Little snips of scenes
more poetry than prose.
This is me just being,
in repose.
Wraith demurely floats
sets smile through my eyes,
mischievously tickles my freckled nose.
Captive in swirl of rhapsody,
scatting on nervous breeze.
Ripples carry empathic energies.
Yearnings squeeze from within weathered skin.
This is the “I” who emits electric sensation,
visits worlds between to assimilate them,
preserve in rhymes and reasons mine alone.
Welcome enchanted village graciously admits
this wilder stranger.
I spin tales by the roadside for change.
Ever waiting for my chance to
rewrite reality.
Once upon a muse, I slipped past normality,
beyond mania’s illusive gate,
fell dangerously on numbing ice.
Lost child of distorted night.
Unseasonably chilled, I bare all,
flail into fevered soliloquy, dare fate
to orchestrate a more fortuitous fall
push me to find my self’s true home.
Eternities glow, pirouette, trip fantastic shores.
Epic journeys cycle into each successive now.
Sorcery speaks, entangles air and Earth,
to perceive enlarging stars and hearts emerge.
Wanderer’s song, waft and waver,
rise to loft, fall to softened tone.
Encode the call we each require,
hear, become entranced with
through fear, romance, death,
inspire enhancement to repair, to own
the tune we play.
Expansive jam, grand celebration,
maiden to soldier to crone.
Elaborate symphony, notated epiphany
of how we’ve grown.
It’s not about how long
It’s not about now and gone
It’s not about make it last
It’s not about relive the past
It’s not about memory
It’s about the melody
The Song, the Poem, the painted wall
With Art, we intimate the All
Make Peace The Issue

Critical Mass

Share it all around, one big hurt.
This is sore paean to sins of the forefathers,
the founding fathers,
the captains of industry,
the capitalist barons and kings.
Institutions of education make devious pact
with the ignorance of hatred, allowing only poems giving
obeisance to war and carnage.
Calculate cackling of Nazgul riding high on misery, 
tightening nooses and stirrups.
Pain is, after and above, the great motivator. 
Savor flow of blood from damaged hearts,
ravages of exudation, heads kicked into oblivion,
viscous red streets.  Taste excessive violence.
Grind worlds of entanglement into a massive meatball.
Slather condiments extracted from bedeviled roots.
This is the wealth that is worth every sacrifice.
Angry, enmeshed upheaval, messages confused.
Explosive.  Desolation reigns.  Despair on Earth.
Aftermath of brutal berserker rage, rampant disease.
Tyranny displaced by chaos of shattered bones.
This is no where, just a way station from which
to switch gears, to proceed.
Drifting within concrete walls.  Love an isolate fantasy.
Striving against phantoms, wisps of ancestral winds.
Neighbors shriek.  Rotting stench permeates.
Respite, seductive cave –  romantic interlude
between defeat or ashen triumph.
Nervous fibre extends to touch.
Staunch soldiers standing to battle
for glory, God, Country.  Spoils. Twinkles of  waste.
Death as honor.
Twould be wonderful.
Rouse up on crumbling streets to yell vague slogans.
Pour arrogant fuel to immortalize endless tears,
grief and fear, tiny droplets, wearying days
running down a lane racing who knows where.
Where is the humanity in this equation? 
People, stoic race of wizards that thought and broadcast
incantations for the betterment of Man? 
Whence our deep ideals, longing passions, urgent poetry,
heroic plans?
I slept and the visage was real, I swear it.
Not a figment of fractal imagery,
nor dense reverie never to be clear.
It was not the sleep of the dead,
nor damned, nor opium induced.
It was the sleep of lovers entwined after spending into love
totality of desire.
Righteous indignation delivers us nowhere.
Real improvement takes daily concert of effort, rallying together
in common regard.
Make Peace The Issue

