the British umpire
Never let US leave North America
[Except for certain exceptionalisms proving the rule]
The land of the free
For giving debts
In rolling that island pair o’ dice
Assure abet
Capital flushed down that Saint John
Welcome to the state hood!
That mourning after
A fifth of July
Only too have
Their suffrage denied
Nothing that can’t be fixed
Buy a little colony PR
In dependence daze for all
Let freedom wring
This is the America I no
Enough to make a native restless

On this Independence Day weekend, I dedicate this poem to the people of Puerto Rico, who are nominally American citizens but do not enjoy either statehood or independence.  Unfortunately, the U.S. Congress may put Puerto Rico solidly back into colony status with a seven-person outside controlling board taking over whatever governance Puerto Rico now has.  This has triggered reconsideration of the status of Puerto Rico by the United Nations Special Committee on Decolonization.  The re-colonization of Puerto Rico as reported by Democracy Now :

The U.S. Senate has passed the so-called PROMESA bill, which will establish a federally appointed control board with sweeping powers to run Puerto Rico’s economy. While the bill’s supporters say the bill will help the island cope with its crippling debt crisis, it has also been widely criticized as a means of removing democratic control from the citizens of Puerto Rico. The Senate’s 68-30 vote comes two days before Puerto Rico is expected to default on a more than $2 billion debt payment. New Jersey Senator Bob Menendez led the opposition to the bill.

Sen. Bob Menendez: “It is a vote to authorize an unelected, unchecked and all-powerful control board to determine Puerto Rico’s destiny for a generation or more. It is a bill to force Puerto Rico, without their say, to go $370 million further in debt to pay for this omnipotent control board, which they don’t even want. It is a vote to cut the minimum wage down to $4.25 per hour for young workers in Puerto Rico. It’s a vote to make Puerto Ricans work long overtime hours without fair compensation. It’s a vote to jeopardize collective bargaining agreements. It’s a vote to cut worker benefits and privatize inherently government functions. It’s a vote to close schools and shutter hospitals and cut senior citizens’ pensions to the bone. It’s a vote to put hedge funds ahead of the people. And it’s a vote to sell off and commercialize natural treasures that belong to the people of Puerto Rico.”

May the United States and all of its citizens free themselves from colonial and imperial rule.

POEM: Mirror Winning In a Close Shave

That mine-blowing moment finally came
Where he saw his enemy
Face to efface
That fateful mourning
Infinitely more dangerous
And dreadfully more thorny
Than blood drawn in a close shave
Like a glance to the heart
None other
Then his own
Awe creation in a singular drop
An art rendering
Sow profoundly more
Than mirror winning

This poem reflects quiet literally those moments of epiphany when we see ourselves and our enemy as one.  I am deeply intrigued by the psychological truth of projection, seeing the world as we are rather than simply as the world happens to be.  The face of the enemy frightens me only when I see how much it resembles mine. Stanislaw J. Lec quote PEACE BUTTONThis egocentric lens distorts larger truths but can serve as a powerful tool for self-discovery.  Focusing on one’s self as an instrument of perception can offer valuable incites into how we navigate the world, often through a fun house mirror or speculative shadowy glances.  Such reflection can be mighty humbling.  I have been struck often enough by the philosophical and cosmological truth that wee are won by recognizing the sundry losses and fallings short that we each experience and bring to the world.  I have found that reflecting on the oneness of humanity and creation has led me to be a better person in my peace of the whirled.  Plus, the deep satisfaction of the experience of one has proven to me sow profoundly more than mirror winning.  May you find countless moments that help you transcend mine-blowing ours.

