Our Country, Black and Blue?

Perhaps it ‘s finally time to strike

that monochrome, blue striped bastard,

abomination of our flag

(the sacred symbol of our country,

emblem of all that we hold dear,)

that takes a stand for harsh repression,

desperation, hate, and fear.

I reject your blind defiance

of our citizens, repressed

who have gone a step too far

in their hope to find redress.

Their mistaken, hasty actions

don’t confer on you the right

to take our country’s noble flag

and corrupt is as the vile banner

of your self-righteous foolish fight.

Gabba’s Grove

Beside a small pond

hidden in a cedar grove,

a homely shed stands,

indifferently attended,

not for lack of love

but for aching old bodies,

children too busy,

and grandchildren far too young

or moved just too far away.

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.

Doesn’t Everyone?

Sometimes I ache.

It’s part of being me.

Doesn’t everyone?

Sometimes I fear

that which I can not control.

Doesn’t everyone?

Sometimes my pain and fear

drive me to unwise actions.

Doesn’t everyone’s?

Sometimes I regret

the consequences of those acts.

Doesn’t everyone?

Sometimes I hope

I can be a better soul.

Doesn’t everyone?

Sometimes I pray

for a divine guiding hand.

Doesn’t everyone?

Sometimes I love.

Doesn’t everyone?

Doesn’t everyone?

In the Mirror

His grey-white, old man, whiskers

Resemble, superficially,

The peach fuzz down of his youth,

So often touched and marked upon

By the Thai when he was young.

Alas, that’s where, illusions end!

Gone the smooth as butter skin

Free of blemish, scar, and crease.

Gone the silky velvet feel

Replaced with bristles sharp and stiff

Gone the monks who’d cross the street

To stroke his face and offer blessings.

Perhaps this is the way of things

As one grows old and reminisces.

That Hoary Gilded Capital

Walking sullied streets,

noting all the old deceits;

gold leaf peeling off in sheets.

~

Cracked and weathered stone,

reminiscent of old bone

cast aside to rot alone.

~

Maybe I’m jaded,

but it’s luster has faded,

past dignities degraded.

~

How have we become,

so uncaring, heartless, numb,

is there naught that can be done?

~

Dare we even try

to uphold truth to that lie,

“Great Republics can not die“?

~

If we can’t, we’re done.

Hare on off and have some fun.

Democracy’s race is run.

Open Mouth Insert Foot

There are times, my friends,

it’s better to be silent

than to just shoot from the hip,

saying any old damned thing

that springs to a senile mind!

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!

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.

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.

Stuck in the Middle with Him

Three oh one point nine!

Broadcast on all the networks.

Label it Fake News

And some will eat that sandwich

Unaware its their last meal.

Our neighbors may, even yet,

Construct and pay for his great wall

If only to shut him in.

And could you blame them?

Hopefully, in time

When we wake up and appeal

For them to let us exit

They will show us charity

Alien to our leader!

On The Borderline Again

His smarmy tongue waggles,
weaving glowing gossamers, clouding hearts and minds
with mists of glittering unreason.

His garbled glossolalia

explains inexplicable,

defends indefensible,

justifies vast injustices.

Before his words, miasmas
of fecund decay shift,
begins to resemble aromas
of lavender and roses.

Venomously,

crass caresses

of slimy snake oil

conceal cuts of serrated steel.

Hope and reason succumbs
to resignation and despair.
Luminous hope drowns struggling
in seas of gilded sludge.

As growing thick dark shrouds

envelop all, he pauses,

draws breath, smiles.

In that instant his spells shatter!

Plug your ears, Ulysses!
There are no second chances.

Sunset

As the day closes

Upon this, once homey, place,

He regards the horizon

And unstoppable darkness.

Risers Lament

Oh! Glorious Joy!

Lounging there abed and warm

On this soggy morn.

A joy with which, most clearly,

I’ve no recent acquaintance.