Road Poem

Each mundane goal but a task along the way
to defeat the foe, find the key, break the code
struggle, triumph, advance into further fray
but to reveal another turning of the road
No shining gift of gold, heroic finish line
with flashing camera glory to proclaim
that all the work, pain, delay, daily grind
gets paid back in fortune, friendship, fame
The view at the mountaintop is surely grand
Inspiring, energizing, pure and true
Emerging from learning to revise, re-plan
embrace the ambiance of each moment passing through
Taking in each fragrance, texture, haunting tune
Juggling into balance jolt by jolt
Moving closer into wholeness with each healing wound
Enjoying adventure, a creature of the road
Make Peace The Issue


Ever on the threshold,
lonely vampire not succored as expected kin,
invited in.
Privy to what comes and departs, boring to extraordinary.
Random remarks might deliver fortuitous news, poetic codes.
Presence almost felt, never lucidly known.
Stories spin – if we could listen;
if we would open to silence so sublime
as to elicit
permission to enter, befriend.
Unnatural child, conceptive twin to faith’s wandering spirit.
We may play fool to monarch within protected space
unconcerned by wicked worlds beyond imagination’s fortress.
Classic optimists, prone to examine clouds closely for silver linings,
enjoy received silvery glow, smile happy adoration.
Able to skip through vicissitudes as charmed emanation:
all is working inexorably toward fruition, true harvest’s peace.
Who chants behind that flowing curtain, charming?
What acts denote sacred allegiance, guide to mystics’ source?
Tribal myths, quests as lessons, collected anecdotes
signify ambient science for that era’s delegation. 
Zen koans, Aesop’s fables, lullabies,
invitations to meditate, to quiet, ineffable experience.
This yearn toward meaning harbors no enmity
to progressive projects magnifying kindness.
Our internal enemy is ugly projection
of angry expectations each upon each.
I look for answers in epic verse, archetypes, fairy tales.
I don’t know if what I find bears validity, but they can be lovely,
lyrical adventures; lead into deep, complex emotion,
ecstatic movement and poetry, a need to share.
I am consecrated to beauty, in all it’s terrible majesty.
Exquisite agony is everywhere to be discovered, held dearly, set free.
I whirl, leap closer to the fire. Giant shadows swell with me.
Curiouser and curiouser.
Alone on elysian precipice, prescient winds blow, hot, cold, eerily.
Make Peace The Issue

Poems in me pockets

Pocket poems.
Travel homes for small, trilling companions.
Vibrant litanies of headlights, road signs,
random highways, local radio bands. 
Adrenalin careens drunken mountain spree
on slick, serpentine terrain. 
Joyride, miles unbroken hoping for
epiphany, peek of rainbow soliloquy.
Stopped as fear throbs to cruiser blare and glare.
Tucked deep in worn coat pockets,
memorabilia to shock consciousness.
Emotive displays of broken innocence,
once strong, lost to romance of heroic cause.
Ready for impending wars when molten rage
explodes, dislodges solid rock.
Pockets shelter spells evoking luscious chocolates,
restorative grins and hugs, earth toned
wool knit scarf, mittens, socks,
embroidered silk handkerchief still redolent of lilac.
Make Peace The Issue


Whose prophecy is worthy
to invest our hearts, hands, minds?
If our world makes a circle — no end or beginning —
may we slip between a then and now?
We sing Epiphany.
All the holy, all the empty,
all the sorrows filled with poetry,
with charging beasts of challenge
and slip ping back words.
I hear the Angels sing of Earth
as mud as muck, as fuckin’ murder in the womb,
as luck would have it,
as black streaks redact the wounds
of Heaven.
I hear the demons laugh,
snicker-snack akimbo,
hunker down to limbo to lindy hop
upon the prophet’s breath.
Such noise.
Such annoying brays and cagey whispers.
I would sleep, snore, evermore if they would
but diminish, allow silence to enfold. Instead,
the dream takes over, dissolves all sanity.
No morning (mourning)
(see, I can pun without baring to the Sun,
without dimension)(dementia — did I mention?).
Felled in heap of clay.
A poem should tell a story
but better,
straight out,
no fluff or frills.
Eyes locked to eyes
tongue to tongue
so there is no mistake.
Gasping pure air between
precipice and space
wrapped in precious pleasure.
The weight of the world.
The sadness of oceans.
The endless pain of life a’borning.
I am shaken; I am touched in that eternity.
If beauty demands sacrifice,
sacrifice demands such beauty.
Make Peace The Issue


