More Thoughts for Independence Day

 

I do very much enjoy

the illusion of freedom I

have as an American.

It’s marvelous to know

that I am, essentially,

a free person, able to choose

any path I like.

Sort of.

 

Kinda… but it’s good…

 

We are indeed the home

of the brave, land of the free,

like every other Republic or

true Democracy, we’re only

special insomuch that we

believe we’re special,

because we’re pretty special

patriots.

 

Patriots who believe

they are the only patriots

and their patriotism is more

important that your patriotism,

and that you might not be a

real American if you disagree

with their beliefs or that brand of patriotism.

 

Which I suppose you’re free to

do in the United States because we’re

all about Freedom, as long as that

Freedom doesn’t make the other

freedoms uncomfortable, or offend

God, even though we are Constitutionally

a nation wherein Church and State are separate.

 

Just another one of the pluses of being

rebellious colonists, who felt like the wealthy

weren’t getting treated well by other wealthy

men, so they encouraged the poor to take up

arms in order to protect those money making

freedoms.

 

I recognize the bitter tone of this piece,

as it is my right to be so as an American, I suppose.

My hopeful optimistic myopic view of

The United States has grown from 8^th Grade Civics,

to a more fully developed understanding of how

we got here and a critical concern

for where we are headed.  

 

The divisions in The United States,

do have me worried.

Neither side of the political system

is 100% right all the time,

there has to be room for compromise,

otherwise this Freedom we

hold so dearly, is in jeopardy.

 

So yeah, We’re Free.

We’re Independent.

We’re rugged individualists.

Kinda…, sorta.

I guess.

 

Happy Independence Day!  

Crumpled

 

The crinkling of paper

reminds me of thinking,

the silence of a photo,

reminds me of noise,

a cold shiver,

reminds me of memory.

 

The correlating conditions

collaborative in creating

our constructs, consuming

inconceivable causations,

and charging the chaos

of civil consciousness.

 

The inconsistencies inherent

in ideological instrumentation,

idolatry and indefensible

inhumanity, inhospitable

ideas or immeasurable

idiocy, irritate me.

 

A river rushing,

a stream gurgling,

an ocean churning,

a creek bubbling,

bodies of water,

that are the same,

but different.

 

Actions abrupt and

awash in an abyss of

ambiguity, awkwardness,

and abject affability,

always atoning after

abasement.

 

Feet shuffling on gravel,

reminds me of waiting;

Roaring engines make me

afraid; strong winds rattling

the branches of a tree,

make me respect the power

of simple things.

 

Crumpled together,

incoherently organized,

made one, in a faceted

mess.

It's Probably Chocolate

 

The drunken poet in me

rambles on about

the inequities inherent in

our society and pontificates

on how to then fix those

inequities, then cries when

no one hears.

 

The professorial poet in me

feels shame when basic intelligence

is challenged by ignorant bullies,

hell bent on shaping society into

their image of might making right,

rather than compassionate understanding,

and empathetic reason.

 

The sober poet,

feels the wealth of sadness,

in everyone’s souls as I see them,

trudging through the difficult

tall grasses of life, swearing under

their breath, a cold smile pasted

on their faces. No poem to fix it.

 

The writer, tells a story, about

robots going to prom, or goldfish

eating people, or going to the Moon

to die, and none of it seems to have

made much of any difference,

the World indifferently carries on,

to my chagrin.

 

In my multifaceted and obviously

complex internal struggle as an artist,

a writer, a drunken poet, an armchair

philosopher, a lover, a fighter, an ally;

I recognize the contradictions of my soul

and wonder how real it is, and how I can

best keep it uncorrupted.

 

It’s probably Chocolate.

Yeah, chocolate is usually the solution.

Until it runs out.   

Then… we’re truly doomed,

and then no poet can save us.  

Waves

 

Look at all these words,

crashing like ocean swells,

against the beaches and

breakwaters, foaming

over one another in

huge tidal waves of

verbosity.

 

My boat is being battered,

by the words bashing against

the fragile hull, I’m getting

seasick from the rolling torrents.

The horizon invisible,

against the words cresting

high into the sky.

 

If I could just reach out

with my net and capture

all the right words, all the

right combinations of phrases,

to clearly express all the thoughts

running though my seasick brain,

and paste them to this page.

 

Tuna.

Fish.

Sandwich.

with,

chips.

And a

pickle.

 

The words swirled around

the boat, and I laughed,

because of the chill that ran

down my spine.

Maybe I need to be on land,

for more land-based words.

 

Heading to shore,

to reap from fields

of words.

