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. The 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.
ProMedica, 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.
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POEM: Innocence — An Owed In A Sense Her innocence Was immune to their dis ease As be wilder And a tempt However tempered Only to be Dis missed As just A guile His innocence Deified awe bravery In the face Of accusations summoned As subdude As never a cur to them Posing the quest in Guise will Be guise Her bosom leaped […]...
POEM: Breath of Fresh Heir Each mourning Brings that which is light Though wanting to rest As the whirled spins under my feet I am Still Razed Too my feat Standing on Perhaps a singular word Mysteriously helled Together In God-ordained gravity Until that thirst Breath of fresh heir As awe is knew This poem is about coming out of […]...
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. Donald 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. Native 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!
POEM: Breath of Fresh Heir Each mourning Brings that which is light Though wanting to rest As the whirled spins under my feet I am Still Razed Too my feat Standing on Perhaps a singular word Mysteriously helled Together In God-ordained gravity Until that thirst Breath of fresh heir As awe is knew This poem is about coming out of […]...
POEM: Innocence — An Owed In A Sense Her innocence Was immune to their dis ease As be wilder And a tempt However tempered Only to be Dis missed As just A guile His innocence Deified awe bravery In the face Of accusations summoned As subdude As never a cur to them Posing the quest in Guise will Be guise Her bosom leaped […]...
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. I am definitely not a fan of things having to get worse before they get better. I 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. My 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.
POEM: Breath of Fresh Heir Each mourning Brings that which is light Though wanting to rest As the whirled spins under my feet I am Still Razed Too my feat Standing on Perhaps a singular word Mysteriously helled Together In God-ordained gravity Until that thirst Breath of fresh heir As awe is knew This poem is about coming out of […]...
POEM: Innocence — An Owed In A Sense Her innocence Was immune to their dis ease As be wilder And a tempt However tempered Only to be Dis missed As just A guile His innocence Deified awe bravery In the face Of accusations summoned As subdude As never a cur to them Posing the quest in Guise will Be guise Her bosom leaped […]...
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 TPP is dead. I 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.
POEM: Innocence — An Owed In A Sense Her innocence Was immune to their dis ease As be wilder And a tempt However tempered Only to be Dis missed As just A guile His innocence Deified awe bravery In the face Of accusations summoned As subdude As never a cur to them Posing the quest in Guise will Be guise Her bosom leaped […]...
POEM: Breath of Fresh Heir Each mourning Brings that which is light Though wanting to rest As the whirled spins under my feet I am Still Razed Too my feat Standing on Perhaps a singular word Mysteriously helled Together In God-ordained gravity Until that thirst Breath of fresh heir As awe is knew This poem is about coming out of […]...
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. Such 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. Outrage 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.
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POEM: Breath of Fresh Heir Each mourning Brings that which is light Though wanting to rest As the whirled spins under my feet I am Still Razed Too my feat Standing on Perhaps a singular word Mysteriously helled Together In God-ordained gravity Until that thirst Breath of fresh heir As awe is knew This poem is about coming out of […]...
POEM: Innocence — An Owed In A Sense Her innocence Was immune to their dis ease As be wilder And a tempt However tempered Only to be Dis missed As just A guile His innocence Deified awe bravery In the face Of accusations summoned As subdude As never a cur to them Posing the quest in Guise will Be guise Her bosom leaped […]...
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.” The notion that money is the root to our salvation is anathema to every high ideal aspired to in faith traditions across time and cultures. This 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.
POEM: Breath of Fresh Heir Each mourning Brings that which is light Though wanting to rest As the whirled spins under my feet I am Still Razed Too my feat Standing on Perhaps a singular word Mysteriously helled Together In God-ordained gravity Until that thirst Breath of fresh heir As awe is knew This poem is about coming out of […]...
POEM: Innocence — An Owed In A Sense Her innocence Was immune to their dis ease As be wilder And a tempt However tempered Only to be Dis missed As just A guile His innocence Deified awe bravery In the face Of accusations summoned As subdude As never a cur to them Posing the quest in Guise will Be guise Her bosom leaped […]...
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.
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POEM: Innocence — An Owed In A Sense Her innocence Was immune to their dis ease As be wilder And a tempt However tempered Only to be Dis missed As just A guile His innocence Deified awe bravery In the face Of accusations summoned As subdude As never a cur to them Posing the quest in Guise will Be guise Her bosom leaped […]...