Poetry speaks
the language
between words.
It’s the spaces that combine
dark and light
end and beginning
edge and sky
where flight and float may merge
like a meditative prayer to beauty’s sacred well.
Drinking deeply with subtlety of sensation,
expanding metaphoric cells with
water of life and contemplation,
reaching for more.
Art lives, breathes, touches so surely
in the air, eye, mind of we who come to call.
Make Peace The Issue

remind me when I flail

Relinquish distorted burdens, proddings,
guilts detached from sticky past mistakes.
As much as change is, permanence exists
as measured landscape.
Stories still stir seas of wonder.
Hopes, wishes, aspirations, familiar allies,
focus intention, clarify sight within.
On reflection,
certainties of youth
acquire a different truth.
Repeated re-direction builds inclusionary view.
Revealed motives enhance introspection.
Quest for answers outside those expected.
Offbeat cues elicit new reactions,
mix into prismatic moods.
There are infinite paths to imagine.
So many worlds – divergent lines.
A kiss may awaken a queen
or inspire a crone to poetry
or be decried as defilement of that most
pernicious kind.
Where we arrive, what bliss we find
beyond reach of simple limb extension
is not about up and down retention
or spiral twines.
We breathe in expansive comprehension,
intrigue our fondest muse,
design a widened sky to fly —
ever more beauty to infuse.
Make Peace The Issue

Earth Songs

Aching times.
Ghost singers on the prairie.
Snug little home, hearthfire familial peace
against rage and winds. Stone and sacrifice.
Dust storms erode,
leave wastrel sentinels.
Far, in green glade mists
where ancient hymns are born,
chthonic wilds, primordial rune castings.
Building over eternity, silent, archetype of will, ponders.
Intrinsic senses, despair, bottomless sorrow, loss of intent.
At the root of desire, truest wish to be fashioned,
sold at price of who you were made against your nature.
Wooden ships sail eternal sea.
Journey ages within these circles, free.
Easy found trades, winds selling seeds.
Back to the gardens of pagan lore —
earth, air, sun, and transforming water.
We wander days of potent destiny,
telling the tale, deep mystical incantation,
of a possible age in birth.
Love song ‘tween man
and Earth.
we are not our ancestors
we are not religions
we are not lines on a map demarcated by war
we are earth made vital
we are seeking minds inviting partners
we are seed and core as skin sheds and grows anew
we are me and you and all we become, alone and together
we are as we agree, composed of dissonance and harmony
all lives matter
Make Peace The Issue


It’s not the landscape, but the ambiance.
Emanant surroundings suggest fantasy motif.
Just that evocative forest green, desert rose.
Waft of lilac, vibrations of tidal reveries,
cast off, buried.  Reclaimed, exposed.
Gracious glory.
Terra spins through stories.
Webs of sparkle and synapse
suspend on delicate balance.
Work and love,
expression and assimilation.
Venture in search of food, air, stimulation.
Ideation, imagination, mood impels
self-aware cells, each with place
and passion.
Busy interchange
at market and field
combines power to wield, grow
beyond personal boundaries
permeable to trade, exploration,
creative generation.
Each iteration fuels further spring to
Gaea’s laughing.
Silly scrapping scavengers
groomed in self-importance
rarely see the joke.
Long has her fete entertained.
Sol to Gaea, flirting seasons, night and day.
Eons slip through alignment.
Mud to worm
to facile mind
wondering at starlight
as constellations parade
in siren mystery.
Common wisdom, basic observation.
If river, then water and silt,
mud, clay, pottery, etched hieroglyphs,
television, robotics, space aeronautics.
Rippling along sinuous riverbed
I can smell the salty sands of yesteryear,
taste tears of copper, touch sparkling rain,
feel the lift of storms in formation
fill evening breeze with electric potential.
Make Peace The Issue