Pain’s abyssal depths
can’t be adequately plumbed
with a Likert Scale.
healing
Seeing Red
Amidst a mess of document
left in a box in this old home,
new to us these last few years,
mixed among the old receipts
for plumbing work and seedling trees
and appliance manuals
for appliance dinosuars
long gone to their extinction,
I found a weathered yellow sheet
Typed upon in fading blue,
a restrictive covenant
that pierced my heart. Could it be true?
Did my predecessor here,
in this vibrant melting pot,
this neighborhood of polyglots,
seek, back then to enshrine
his bigotry upon the land
from that point and for all time?
Yes, my friends, I’m sad to say,
around the time my dad was born,
some lofty ass took it to mind
to codify a huge red line
around this humbled cot of mine.
Weathering
Like the well worn seat
in my old, hard driven, car,
molded, thus, by many miles
this nostalgic ache
dwelling here, where grief once lived
is my new life’s companion.
UN-AMERICAN? EXCUSE ME?
Though we disagree
About this country’s problems
And about the solutions
We both remain patriots!
Among Us
There is lots of room
in which all of us may dwell
here between God and Satan…
even our politicians.
Questions of Heroes and Saints
Do heroes have to be perfect
in order to earn our respect?
Must they be free from all blemish?
Is that what we’ve come to expect?
How much stain, how much tarnish,
how much of a character blemish
can be glossed over by splashing
on coats of whitewash and varnish
before the seething and gnashing
of the oppressed leads to the trashing
of monument to those held dear
in eruptions of violent clashing?
The answers, my friends, are clear.
Let’s open our ears and try to hear
the history of brutal oppression
that cause so many to live in fear.
Since if we can’t learn this lesson
we’ll lose more than an election!
Folks, it’s high time to reject
this notion that every hero warrants beatification!
An Unplanned Siesta
Again, I find myself
Standing at a crossroads,
Pondering directions.
Unsure which path to take.
Should I? Could I? Perhaps?
~
The sun is overhead.
At the roadside, flowers.
Birdsong lilts from afar.
Wheat heads rustle nearer.
~
It’s been a long journey,
Full of rush and bother,
That led me to this place.
~
Beside these thoroughfares
I shall pause, breathe, relax.
~
There’s time for a siesta.
Baptismal Balm
Basking in the flood
of, maybe too hot, showers;
washing aches away.
Savage Waters
This disease leaves wounds,
rivers both wide and deep.
Too deep for fording
and much too wide for bridges,
so we build ferries
and brave treacherous waters,
holding connections
to our loved ones long estranged
by these savage waters wide.
A Tangle But No Tumult
Basking in the balm
of this fire sale we lit,
ashamed at my schadenfreude,
yet still gleeful, all the same.
My Struggles
Not to your vile
nature nor to your greedy
ways do I owe my sorrow.
~
I revolt myself,
every time I wish you ill,
yet I can’t refrain.
Regardless Our Intent
With every action,
We nudge ourselves closer to
paradise or perdition.
That Sad Little Bird
Alone in the dark,
he cries out for relevance,
love, being unfamiliar.
Charity or Wisdom
Listen Up, you grey old goat!
Your racist ways are history.
Does that hate not sere your throat?
That grossly overt bigotry
never fails to offend
younger,
compassionate,
thoughtful men.
But since we’re here within this lodge,
I’ll try to muster up some grace,
abide the precepts of wiser men
and curb my urge to pulp your face.
I’ll maintain regard unconditional
despite your beliefs, so unlovable.
Aroil in Pain 