EPIC POEM: As Night Watch Man

In the deep
Of the knight
Watch man
Finding one self prone
Where singular stars obscure
As perpetual high noon
Where time stops
Straight up
Where the sun don’t shine
Like a broken time peace
With patients in undated
Wear dreams forgotten
In their wisdom nocturnal
Giving weigh
Too dark truths
For like a sentry
Only look out
For what is best
For all won no’s
Awe that it seams
A mist their act
In side
There elementary
Recesses
Of their mine
Uniformly capped
With unforeseen foil
As dread to them all ready
With tin pan reflections
Too mirror dusky shadows
Pre-pared
Too skill or be skilled
With shattered arts
Leaving won stiff
A post to the last man
A testing to peerless mail bravado
In
A remote job
So only after ours
In defense ably doing one’s doody
Incriminating nature’s coarse
All the wile
Without looking up
Just as speculative figure
Bad
Whether who starred it
Hoodwinked by grope think
Having
Out groan
Constellation prizes
Fumbling about
On which even you Depends®
Pooh-poohing it
As a conjury of their peers
And mutual convictions
Of that right before you
A void seeing
Sow proudly dedicated
And right fully committed
To full hardy belief
Going where no won has gone before
And highly ill logic
All Klingon too
Their frayed comforters
And sheer sheet
Amor gauzy shield
As bull work
Oh posing
Things that go
Bump in the night
Or worse yet
The not so light of daze
That everlusting grind
A cannonized weigh of life
No’ing the least of all
Surrender
Taking up arms
Accept as a lust resort
As dissembling mime
A forged silence
In farcing
What might
Be pro-pounding
As juster
Buy a majority
A con-script for the wrest
Safeguarding their camp
Helter-skelter
Sounding all arm
Pitting laughable fauxs
As our enema’s enema
In fashioning new fiends
Intimating familiarity
With won’s dark side
In is culpable evil
Only knot see
The twinkle in the I’s
Of every won a mother
Slumbering a bout
So far aweigh
To be
Raptured
In that stare way to heaven
Untold stories a way
Of what might raze
The dead of knight
And shrouded rays
Pre-veil over such pricks
In mortal pitch
And feather light
That mother flicker
Projecting the torch erratum
Flying that beacon
In witch
Our enemies
Cannot consume
What hell’s at stake
Ill luminated by fires bellow
However super intending
Divine assent read
The wholly smother
Jilted by pin holes of darkness
And heads as dead wringers
What’s under the desert
More gripping
Than hearts bared
And glistening from above
Calling out
Too arms
And a pare of feat
Swearing evolution
As erect brothers
Punctuate posterity
In memorial
Just ahead stone
As others lie
In truth
As plane to sea
What would work
To out fit
Such titanic under-takings
Of what still
Remains
To be
Seeing
Putting on the crowning touché
To a juggernaut of nods
Assure as the cock crows
Mourning will come
Graveyard shifts end
At the brake of daze
To the relief of fodders and mothers
And in the wake of the moment
We will score the skinny
That rarefied crack
In lightening this orchestral ball
Dawning upon him
A most well come vocation
Know more job
As the reel work begins
As fissures of men
Bring us to reguard
Catching ourselves
As part of each wholly lessen
A mist every calumny nation
As in deep
The knight made a parent
Calls it
A day

This epic poem, in both length and theme, plays within the abyss of skepticism and bids a certain openness prerequisite to fully experiencing mystery often hidden in the shadowy places of the heart.  Spiritual discernment can peer as but a pin prick in a dark and distant heaven, or it can peer as a guiding star, even blazing sun.  In your life as a spiritual being, may you find guiding stars in the deepest, darkest nights, and blazing suns purifying you with fire during your high noons.

POEM: A Constipated Citizenry

Not so deep
Within the body politic
A constipated citizenry
Yearns to be free
Crying out
In a full groan democracy
Mourning the dearth of moral fiber
Humanity squat
An abject lessen
Lo expectations
As number too
Clinging to far-fetched promise
Toil it issues
The cant of superdelicates
The sulky left over
And faltering last rights
Uptight a bout
Weather we have it
In US

