The Creative Act

Three attacks in Kabul

Three attacks in Kabul show
What harder men than us do know
What Alexander could not take
Whose prison Russia could not make
Such earth, such as it is, is all
A stage cast through with war’s grim pall
Through time from when we had but fire
One after another, each empire
That tried to take it, fought in vain
Another legion of soldiers slain
But still the struggle rages on
For what is right and what is wrong
And as they strike against the very
Prisons, fellow warriors tarry
And kneel upon the blood soaked ground
Though ‘cause no hope for peace is found
They pray for courage and skill and luck
Then don their vests and run amuck
Kalashnikovs they took from Reds
Are making western soldier’s beds
Their coffins always sent back home
Their spirits never free to roam
The land that they would die for just
To fail completely to impress
Upon their foe the need for change
Dictatated needs to rearrange
Priorities and government
Make sure the money is well spent
For goodness sake, we’ve heard the tune
Lets hope we learn our lesson soon

A blank page?

Senses! Engage!

Defy the whiteness of this alien fiber,
I have not seen it until now.

I launch a careful offensive,
To revert, reclaim, and liberate… A row.

Battles of Ink and turgid Wood,
Complex and chemical skirmishes
Turn marks mechanically upon the page.

The motions of my mind are that, and more.
At once freer and more hampered than the grind
If pen on materiality, not by linearity,

But mutually assured is the obfuscation that falls
(flowing) from my peace.

Valentine’s Day-

another school shooting

makes The News

Cardiologist’s office

pinned to the wall-

a paper heart

Full moon again,

seeing my reflection

in your eyes

Homeless

an outstretched hand-

offers his heart

Like the winter plum

a master taught me to paint,

this beauty does not exist here.

My imaginary friend

keeps me company

And through it all I managed to become
The monstrous great unhuman that you sought,
To bolster the excuse which led you to
Abandon all of that which we had wrought,
And in my hour of victory you found
Within yourself, you claim, a grain of salt
Which poisoned then, forevermore, the ground:
The fount that, drinking, seemed to make life count.

Powerful overtones.

a halo in progress, the past

about to happen.

a wounded portrait of disciples,

the hurried sketches awaiting treatment.

Three people are crowded around

the paintings-

the scene could be completed

she’s the one

(I’m still thinking about the title for this one.  It seems too obvious
to me, but I’m biased as this is my background.  Perhaps not to others,
so let me know.)

If one can struggle idly or till the field asleep
It seems that this is the engagement
Which the masses most often tend to keep

They toil long, their hours with work are rife
Bent backed and doubled over through the night
But is their work their aim? Is it their very life?

Such a totality of devotion, so it seems
Would leave so little in the space between
Their start and end, their beings cloth reduced to seams

› Continue reading

I walked with friends,
On rusted railroad tracks,
We stumble peacefully over the ruts.

We come to rest and sit,
And join the butterfly’s whimsies,
Feeling as monarchs.

› Continue reading

Because children should never be hit by cars in their backyards
and little girls should never fear their parents’ friends
and little boys forced to wear uniforms should never ever
unwillingly have brooms in their anuses

Because wars should never be forgotten while they are being fought
and people dying of starvation never deserve to be ignored
and Halloween candy, and all else we give to each other should
never be deadly

Because there is a man under the blanket
who has grown tired of society that I think
I understand