August Leaves

London Bridge is flooded, melting.
The towers are struck and fallen down.
We well might look at this tragic mess and say,
“I’m not cleaning that up!”
But maybe it’s not a mess to be cleansed,
but a game to indulge in.
Luxuriate in dazzling suds, intrigued.
Work out scenes to turn chaos into valuable memes.
Are we having fun yet?
Because if we’re not, we’re probably missing the point.
Sense encoded missive strikes womb of Mother Earth.
She will divine the appropriate response.
Perhaps subliminal notes are written upon rocks or stars,
secret lights along a shining trail;
or it might come as spontaneous lyrics singing. 
Myth claims a method of mindplay.
Thoughts metamorph into birdlike beings,
unfurl vestigial wings.
Whirled reverberation
from eternal time.  Messages pop like soap bubbles,
fly swiftly beyond imagined borders
to wonders of continents, oceans, possibilities
yet unexplored.
more than noise
sublime beauty
realized empathy
ideations of silly hilarity
tasty recipes
arresting news
inspiring solutions
“you go” encouragement
“they suck” consolation
radiant art
rallying music
so, yeah, unplug, because you can’t abide a little snark…
Dismissed as crazy, what do you expect me to say?
No matter how we explain, they hear
the chatter churning between their ears.
Children in character play,
simulate their own boos and cheers.
Why interfere? Change or replacing the game
may cost too dear, be inconvenient
in this midst of disarray.
Indulged in fear,
passionate ire turned outward,
triggered to blame, to ignite contagious fire.
Set back a’piece where brambles
disguise our winding road, discourage inciters
with inbred eyes.
sad, shadow memory.
Hard harsh faces
leer, jeer, beg for tears.
I dare not cry.  I never know what to answer.
Held by my arms fiercely protective.
Stale weeping, caustic, bred of poison, drips through.


I have a friend
who has this
She doesn’t like to be touched
by men.
Even their groping eyes
sear into her skin,
she says,
make her cringe, unable
to think or move or be.
She dresses in unflattering
layers, drab shades
for added protection.
She scuttles in public, peering
ahead and back,
desperate to hide her presence
from all who might stare,
or glare,
dare to apply an
unwelcome hand.
My friend doesn’t mind
her idiosyncrasy.
She wishes the world would be
more kind, more glad
to accept, embrace (without touching)
the way she has been made.

Breaking bred

born from boiling seas.
Holy Beast rampages, rises beneath
broken surface;
exhales snarling flame,
riotous burning blame,
wreaks tidal waves that never quench
roil of fire.
All our desires embroil, enslave
in thrall of poison spit.
We can’t allow comfort, nor encourage
scored hearts to heal,
not while we steal your ire
to fatten rich nests.
Believe your cause excessively blessed.
Believe you are doing your best
to be as Creation demands.
Believe you are worthless
beyond condemnation
unless you are taking the stand
prescribed and admired.
If you aspire to anything higher
you must carry the brand
on your forehead or hand,
must be willing to kill
in the name of fealty,
to fulfill the prophecy.
to feed the Beast.


Caging the Beast
“call me after the Rapture” I
post on religious social network
Have you read Yeats’ “Second Coming”?
After the prophecy
After the hard, hard rain
after the rainbow
Call me.  We should get together.

Instant Message

I read your missives.
They tell me all across the planet
symbols mingle in shared airstream
meant for me.
I feel your loving.
Though I’ve never met you in the
biblical sense,
what do bibles know?
They were written for other days,
other ways of relating.
Love’s not based on seeing,
smelling, touching, tasting
more than survives
neurons’ translated senses.
My love embraces you,
who somehow see me
through impassioned words,
shared images
savored safely in recognition.
Love is eternal, but not forever.
Love is awareness in that esoteric space
visualized, realized, as all of essence
rushes dizzily through each private
wired net, lighting here and there
to display brushstrokes of ecstasy.
Taste the pleasure, take a bite.
Treasured freely growing fruits
nourish rich synaptic flow.
Emotion, luscious nectar we each create anew.
Together, synergy expands our reach,
our world

Simple Living

Following bliss
from blossom to blossom.
Impulse to impulse
a message appears.
Following footprints,
enrapt in  the lesson
free of exams
or keeping-up fears.
Each movement a chance
to discover new senses,
new meanings, new methods,
new facets and forms.
To swoop into dance,
heal with celebration,
imbue inspiration,
play out loud in mad storm.
It’s not about amassing a fortune,
elevation, acclaim,
becoming a star.
It’s not about
living up to some value,
but valuing living because
here you are!



We are what we assimilate.
Every sidewalk crack
struggling greenery escapes through.
Every desert pebble harkening to
exotic seas.
Children exiled from history,
Sun crazed,
exude melanoma, dark humor.
Exquisite delusions claim truth:
peer reviewed.  Shadow want
without desire.  Futilely seeking adventure.
Slipping down random rabbit hole,
wishing on some distant star.
Eagerly, clumsily chipping away
gingerbread walls in search of
early consciousness,
before monsters or taboos.
Primal artist
obsessively paints bodily waste
upon rocky exposure,
unaware of the concept of

Clean Up

I dislike the implied mess of violence.
Peace is more tidy,
clean and inviting.
Why waste precious metal
in deadly intent
when a kickass party
can pay the rent —
a rant and rave relaxing
pent up pain.
Where’s the percentage of gain?
The perception that rage requires
release within this people cage,
to ease torment of feeling less
Reflex flight or fight? Psychobabble hype?
Nobody  needs to violently die today.

Simple Things

“We need to believe in simple things.”
She said with a curtsy and a smile.
Then, removing her shoes, steps up to begin
her dance.
The wind and the waves seem to chant
in flute and fiddle and drum,
while a white-robed chorus alights behind her.
Chimeric amazement occurs
before the hypnotized crowd
as she portrays stories of love, co-reliance
and, yes, simple things.
Portentous clock strikes backwards and forwards
through seasons, epochs, in time to expressive parade.
Not of Czars and Wars, Events or Inventions.
leaves falling, snow drifting, folk singing,
birds calling, bread cooling, children embracing
And soon the crowd becomes a joyous dancing throng
of beaming celebration.  Each remembrance, special moments,
capacious breaths on dew-dropped dawns of spring,
warmth of a loved one’s hand,
bravery of everyday rebellions.
She speaks once more before dissolving
into verdant effervescent mist:
“Believe not in salvation nor sin nor in reward —
we must act as we can,
and believe in simple things.”


Where were you when I was dying?
Now that I am all but (merely nearly) dead
you mock me,
beg my aid
to mitigate
dark fall-out
of your fantasies.
Blind to my bleeding, caught up
in your cut-ups,
how can what I’ve left to say
reach you anyway?
Take your pleading to your
silent Lord.
Leave me to degenerate demise.
Strangers all these years
we might have met as intimates.
Today’s last wane of desire carries no regret,
no interest
for meeting
in your dream.