Stop Repeat Offenders - Do NOT Re-elect Them POLITICAL BUTTONThis is at least the turd poem of mine that has featured the metaphor of constipation.  As a trained nutritionist and poet, I can’t help but notice the metaphorical parallels of Americans having the smallest poops in the world and having a constipated democracy.  The highly processed American political diet, dangerously low in moral fiber, has created an unhealthy buildup of whatever it is that makes the American electorate want to let loose the half-digested pablum of which it is fed up too hear.  The bowels of American democracy are grumbling.  Perennially high cynicism with mainstream, centrist politics has reached new highs.  APATHY - The Deadliest Weapon of Mass Destruction POLITICAL BUTTONAnd lo, the constipated political party elites have built up blockages creating no sane path to a functioning democracy, that is, a democracy that actually reflects the will of the people.  The bankruptcy magnate Donald Trump and corporate-owned aristocrat Hillary Clinton have the highest negative ratings of any two presidential candidates in modern history.  The disconnect that they represent between privileged power and the will of the people captures most of what is poopy about American electoral politics.  Don't Laugh, He's Paid For [politician] POLITICAL BUTTONHillary Clinton is beholden by corporate persons of the unhuman kind.  Donald Trump trumpets his freedom from a moneyed world precisely because he was born, raised and romps in a moneyed world.  Irony futures must be having a field day!  Still, the citizen-consumers of America are scared shitless of being number two in even the littlest weighs; and bounteous demagoguery is the cheap consolation price afforded voter and non-voter alike. While it’s easy to moan and groan about the lack of inspirational candidates in electoral politics, this is a function — or dysfunction — of non-electoral politics. The sum total effect of non-electoral and electoral politics is as Thomas Jefferson stated: A ballot is like a bullet. You don't throw your ballots until you see a target, and if that target is not in reach, keep your ballot in your pocket. Malcolm X quote POLITICAL BUTTON“The government you elect is the government you deserve.” Of coarse, this hole constipated citizenry thing won’t change until citizens give a shit.

BOTH Parties Are Revolting, Why Aren't You? POLITICAL BUTTONMay you find an outlet in irregular politics to make the world a better place.

POEM: Another Martyr Bides The Dust

Another martyr bides the dust
And I was a stray
Beside myself
In the fog
Of yet another mourning
The missed over my heart
Feeling only that ephemeral beaten
The wait on my brain
Fueled into thinking of the dread only
And the little I no
Of what remains
As the truth is bared
In ash holes with names
Temping to soil
Won an other’s life work
Un-till arising from hour grounding
Ready ourselves for a human race
Wear blood is thicker then water
Tearing at our soles
And water thicker than heir
The salt of the earth bides
It’s time
Too clear the weigh
Of what thou dust
Ahead razed for awe
As be holding the sons rays
Bringing a bout of sunshine
An enduring lightness
Out shining
Any faux
How ever clan destine
In efface of such shrouding allowed
In countering any illicit clout
Ever looming
Whatever we’ve
Got together
With standing any in thralling strayin’
Rapping up awe that is frayed
For whatever may seam
Know longer

I wrote this poem a while back, but I’m publishing it now to honor the passing of Father Daniel Berrigan who died over the weekend at age 94.  Father Daniel Berrigan was the first priest arrested for peace and anti-war civil disobedience — or holy obedience.  As recounted in the National Catholic Review:

Berrigan undoubtedly stands among the most influential American Jesuits of the past century…

A literary giant in his own right, Berrigan was best known for his dramatic acts of civil disobedience against the Vietnam War and nuclear weapons. He burned draft files with homemade napalm and later hammered on nuclear weapons to enact the Isaiah prophecy to “beat swords into plowshares.” His actions challenged Americans and Catholics to reexamine their relationship with the state and reject militarism. He constantly asked himself and others: What does the Gospel demand of us?

“For me, Father Daniel Berrigan is Jesus as a poet,” Kurt Vonnegut wrote. “If this be heresy, make the most of it.”

“Dorothy Day taught me more than all the theologians,” Berrigan told The Nation in 2008. “She awakened me to connections I had not thought of or been instructed in—the equation of human misery and poverty with warmaking. She had a basic hope that God created the world with enough for everyone, but there was not enough for everyone and warmaking.”

In 1963, Berrigan embarked on a year of travel, spending time in France, Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Rome, South Africa and the Soviet Union. He encountered despair among French Jesuits related to the situation of Indochina, as the United States ramped up military involvement in Vietnam.

Berrigan returned home in 1964 convinced that the war in Vietnam “could only grow worse.” So he began, he later wrote, “as loudly as I could, to say ‘no’ to the war…. There would be simply no turning back.”

He co-founded the Catholic Peace Fellowship and the interfaith group Clergy and Laity Concerned about Vietnam…

In Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander (1966), Merton described Berrigan as “an altogether winning and warm intelligence and a man who, I think, has more than anyone I have ever met the true wide-ranging and simple heart of the Jesuit: zeal, compassion, understanding, and uninhibited religious freedom. Just seeing him restores one’s hope in the Church.”