If I can find them.

 

 

 

 

Maybe I Can Plug it Up

 

The novelty of outrage

is worn out,

I’m beyond outrage’s reach,

I’m just sad now,

for so many bleeding

heart reasons.

 

It pains me so very much,

to read or hear the News,

and it makes me tearful,

when madness is the norm

over rationality.

But it isn’t outrage.

 

I am not outraged.

I am as disappointed

as a parent, hearing their

child lie about

something they know to

be untrue.

 

“Are you sure you don’t know

who broke the lamp,” asked Mother.

“I swear, I have no idea, it must have just

fallen over,” says Junior.

“Um-Hm,” says Mother, “you’re grounded.

I’m not mad you lied. I’m just disappointed.”

 

I am not mad.

I am disappointed.

I am not outraged.

I am sad.

 

Pundits and politicians,

clamoring for attention,

while the population of children’s graveyards

grows thanks to guns and fundamental human rights

are challenged by Right-wing nuts

who think their morality is the only morality.

 

I am sad.

I am not outraged.

My bleeding heart, is

bleeding,

out.

 

Maybe I can plug it,

maybe I can stop it,

like a nosebleed,

maybe leaning forward

is the right way,

tilting back,

is wrong.

 

 

 

Free Wheeling

 

I noticed him on the side of

the expressway, trying to

get an ancient motorcycle

started. He was lifting his

body up high and dropping down

on the kickstart, trying to get

the engine to start, but it

wasn’t working.

 

The disappointment was

evident in the slump of his

old shoulders, his gray hair

blowing in the morning breeze,

as cars drove past.

His black leather vest fluttered

around his body.

His blue tee shirt was soaked with sweat.

 

The bike was dirty,

cluttered and looked like it

had been in great use in the

1980’s, but alas, it had seen

better days.

The small windshield was brown

with dust and dirt,

the body of the bike, dingy and old.

 

I imagined this older biker,

in some late-night bar the night before,

bragging to anyone who would listen

about his biking glory days and how tomorrow,

he’d take his sweet hog out and go tooling

around town, causing trouble and shaking

things up.

A Rebel.

 

I imagined the shots going down,

the beers being drunk, as he reveled in

anticipation for his free-wheeling motorcycle

adventure he planned.

The open road, the breeze in his hair,

the squares in their cars, never knowing the

excitement of seeing that one front tire

roll over endless concrete miles.  

 

The corners of his wrinkled eyes,

now tearing up, as he sat helplessly on

his old bike, on the side of the road,

one more defeat,

one more setback among

so many,

a blow to his soul,

as he realizes how few

more chances he may have,

to ride.

 

He tried the kickstart again,

the bike didn’t start.

I drove past.

On my own road.

 

 

Reminder of D-Day

 

79 years ago, young men and

women from all walks of life and

nationalities, embarked on the

greatest crusade to bring about

the destruction of the German

War machine and eliminate

Nazi tyranny over Europe.

 

A momentous and ambitious

plan was unfurled to hurl wave

after wave of men at the coast

of Normandy to gain a foothold

in Nazi occupied France and

begin to push back the fascists.

 

It was bold, brash, and brave.

It required an incredible

sacrifice of life, of safety, of love

and comfort but it was a mission

unparalleled in human history.

 

The full destruction of a racist,

authoritarian dictatorship hell bent

on World domination and the eradication

of any peoples it deemed unworthy

of existence. The goal was imperative

and failure was not an option.

 

79 years ago, men and

woman across the globe fought together

to end the human suffering of millions.

It was a noble war, when so few wars are,

with a just cause and righteousness for

the betterment of the World.

 

We all have family members who fought,

perhaps died in this global conflict,

barely any citizen on the planet is too far

removed from the sacrifice of so many,

a once in a generation conflict.

A generation concerned with their

descendants.

 

These sacrifices should not be in vain,

the lives lost should not be marginalized

by those voices who wish to divide and deny the human

community of freedom, self-determination,

and the rights of all people to be the best version of themselves.

 

Nazis are bad.

Fascists are bad.

Book Burners are bad.

Individuals motivated to restrict

the movement or actions of the

citizenry are bad.

 

We shouldn’t have to remind people

that those things are bad,

the reminder, is in the scars on our

families, on fathers, on mother, grandparents

and more. The scars are on the landscapes.

The planet itself.

 

79 years ago, today,

we saw an enemy to humanity

and acted.

It wasn’t all perfect, mistakes were made,

but the goal was pure.

A free world is a safe world.

And I, for one,

will not forget,

the sacrifices made.