POEM: Breath of Fresh Heir Each mourning Brings that which is light Though wanting to rest As the whirled spins under my feet I am Still Razed Too my feat Standing on Perhaps a singular word Mysteriously helled Together In God-ordained gravity Until that thirst Breath of fresh heir As awe is knew This poem is about coming out of […]...
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. This 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.
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POEM: Innocence — An Owed In A Sense Her innocence Was immune to their dis ease As be wilder And a tempt However tempered Only to be Dis missed As just A guile His innocence Deified awe bravery In the face Of accusations summoned As subdude As never a cur to them Posing the quest in Guise will Be guise Her bosom leaped […]...
POEM: Breath of Fresh Heir Each mourning Brings that which is light Though wanting to rest As the whirled spins under my feet I am Still Razed Too my feat Standing on Perhaps a singular word Mysteriously helled Together In God-ordained gravity Until that thirst Breath of fresh heir As awe is knew This poem is about coming out of […]...
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.
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POEM: Breath of Fresh Heir Each mourning Brings that which is light Though wanting to rest As the whirled spins under my feet I am Still Razed Too my feat Standing on Perhaps a singular word Mysteriously helled Together In God-ordained gravity Until that thirst Breath of fresh heir As awe is knew This poem is about coming out of […]...
POEM: Innocence — An Owed In A Sense Her innocence Was immune to their dis ease As be wilder And a tempt However tempered Only to be Dis missed As just A guile His innocence Deified awe bravery In the face Of accusations summoned As subdude As never a cur to them Posing the quest in Guise will Be guise Her bosom leaped […]...
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
This 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. And 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. Hillary 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: “The government you elect is the government you deserve.” Of coarse, this hole constipated citizenry thing won’t change until citizens give a shit.
May you find an outlet in irregular politics to make the world a better place.
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POEM: Innocence — An Owed In A Sense Her innocence Was immune to their dis ease As be wilder And a tempt However tempered Only to be Dis missed As just A guile His innocence Deified awe bravery In the face Of accusations summoned As subdude As never a cur to them Posing the quest in Guise will Be guise Her bosom leaped […]...
POEM: Breath of Fresh Heir Each mourning Brings that which is light Though wanting to rest As the whirled spins under my feet I am Still Razed Too my feat Standing on Perhaps a singular word Mysteriously helled Together In God-ordained gravity Until that thirst Breath of fresh heir As awe is knew This poem is about coming out of […]...
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.
On 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. The 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.
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POEM: Innocence — An Owed In A Sense Her innocence Was immune to their dis ease As be wilder And a tempt However tempered Only to be Dis missed As just A guile His innocence Deified awe bravery In the face Of accusations summoned As subdude As never a cur to them Posing the quest in Guise will Be guise Her bosom leaped […]...
POEM: Breath of Fresh Heir Each mourning Brings that which is light Though wanting to rest As the whirled spins under my feet I am Still Razed Too my feat Standing on Perhaps a singular word Mysteriously helled Together In God-ordained gravity Until that thirst Breath of fresh heir As awe is knew This poem is about coming out of […]...
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. Thankfully, 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: Breath of Fresh Heir Each mourning Brings that which is light Though wanting to rest As the whirled spins under my feet I am Still Razed Too my feat Standing on Perhaps a singular word Mysteriously helled Together In God-ordained gravity Until that thirst Breath of fresh heir As awe is knew This poem is about coming out of […]...
POEM: Innocence — An Owed In A Sense Her innocence Was immune to their dis ease As be wilder And a tempt However tempered Only to be Dis missed As just A guile His innocence Deified awe bravery In the face Of accusations summoned As subdude As never a cur to them Posing the quest in Guise will Be guise Her bosom leaped […]...
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: Breath of Fresh Heir Each mourning Brings that which is light Though wanting to rest As the whirled spins under my feet I am Still Razed Too my feat Standing on Perhaps a singular word Mysteriously helled Together In God-ordained gravity Until that thirst Breath of fresh heir As awe is knew This poem is about coming out of […]...
POEM: Innocence — An Owed In A Sense Her innocence Was immune to their dis ease As be wilder And a tempt However tempered Only to be Dis missed As just A guile His innocence Deified awe bravery In the face Of accusations summoned As subdude As never a cur to them Posing the quest in Guise will Be guise Her bosom leaped […]...
Mourning is hear The bell tolls fore thee Riiiiiiiight Whatever Get up You had Left Right Left right Left
Here 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. The 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.
