Poetry

 Against the darkest 
nimbus clouds 
threatening rain 

growing tempest
of angry crowds 
steadfastly remain 

in place, alarmist
gaping mouths 
repeatedly refrain 

the words harnessed
escape shrouds 
revealing their pain 

cut through harshest
state, light drowns
the soaked, sodden terrain 

piercing 'tween starkest
stilted frowns 
breaking the chain 

revive wan smiles, not just
quiet the sounds 
and subdue the brain 

birth verdant harvest
rising from grounds 
a new life to sustain. 

Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash

you stand 
barefoot 
in front of me 
i put on your shoes
and see through
your eyes 
telling the story
your voice
cannot. 

Photo by Arwan Sutanto on Unsplash

Staring at the mirror 
eyes see 
a reflection, unfamiliar
gazing back at me 
A stranger, clearer 
as if in 4k HD TV 
the vision eerier
than what should be 
The guileful steerer 
on a hateful spree 
of vicious words that simmer 
spilling filter free 
a rising trigger 
the guarantee
of disappointment, bitter 
refusing the plea 
to absolve, reconsider 
the incredible fee 
the crushing toll of silver 
asked of me
shaken, I quiver
wishing to be free
of that reflection nearer
than absent devotee
the taker not the giver
will not let me be.

I blink. 

Staring at the mirror
I see
a reflection, familiar
gazing back at me
An ally, clearer
as if in 4k HD TV 
the vision happier
than what used to be 
A supportive cheerer
on a loving spree 
of soft words that glimmer
spilling filter free 
a vanishing trigger 
the guarantee
of encouragement, kinder
making the decree
to absolve, reconsider 
the incredible fee 
a colossal reward of silver 
given to me
uplifted, I quiver
being set free
by that reflection nearer
my present devotee
the giver not the taker
letting me see me.

Photo by Fares Hamouche on Unsplash

lucid screams 
of broken dreams 
light up 
the night 
of fractured sleep 
that creeps 
and crawls 
passing the time 
that inches slowly 
reflecting back un/wholly 
curated lives 
of those around 
comparison killing 
the joy of feeling 
the present state 
of my life, your life 
is it real 
what we feel 
wrapped in darkness 
in that solitude 
or lucid dreams 
of broken screams?

Photo by Gabriel Matula on Unsplash

i’d rather be a sinner
 than a saint
my reasons for this 
ain't 
for the faint
of heart
changes
start 
a violent evolution
volcanoes erupting
fire and ash spewing
landscape changing
a revolution 
taking place
within our 
viscous liquid solid
state 
of mind
would you?  
if my sins exclude hate
what are the chances 
of ascending 
to the heavens 
that the zealots 
create 
to dangle 
like a carrot
pie in the sky
the final destination
real or imagined
the reward held high
for acquiescence
the silent acceptance
of words 
often long ago written
by old men 
with flowing robes 
and grey beards
smitten 
with an insatiable thirst 
for knowledge
which we are told is 
power
over the people
drug of choice 
the opium of the sheeple
wielded like a weapon
to sow fear and confusion
bring to heel
brought to kneel
toe the line
bowed down and broken 
bent spine
before the execution
of that devious act
backroom tactics
to grant a devil's pact
for things our eyes 
choose not to see
for things our ears 
choose not to hear
water boarded with cloth
doused by the tears 
of our 
real 
blind 
fears
the unknown 
misunderstood
driving us to seek 
the words
of proclaimed prophets 
from long ago places
from millennia passed
their ideas in stasis
his story confirmed
codified control
ancient translated 
written text
words lost of meaning
strung together and next
to nothing accepted 
as changed
though time has marched on
deranged
old ways of doing things
still holding strong
in the populist mind
feeling left out 
excepted, left behind
alone
standing on the sidelines
the consuming fear 
of being overthrown
dulled eyes trying to decipher 
the bylines and story lines
like fairy tales
written 
with crucial details 
missing 
one side of the story
lost perspective
irrespective 
of the evidence presented
and on the other side 
stand 
the resisters
the brothers and sisters
the rabble-rousers
and soul twisters
the chosen ones that rail
against an invisible system
a prison a jail
designed to cage
and dismiss 'em
they strive to dismantle
what lives no longer
handle
change agents
lighting fires
burning the candles
igniting the pyres
and in those flames
that volcano erupts
altering the terrain
the landscape 
never the same
and the sins 
they commit
designed to up-end
and capsize the boat
not just rock it
towards 
dropping the writ
the asymptote
closer and closer
to zero 
to nothing 
changes
change is
everything
is everyone
hearing over and over
that common refrain
denouncing their names
losers not winners
deflecting the shame
they are the true sinners
and not the saints

Photo by Hasan Almasi on Unsplash

injections of infection
into my face
    to salvage 
the ravages
of age
the crests and the valleys
that mark the 
    passage 
of time
a smooth faced mime
hiding decay behind
    the proof 
of a crime 
against the supposed God(s)
     that enshrine
the temporal lines 
that have been filled 
    and refined
an aging battle 
against which I wage
     a holy war
to even the surface
    and the score
is sum zero
   it can never end
until we spend
an eternity asleep.

Photo by Linnea Sandbakk on Unsplash

And with those three words 
it shifted -
Chasm opened and 
We drifted

Spread apart 
by distance, time, and space 
perspectives lost, disconnected,
coming from a different place. 

In that moment, it struck 
like a blow to solar plexus.
 In that moment, recognition
returned me to the nexus. 

A gasp, a dehiscing -
Air escaped, expelled, forced out, 
score run up, spirit deflated. 
Stunned, the losing team in a rout.

To that muddied situation
those three words clearly spoken 
returned the altered status 
back to quo, shattered. We're Broken.

We drifted -
Chasm opened and
it shifted
And with those three words

Coming from the same place
perspectives synced, connected
by distance, time, and space
Pulled together

Returned me to the nexus
in that moment, recognition
like a blow to solar plexus
In that moment, it struck
 
 Stunned, the winning team in a rout
Score run up, spirit inflated
Heads held high, chests puffed out
A cheer, a healing

To that muddied situation
those three words clearly spoken 
returned the altered status 
back to quo, mended. We're unbroken. 

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash