Walk in the Woods
Abstract: Fighting Everyone
A poem, about the indifferent attitude of the enemy.
It’s not personal.
The enemy doesn’t hate you.
He hates what you could become,
Who you dream you’ll be.
Cause, eventho he can’t tell the future,
He isn’t stupid.
He’s knows the face-melting power of the Father,
what He inflicts and inspires in His creation.
The enemy knows the next big wave can rise from anywhere-
a tiny island in the north Atlantic,
maybe a shabby trailer park in Arkansas or an orphanage in Taiwan.
Everywhere he looks, he sees misery and doesn’t take for granted what we can become.
Not after being burned by that small village on the butt side of Judea.
Abstract: Bastard
A poem, about shame.
Victim,
Powerless,
Broken,
Foolish,
Incapable,
Con artist.
Shame is a whip,
cracking at my back,
snapping in each ear,
stay back.
Abstract: Jazz Reborn
A poem, about the evolution of Jazz.
As if Jazz made love to parrot from Havana and gave us Machito,
Who gave us Tito.
Oye Como Va
Flutes whistle up and away,
Backed by rhythmic horns, bright and clean.
All following the percussionists, all of them,
The bongo and timbales players, steady while on parade.
Bamp, bump, bamp, bump-bamp. Baaam—bamp, bomp.
And this is how Jazz lives on, despite her fading name,
In the lush mountains, white beaches, and rain forests of Latin American, from Cuba to Brazil.
May she find her way back to the land of her birth, in whatever form she please.
Abstract: Home In Nature
A poem, about feeling the Grace of Nature.
Written June 15th, 2023.
Deep in the woods,
Away from the black top lots and cell towers,
And war, and the possibility of offense,
I find true rest.
What begins as an uneasy silence,
The manmade world finally boxed out by brothers Oak, Spruce, and Redwood,
Transforms into a slow jazz.
My ears and soul adjust,
To the hum of chirping finches,
Grey squirrels in chase, leaping from branch to branch,
Sandy beige horned lizards dart frantically in the brush,
And finally, in the depth of my ear,
Laughing and alive, a cold stream.
Here is the place where only good exists,
The birds and lizards are after there kind,
The ferns and chanterelles and maples after their kind,
Where the sun is separated from the sky,
And home to the dust of our creation.
Abstract: Instead Of
A poem, about self-condemnation.
Written June, 11th, 2023
Instead of the wrong words, or boring words,
I make no words.
Instead of poor perspective or terrible lines,
not quite right lines,
I make no mark.
And instead of risking more embarrassment,
of playing a fool,
I shift my glance away from her face and keep my nights free.
Fear and failure are my masters.
Abstract: I Am A Hero
A poem. I am a hero.
Am I a hero?
I am a hero.
A hero I am.
I am a hero.
I’m a hero.
Imma hero.
I exist in the ate of supreme courage and determination, to the encouragement and inspiration of those around me.
I do (good)shit.
But, I am flawed.
I am a hero.
Did you hear what I said?
I am a hero.
No one knows your name.
You can’t even shot a gun.
I. Am. A. Hero.
Fatass.
I.
Broken mofo.
Am.
Single like a bit—
A.
Wannabe writer.
HERO!
Abstract: A Morning in June
A poem, about a serene morning in June.
The sun cleared the peak of Lassen and stretched her arms across the valley until she touched my squinty face.
And I closed my eyes and let her bathe me in her warmth.
Then I heard the robins and quail chirping and singing as though praising the sun for her arrival.
And for a moment, my lonely soul found peace.
Thank you Lord, for the sun and the birds, and the magic of the morning,
before work and phone calls, and the business of life.
Abstract: Eyes On Me
A irreverent poem, written to be funny.
I write because I’m happy.
I write because I’m free.
And if His eye is on the asshole,
then I know He’s watching me.
Abstract: The Man With Nothing
A poem, about the generosity of my friends. (Something I find hard to accept and I wrestle with.)
I’m sure a billionaire can wrangle a thousand men to his call,
when he’s need of prayer or task to be done.
And the men who rush to his side will ramble on about his grace and integrity,
as the true reason for their reply, instead of his gigantic funds.
Yet, of the man who has nothing, no money or favor to give,
what does it say about him,
when in need,
he only need to ask, then watch as men pour their resources forth, active and supportive?
Abstract: Finishing Frost
A poem, about what we encounter on the “road less traveled by.”
When Robert Frost wandered off the beaten path and took the road less traveled by,
he said nothing of toll is required of him and his soul.
Failed to mention the steely resolve or tolerance needed to endure the venture,
And never let it slip the misunderstanding or discouragement leveled his way.
Had he added a few stanzas addressing the difficulty of the road that “wanted wear” to his long cherished verse,
I doubt the poem would be smeared on memes and coffee mugs,
Enjoyed by people who’ve never colored outside the lines a day in their life,
the mass content to dream but never do.
If Mr. Frost had been more forthcoming,
He would’ve mentioned how lonely the untrodden road can be.
That without an income to show for the work,
people will wonder what you do and why you do it.
Or worse, they’ll try to advise you.
Yes. He took the road less traveled by,
And it did make “all the difference.”
Still, would’ve been nice if he added:
“And let not the reader be deceived or caught unaware,
Though uncut and overgrown,
The road I traversed was still visible to the risk impaired.
Thus I fought the road and their disaffected groans.
As I should, to find myself and my home.”
Abstract: Yeast And Belief
A poem, about the way real yeast works and molds a baker into someone more patient and faithful.
There’s magic in the air, despite the warnings to the contrary.
There’s little, microscopic bits of life aching for flour and water, and not much more.
All anyone need do is set out an even mix of the pair and they’ll come calling, like Santa at Christmas, looking for milk and cookies.
Accept these tiny angels will leave gifts everyday of the year, should you let them.
Just keep feeding them flour and water, and they’ll sing happy songs as they push your breads and doughs to new heights.
And perhaps the best gift they bestow isn’t one you touch or eat.
You see, they need time and a warm space to work.
They ain’t like what you buy in a shop.
Not instance or quick.
They cannot be rushed and will refuse your hurried notions.
Rather, they’ll ask you to slow down, have some faith and a sit.
And any pair of hands who gives way to their ways will enjoy the fruit of patience and belief.
Abstract: To Busy To Live
A poem, about the excuses we make.
I’ve got to study, said the raggedy hair boy.
Face still glued to his phone.
Why bother with this one?
I’m busy she says, glancing at her kids.
Then, moments later, the same woman implores me to binge a new show,
like she did last weekend.
I need the rest, he texted back, only moments before departure.
You go on without me.
Later in the day, he posts pictures with a caption.
Helping Pastor Bigshot move.
Wow, must’ve been a miracle.
Perhaps he’ll post about that too.
And then they’ll say they’re lonely,
forgetting all the kindness extended to them.