A dramatic year of assassinations and protests that shook the conscience of America, 1968 also proved to be a watershed year for Berrigan. In February, he flew to Hanoi, North Vietnam, with the historian Howard Zinn and assisted in the release of three captured U.S. pilots. On their first night in Hanoi, they awoke to an air-raid siren and U.S. bombs and had to find shelter.

As the United States continued to escalate the war, Berrigan worried that conventional protests had little chance of influencing government policy. His brother, Philip, then a Josephite priest, had already taken a much greater risk: In October 1967, he broke into a draft board office in Baltimore and poured blood on the draft files.

Undeterred at the looming legal consequences, Philip planned another draft board action and invited his younger brother to join him. Daniel agreed.

On May 17, 1968, the Berrigan brothers joined seven other Catholic peace activists in Catonsville, Md., where they took several hundreds of draft files from the local draft board and set them on fire in a nearby parking lot, using homemade napalm. Napalm is a flammable liquid that was used extensively by the United States in Vietnam.

Daniel said in a statement, “Our apologies, good friends, for the fracture of good order, the burning of paper instead of children, the angering of the orderlies in the front parlor of the charnel house. We could not, so help us God, do otherwise.”

Berrigan was tried and convicted for the action. When it came time for sentencing, however, he went underground and evaded the Federal Bureau of Investigation for four months.

“I knew I would be apprehended eventually,” he told America in an interview in 2009, “but I wanted to draw attention for as long as possible to the Vietnam War and to Nixon’s ordering military action in Cambodia.”

The F.B.I. finally apprehended him on Block Island, R.I., at the home of theologian William Stringfellow, in August 1970. He spent 18 months in Danbury federal prison, during which he and Philip appeared on the cover of Time magazine.

The brothers, lifelong recidivists, were far from finished.

Swords Into Plowshares, Isaiah 2:4 PEACE BUTTONOn Sept. 9, 1980, Daniel and Philip joined seven others in busting into the General Electric missile plant in King of Prussia, Pa., where they hammered on an unarmed nuclear weapon—the first Plowshares action. They faced 10 years in prison for the action but were sentenced to time served.

In his courtroom testimony at the Plowshares trial, Berrigan described his daily confrontation with death as he accompanied the dying at St. Rose Cancer Home in New York City. He said the Plowshares action was connected with this ministry of facing death and struggling against it. In 1984, he began working at St. Vincent’s Hospital, New York City, where he ministered to men and women with H.I.V.-AIDS.

“It’s terrible for me to live in a time where I have nothing to say to human beings except, ‘Stop killing,’” he explained at the Plowshares trial. “There are other beautiful things that I would love to be saying to people.”

In 1997 he was nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize.

Berrigan’s later years were devoted to Scripture study, writing, giving retreats, correspondence with friends and admirers, mentorship of young Jesuits and peace activists, and being an uncle to two generations of Berrigans. He published several biblical commentaries that blended scholarship with pastoral reflection and poetic wit.

“Berrigan is evidently incapable of writing a prosaic sentence,” biblical scholar Walter Brueggemann wrote in a review of Berrigan’s Genesis (2006). “He imitates his creator with his generative word that calls forth linkages and incongruities and opens spaces that bewilder and dazzle and summon the reader.”

Even as an octogenarian, Berrigan continued to protest, turning his attention to the U.S. wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, the prison in Guantánamo Bay and the Occupy Wall Street movement. Friends remember Berrigan as courageous and creative in love, a person of integrity who was willing to pay the price, a beacon of hope and a sensitive and caring friend.

While technically, Fr. Berrigan is not a martyr, he sacrificed much and lived courageously in the belly of the beast called the United States of America of which he called its militarism and imperialism.

While I wrote this poem with a male character, this may not be truly representative of the martyrs in this world.  Soon after penning this poem, Berta Caceres, whose activism reverberated around the world, was assassinated by a Honduran death squad, shot in her own home.  This poem is dedicated to her as well, a well of hope deeper than any dam corporations.  As recounted from Alternet:

On March 3, assassins entered the home of Berta Caceres, leader of Honduras’ environmental and indigenous movement. They shot her friend Gustavo Castro Soto, the director of Friends of the Earth Mexico. He pretended to be dead, and so is the only witness of what came next. The assassins found Berta Caceres in another room and shot her in the chest, the stomach and the arms. When the assassins left the house, Castro went to Berta Caceres, who died in his arms.

Investigation into the death of Berta Caceres is unlikely to be conducted with seriousness. The Honduran government suggested swiftly that it was likely that Castro had killed Berta Caceres and made false statements about assassins. That he had no motive to kill his friend and political ally seemed irrelevant. Castro has taken refuge in the Mexican embassy in Honduras’ capital, Tegucigalpa. He continues to fear for his life.

Berta Caceres led the Popular and Indigenous Organisations of Honduras (COPINH), one of the most important critics of government and corporate power in her country. Most recently, she and COPINH had taken a strong stand against the construction of the Agua Zarca dam on a river sacred to the indigenous Lenca community. This dam had occupied her work. It was not merely a fight against an energy company, it was a fight against the entire Honduran elite.

Desarrollos Energeticos, SA (DESA) is owned by the Atala family, whose most famous member is Camilo Atala, who heads Honduras’ largest bank, Banco Ficohsa. By all indications, the Atala family is very close to the government. When the military moved against the democratically elected government of Manuel Zelaya Rosales in 2009, the Atala family, among others, supported the coup with their means. They can cut all the flowers, but they can never stop the spring -- Pablo Neruda quote POLITICAL BUTTONThe Honduran sociologist Leticia Salomon listed this family among others as the enablers of the coup. They backed the conservative National Party, which now holds the reins of power alongside the military. Berta Caceres’ fight against the Agua Zarca dam, then, was not merely a fight against one dam. It was a battle against the entire Honduran oligarchy. Her assassination had, as her family contends, been long overdue.

May we be inspired and encouraged by the fearless lives of those who have gone before us.

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

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.

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

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…

 

POEM: Shown Up

The last time
He punched
A time clock
It was time to stop
A feudal gesture
Accept that
It got him fired
Up to his passions
Eyes wide open
After halving it awe
And feeling dread
In the mirror mourning
Shuddered into pieces
Having watched
His life
Go bye
As hows divided
Against won self
But now
Happening upon him
To be
Re-billed every moment
A knew
Yet know longer
Buy
Sordid clock suckers
And boorish time machines
Transporting too distant years
Never wanting
Such promise
A-trophy
Re: tired
Too due much
As everything ails
In the passed
Having shown up
Today

This is perhaps an appropriate Monday poem for many of the wage slaves working out there.  The first theme addresses one of my grate pet peeves in modern capitalistic culture of most daze experiencing the violence of an alarm clock to get out of bed, usually to work for someone else.  The evil genius and efficiency of replacing a human taskmaster with an electronic device in which wee dutifully assure our appointed time as “shown up,” speaks the the successful internalization and colonization of our lives by bosses.  Most spend most of their waking hours at a job, or jobs, that most would leave if they felt they could.  Many would rather be sleeping.  Some may find it difficult to find the difference between a-little-too droning-on working and a-little-too fitful sleeping.  We sell ourselves wholesale, some might say prostitute ourselves, for the promise of what remains.  This poems overall theme is about trading now for the future.  This can be a dangerous busyness — sometimes as dangerous as living fully in the now!  The strange paradox here is that the danger of seeking predictability and security in life is often the very thing that robs us of life; while a passion-driven now may bring a careening future routinely beyond prediction, such a future is a more lively and life-filled future than the promise of conventional wisdom’s financial security and touted freedom from uncertainty.  The present is uncertainty, and the freedom this entails.  Inasmuch as we recoil from uncertainty, we make ourselves vulnerable to the purveyors of branded futures, featuring proprietary properties, that are designed to convince you to sell today for tomorrow — or more commonly, a paycheck every two weeks.  Granted, a few folks experience the serendipity of their passions now lining up with their various bosses (or co-conspirators).  Still, the inescapable equation is that quality of life is directly tied to how often you show up for your own life, that is compared to pawning your life for money or a boss’ designs on your own.  May your life be shown up by an incredible series of presents.

P.S. This is my 500th blog entry.  I better watch it or I may be considered productive.

POEM: Speaking With Spoken Sword: Owed To Hungering Fore Anew ProMedica

The profit tiers
Some how a peer
To set the captives free
Going won after the other
Like mammon and famine
As to somehow heel the ravenous
As fiend and faux
As sow appetite for the pauper reproach
With such lack luster assurance
As hungering for
Corporate solutions
Like KoolAid™
For the poor
As food desserts
Like a cock tale
Wagging the dog
For mirrorly fucking bitches
The same owe same owe
As prophets of ode
Rapiers by daze
Templars buy eve
The paltry of knights
With chicken shit
Offering
A hundred and fifty bucks
Posing as dear
As if
Doing its doody
In sum fecund foundation
For just us
As financiers of poetic justice
And diets high in irony
For its undeserving marks
And omnipresent logos
As going in kitsch in sync
With awe that cannot be stomached
Paving roads with good attentions
In know name
Butt there own
Sitting a top the whirled
Of hell care
Reigning
Pennies from heaven
As coppers too familiar
To the indignant
And indigent
Of that speaking with spoken sword
Offering crumbs
Leading know where
Their droppings
As little balms
As met a sin
Requiring heart surgery
And prescribing
Take two aspirin
And call me in the mourning
And if that is not enough
Tact on
Take care
Your own
Busyness
Such self-determination
Only too be food agin
As so much on won’s plate
For what is whored
As up rightness
Only to be drug
By profits of owed
Living on exorbitant feeds
As the CEO my God
And the staff buy his side
Dis cuss policy
As their weighter
Serves there well fare
Wile others
Dine in the streets

Here is my decidedly unofficial entry in the ProMedica sponsored poetry competition so unintentionally named, “Revealing Hunger: Spoken (S)word.”  While it is the Big S poetry competition they are currently sponsoring, I’ll pass — though I’m quite sure it will be a gas.  ProMedica was sure to eventually reap the madness of my poetry, sow here it is.  ProMedica is always in the running for trying to coroner the market in buying good will to which it might be able to attach its moribund name.  Though the pathetic $150 price for a singular winning poem betrays how little they truly value good will and poetry.  If my words don’t speak well enough for me, then I invite ProMedica to eat me, should their hunger for justice suffer in digestion.

POEM: For Awe That Has Been Urned

In her dreams
She is wanting
To be moved
By more than
Slumber too slumber
Mirrorly to a wake
Daze unending
With that annoying buzz
Thirst thing in the mourning
The pique of the day
The latest snooze
A stay of execution
From a commute
Never quiet arriving
In during
The same owe same owe
A mounting to nothing
Carrion on
From dead line to dead line
Only hopping
To meet your destiny
Long the weigh
Too the beat
Down
Of a humdrum
In exhaustible work lode
Sow being a ware
Only dealing
With sum strain
Of staff infection
A little off
And on and on and on
Without a brake
Wading
For some kind
Of savor
In any respect
Of a Jōb
Well
Done
Succeeded by rehash for dinner
A little bit like
Looser
For awe that has been urned
From dusk to dusk
And willing succor
For a weak end
And easing into won bunk
Affording seconds of fuel’s goaled
Mine razing
At the prospect
Too due it
Agin

This is a good Monday mourning poem for all of you enduring slave wagers.  To me, work is simply doing that which you do not want to do, that which we do when we would rather be doing something else.  The conventional wisdom is that there are inescapable compromises that must be made, such as selling large chunks of our life to finance the remains.  Wee are part and parcel of this so-called American dream, which George Carlin so aptly observed, It's Called the American Dream Because You Have to be Asleep to Believe It - George Carlin Quote - POLITICAL BUTTON“It’s called the American dream because you have to be asleep to believe it”  — that is, if you can fit sleep into your schedule!  Frankly, I can no longer afford to go to such conventions, though I’ll meet them half way with the whole whizzed ’em thing.

Having to wake up to an alarm strikes me as one of the great bastardizations of true awakening.  If you get up and it is dark out, you might want to make a note of that, hopefully, plenty of notes, see notes!

If you are going to sell yourself, I would definitely hope that you get a good price.  Still, there is a whirled of difference between getting a good price and a good prize.  Selling your own passions, your own heart’s desires for someone else’s notion of productivity is perhaps the real idolness.  Far too often, no one can even really identify the specific person whose notion of productivity is being served.  Wherever it is, it’s the birthplace of “It’s not my job” and “I’m only doing my job” as workers serve nameless and unaccountable masters, and can’t help, but serve in their master’s apathetic and/or irrelevant image.  The bulk of so-called work in capitalist cultures represents an immeasurable opportunity accost of passions passed and hearty lusts lost.  Even awe that has been urned echoes in time off, weather having perpetual rehash as eve approaches or dread as eve withers a way in the dread of coming daze.

May you find work indistinguishable from play, an awakening without alarm, and find no idolness in site.

POEM: Unoriginal Sin

Thirst thing in the mourning
Adam collided with Adam
Agin and agin
As taken aback
As it was a hit
Necessitating an equal
Yet opposite reaction
Recoiling for time in memorial
Chastening to watch
As if
One clock to rule them all
As reliably ticking off
As any won could predict
Nay, reckon
How many fateful years
To urn a time peace
As fools goaled
Pain the prize
For what is
Only avail Abel
As kicking morass
Miring won another
As if he only
Poo-pooing
All that is given
Freely
Undertaking
What should be
Wreckless abandon
Lives in untolled runes
Malingering by passing
High noon
Long lost in the shadows
Of a flagging west
As dusk to dusk
And wend we do not know
Sow inconceivable
To sum
As won’s better have
Of what once was
Mirrorly
Eve ‘n
O men!
Of what will be

From whence the spirit comes and to where it goes, nobody knows.  The life of the spirit is deeply involved in possibility, originality.  As the prophet Isaiah proclaimed in this regard: “See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.” (Isaiah 43:19)  Denying wondrous, life-springing possibilities and freshness is unoriginal sin.  Leaning on the everlasting alms calls us to awe that is anew.  The wilderness today is a so-called civilization with a seemingly inescapable rigged game.  The wasteland is a close-sum game with all competing for seemingly scant resources and only hoping to make degrade. The life of the spirit is imbued with hope and possibility.  The probabilistic universe that we live in is simply a playground for hope to run amuck — amuck being what happens when stardust is mixed with water.  Mistaking the universe, creation, for merely a set of rules buy which wee are gloriously complicated dirt determined to be the best rule followers, is the worst sort of religion.  Experiencing creation is an inescapable part of our being — “do you not perceive it?”  Participating in creating is much more optional.  “He made me do it.”  “That’s not my job.”  “I’m only doing my job.”  These are not the type of things that people say who are firmly grounded in the rapscallion life of the spirit, that is, who are in love with hope and possibility — and in love with love.  May you be totally captivated by hope and possibility, a vexing wrench in the probabilistic gamers triangulations.  And if you must sin, please, try something original.

POEM: A Musing Co-Mission — Nein Poems! Owed to Know One

This is nine separate poems comprising one poem, each and all on the theme of the muse mercilessly striking in the middle of the night with irrepressible inspiration from God knows where.

God bid me
Higher than I
Was willing to go
Only to in
Form me
Of whys infirm a meant
That I am
All ready
Hear

He slept
Into conversation
With that God of dreams
Where I’s are not necessary
Only more acute
And in their wake
Brake loose
Countless dawns

Apprehending
I am
A kept man
In my place
Beyond my own
Yet as if
More than
A game
Playing only
For keeps

In the mettle of the night
God has a Lot to say
In that language of silence
A partner
Worth more than
One’s salt
Never looking back
In a God so forward

He said “YES”
To harvest time
In the land of nod
Where more dreams are forgotten
Than anyone could ever “no”
Those fated few under
A night’s protection

The muse strikes
Beyond mirror daze
In the we ours of the night
Where there is know work
And never clothing for busyness

My hand rights
And awe that is mine
Mirrorly follows
Giving
One
A pause
Word
Without sound
Of won hand
Clapping

Amid night rambler
Beyond what is still
Drunk in slurs
Of lucid dreams
Never to be penned
And in mourning will
Be for gotten

The wrest of the night
Is yours
The muse supined
And you knead not worry
I will take care
Of hour many
Fine appointments

I wrote these nine poems one night over the course of a bout two hours.  The singular theme of a poet’s helpless relationship with a muse was not designed by me but a mirror reflection of this relationship.  My futile resistance was to know a veil, and pun in hand, I consider this my formal certification as gloriously disabled.  With the sole of a poet, flat on my back, I have long a go matriculated to the knead to get up and answer the muses booty call.  It is simply the write thing too due!  Sow, a light bulb goes on, and as pen is in hand, what comes is worthy of the papers.  A lass, what may be fodder to some is a parent only too me in sharing presence of what is awe to gather hours.  May you find yourself a basket-case of poetry like a sickness and a cure to gather.