Politics

I hear a knock

from the cellar

and call on Ego

to answer the door:

“Money for the poor?”

a young man ponders,

“What am I doing here?”

and the door is shut,

hands still warm.

 

I can handle

up to six hundred dollars

at a time,

enough for rent,

some shoes,

wine if I have the time

but where will my children

find a place to eat

under piles of sand and coal,

will Ego have their backs as well

to protect them

from further turmoil?

 

Will our children

sit separate

from the meal or the plate,

voters at stake,

presidents too late

with their old boxes

and used rhymes,

’cause no one should lie

when they’ve got no time

to solve old Blackbeard’s problems–

go turn them on themselves,

though, and they’d all go runnin.

 

Perhaps off to Ego,

now waiting at the door–

always on watch

as a good man should

he was told, “Boys will be boys,”

and he said, “Shuck yeah,

that’s fine,” so he smoked up

slow and stared on.

 

November 25, 2015

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Today cannot be a Poem

Extremely beautiful, wise poetry.

THOTPURGE

see, today cannot be a poem…

even though it unravels like a heavy scroll,
a secret note
from a caravan of spices and silks
lost on a mountain track just wide enough for curiosity;

though it waits in the armpit of a hesitant clock,
an empty scabbard
filling with shreds of spongy sunset
curdled by the timeless sword of ennui;

though it cries with the sound of the desert rain,
a pencil caricature
of cubes of frozen light
drowning in the cast iron goblets of reality;

see, today can never be a poem…

even though it writes on these diagonal lines
an absent truth
with wordless fingers that unkiss the lies
on the the clenched lips of made up memory.

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Watching the Clock

Love

is a drug

that just keeps on giving

despite its worth,

commercialized

side effects

how to handle

a man

one on one

a manual

I was never given–

where is it?

 

The time I found

the nail

and all I wanted

was a hammar

to put me back in my place

I found you,

instead–

eyes glazed over

from the fact

that I was a well enabled

woman

to kick your ass

back to second base

 

Just tell me a story,

dear Love,

of how you existed

among priests

and kings

and witches

and me,

stories of younger days

past narratives

water drowning

my teacup

and all I want is an answer,

or at least the right question,

’cause I know I’m responsible

for making something–

more than this house

all alone,

wondering what time

to expect Love

to come

knocking on my door.

 

November 24, 2015

Is there another way

I just want to be honest

here–

who wouldn’t want equality?

 

Who wouldn’t want to know

that your skin is tied to mine

and that all unknowns

competition bred

can be flushed out of our pores,

one last time,

in search of a brighter,

more natural glow?

 

Who wouldn’t want to spread love

instead of greasy, sweat shop-made

greed spiraling into a system

we have known for so long

that some seem to think it’s “normal”?

 

If empty hearts are all to be had

then lead me to an ocean,

lead me to a forest

to learn from the only souls

that know how to rise and fall,

listen and insist on Being

and nothing short of it.

 

Let the waves rise

and teach me the strength found in freedom;

let the leaves fall

and show me, effortlessly, how beautiful it can be

to let go.

 

November 22, 2015

Truth, Wisdom, Love

The weight

of the Truth

is the weight

of a mountain–

a single Earth.

The weight

of Wisdom

is the weight

of a feather–

a single tear.

It is

bright tonight

as I huddle tight

next to a soft pillow

and a softer light,

shining

the way Love

greets lovers

in the doorway…

November 5, 2015

The Fight

I once thought of life as a screen.

Shakespeare had his stage. Silverstein, some blue skin.

Entirely hidden.   A teardrop in a lake.

We all have our moments.  The daunting school hallway at ten. The basement party at twenty.  The busy conference room at thirty.

But I don’t want to hide.

I don’t have anything to hide.

Somewhere down the line of evolution, we established that our lives are meant to be competitive. We are meant to thrash and wrangle and bite. We are meant to be afraid of each other. I’d like to think we know better now. There are greater things that motivate us.

Then why don’t we act like it?

Life can be pretty scary. When all you hear on the news are gunshots and all you read about is a blonde Republican’s hair, why wouldn’t there be some fear?

I’d like to think we know better.

Competition separates us. We have isolated each other.  Our money. Our land. Our relationships. Our minds. Our hearts.

We all come from the same thing– we should know that now. We still don’t agree upon it.  Isolation still pulls through. When religion is supposed to bring love and it instead hides fear– it continues to isolate us. When education is supposed to open minds and it instead hammers the same ideas into us over and over, we remain locked in the past.

I’d like to think we know better. I’d like to think we can think better, act better.

I’d like to think that we are all just humans– not the money we decided to print, documents we decided to write, governments we decided to form.

We are all just people.

Yet I still feel the need to remind myself of that sometimes.

A friend of mine recently told me that being vulnerable, not wearing the mask, laying it all out on the table– it’s more than the fear we perceive. It means you don’t need to wear any armor. It means there is no one left to fight.

I’m ready to stop fighting.