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POEM: Innocence — An Owed In A Sense Her innocence Was immune to their dis ease As be wilder And a tempt However tempered Only to be Dis missed As just A guile His innocence Deified awe bravery In the face Of accusations summoned As subdude As never a cur to them Posing the quest in Guise will Be guise Her bosom leaped […]...
POEM: Breath of Fresh Heir Each mourning Brings that which is light Though wanting to rest As the whirled spins under my feet I am Still Razed Too my feat Standing on Perhaps a singular word Mysteriously helled Together In God-ordained gravity Until that thirst Breath of fresh heir As awe is knew This poem is about coming out of […]...
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. Still, 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: Breath of Fresh Heir Each mourning Brings that which is light Though wanting to rest As the whirled spins under my feet I am Still Razed Too my feat Standing on Perhaps a singular word Mysteriously helled Together In God-ordained gravity Until that thirst Breath of fresh heir As awe is knew This poem is about coming out of […]...
POEM: Innocence — An Owed In A Sense Her innocence Was immune to their dis ease As be wilder And a tempt However tempered Only to be Dis missed As just A guile His innocence Deified awe bravery In the face Of accusations summoned As subdude As never a cur to them Posing the quest in Guise will Be guise Her bosom leaped […]...
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.
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POEM: Innocence — An Owed In A Sense Her innocence Was immune to their dis ease As be wilder And a tempt However tempered Only to be Dis missed As just A guile His innocence Deified awe bravery In the face Of accusations summoned As subdude As never a cur to them Posing the quest in Guise will Be guise Her bosom leaped […]...
POEM: Breath of Fresh Heir Each mourning Brings that which is light Though wanting to rest As the whirled spins under my feet I am Still Razed Too my feat Standing on Perhaps a singular word Mysteriously helled Together In God-ordained gravity Until that thirst Breath of fresh heir As awe is knew This poem is about coming out of […]...
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.
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POEM: Innocence — An Owed In A Sense Her innocence Was immune to their dis ease As be wilder And a tempt However tempered Only to be Dis missed As just A guile His innocence Deified awe bravery In the face Of accusations summoned As subdude As never a cur to them Posing the quest in Guise will Be guise Her bosom leaped […]...
POEM: Breath of Fresh Heir Each mourning Brings that which is light Though wanting to rest As the whirled spins under my feet I am Still Razed Too my feat Standing on Perhaps a singular word Mysteriously helled Together In God-ordained gravity Until that thirst Breath of fresh heir As awe is knew This poem is about coming out of […]...
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” — 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.
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POEM: Breath of Fresh Heir Each mourning Brings that which is light Though wanting to rest As the whirled spins under my feet I am Still Razed Too my feat Standing on Perhaps a singular word Mysteriously helled Together In God-ordained gravity Until that thirst Breath of fresh heir As awe is knew This poem is about coming out of […]...
POEM: Innocence — An Owed In A Sense Her innocence Was immune to their dis ease As be wilder And a tempt However tempered Only to be Dis missed As just A guile His innocence Deified awe bravery In the face Of accusations summoned As subdude As never a cur to them Posing the quest in Guise will Be guise Her bosom leaped […]...
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.
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POEM: Breath of Fresh Heir Each mourning Brings that which is light Though wanting to rest As the whirled spins under my feet I am Still Razed Too my feat Standing on Perhaps a singular word Mysteriously helled Together In God-ordained gravity Until that thirst Breath of fresh heir As awe is knew This poem is about coming out of […]...
POEM: Innocence — An Owed In A Sense Her innocence Was immune to their dis ease As be wilder And a tempt However tempered Only to be Dis missed As just A guile His innocence Deified awe bravery In the face Of accusations summoned As subdude As never a cur to them Posing the quest in Guise will Be guise Her bosom leaped […]...
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.
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POEM: Breath of Fresh Heir Each mourning Brings that which is light Though wanting to rest As the whirled spins under my feet I am Still Razed Too my feat Standing on Perhaps a singular word Mysteriously helled Together In God-ordained gravity Until that thirst Breath of fresh heir As awe is knew This poem is about coming out of […]...
POEM: Innocence — An Owed In A Sense Her innocence Was immune to their dis ease As be wilder And a tempt However tempered Only to be Dis missed As just A guile His innocence Deified awe bravery In the face Of accusations summoned As subdude As never a cur to them Posing the quest in Guise will Be guise Her bosom leaped […]...
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