A Visit With Myself

Hello how are you?
Don't tell me you're fine
because I know when you lie
and creepy as it may seem
I even know your thoughts
so just try to fool me.
Nice to see you still think about me
now and then at least.
Yes, it is nice, get down to business.
Why did you throw sand
in your best friend's face
back when you were seven?
That's not fair,
bringing up the past.
Oh, touchy are we,
but it's part of who you are, right?
Shall I bring up other examples then?
How about the kid you kneed in the back
when you were sledding?
The one you boxed too hard
when he only wanted to spar?
Or beat up over nothing?
Okay, so you got me.
I had a mean streak back then.
Why?
I just did.
Not good enough. WHY?
Because I wanted them to feel what I felt.
Are you satisfied?
No, hungry.
Milk and macaroons?
That would be fine.

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Where have the fields gone
and the hills running rampant
with gooseberry bushes
scratching at our legs?
My whole self sings
to be a child again
and sense anew
the newborn world
to my senses,
to find my succor
at the reddened bosom
of a columbine
until my cup overflows
with its nectar
to run with the will o' the wisp
and not feel the weight
of years past.
Ah me, that I can see
there are holes in the sun.
The once azure sky
fades to a pall
of its former hue.
The downturning
leaves me little more
than a memory of who I was.
We used to fly on the backs
of dandelion fluff
and roam with tumbleweed
as the waters of Babylon
still flow with tears
of paradise won and lost
many times over
in generations of seed.
Yes, indeed I see
there are holes in the sun.

Inner Bok

In like mindedness,
as a rooster crows
in the morning,
we all have beheld
the "bok" within--
felt the sun hit our eyes,
and it was still there
tethered to the center pole
of who we really are

The Ungiving

With one spark
I can set your insides afire,
flames licking at your scales
from within
like a pack of hungry wolves
to blacken your bones,
your flesh,
your very soul.

Reduced
to the elements you came from,
you can hurt my daughters
no more
than an autumn wind
rustling leaves
gathered for burning,
spreading their ashes about.

See, my daughters,
my one hand closed
around the serpent's neck,
my other
poised with dagger
at his heart.
Surely you know
that you are safe.

No more, the poisoned strike.
No more, the venomous sting.
No more shall evil reign.
No more the serpent's standard hail
because today
dethroned he rests
in utter despair,
the temple in repair.

Legacy: The Questionning

Don't you know that we live
in a world that's always changing
people rise up and fight,
no consideration.
To them the world is black and white.

This is just a song
about a simple question
and I hope you'll take take
some time to sing along:
What we gonna teach
the next generation
to help them carry on?
Carry on.

So we watch the news
morning, noon , and night,
a sideshow to go with every meal.
The one thing it never seems to tell us
is that everybody's life is real.

This is just a song
about a simple question
and I hope you'll take take
some time to sing along:
What we gonna teach
the next generation
to help them carry on?
Carry on.
Carry on,
Na na na na na na, yeah
(Oooh, child things are gonna get easier)
by-and-by.
Carry on,
Na na na na na na, yeah
(Oooh, child things are gonna get brighter)
by-and by.
Na na na na na na yeah
by-and by.

Looking for a brighter day.
Try to find an easy way.
Down on my knees to pray.
I can't think the words to say.
Have to get back to where we all belong.

Na na na na na na, yeah.
By-and-by.

This is just a song
about a simple question
and I hope you'll take take
some time to sing along:
What we gonna teach
the next generation
to help them carry on?
Carry on.
Carry on.

Lines in parenthesis from Marvin Gaye's "Mercy Mercy Me (the ecology)"

On Poetry

I intend poems I write to be pictures of the thoughts of a moment. A small piece of something might come to me while I am working or in my daily activities and I turn it over and over in my mind, and it grows. I would consider this a sort of "cotton candy" method of forming a poem.
My poems often have little to do with the philosophies and beliefs I subscribe to. They are mostly unfiltered in that way. The idea of being "true to self" in the sense that most people see it means that they stay within the confines of their strongest beliefs, but it is a contradiction of honest expression.
The momentary thought that starts poems takes precedence over the idea of being "true to self". That is why my poems cover a wide range of subject matter; however, my thoughts often center on nature so you will see a return to nature often in my poems because one must return to nature in order to recharge and rest from the madness as Thoreau might put it.

The Prodigal Revisited

Thinking with a tired mind,
I am taken back to memories
of riding on my father's shoulders
because my legs grew tired
trying to keep up with the crowd
at the Boston airport.

How tiny and lost I felt then
amid the swimming sea of faces,
and yet aloft
moving to the buck and sway
of his sure steps
and unfailing stride.
I felt a strength flow through me
like a long thread
plucked and vibrating
with life,
like the star of a game
or a brave hero
hoisted high in celebration.

Now, I look for him--
just for a piece of his coat
to hang onto.
I find myself looking back instead,
to see his arms waving
because I have passed him by,
and he wishes I would come back,
sit awhile and talk,
but the world is moving much too fast.