Another Turn in the Ring

 

Another tussle with

the words I want to

use to convey my thoughts

onto this wretched blank

page; this canvas of

pugilistic wordplay.  

 

Do I say fear?

Or Terror?

Do I devote myself to complete honesty here?

Or do I withhold some shred of truth?

Do I say I am sad?

Or Disappointed?

 

It’s a bare-knuckle brawl

on the tarps,

blood spraying from busted

lips and open cuts around the eyes,

as the crowd yawns.

 

A Left,

No! A Right!

Another Right!

A Left hand lead!

But the shadow on the wall,

still steady on its feet.

My feet?

 

Provocative or alluring?

Sexy or erotic?

Complacent or resigned?

Domestic or Imported?

Reeling around the ring,

in pointless pitched punches.

 

I want to express how

worried I am, with…things…

the world…

the politics…

but the boxer in me,

just wants to brawl endlessly

with the right words.

 

Because I don’t know

what to say,

and I don’t know how

to say it.

 

 

 

 

 

The Ruthless Country

 

The ruthless country,

where nothing seems to grow

but disillusionment and

a lingering mélange of tragedies,

where good ideas find no

fertile soil, and bad ideas

blight the dirt.

 

A pitch-dark patch

of corrupted mud,

mixed with treasonous bones

and phony martyrs blood,

topsoil for lies,

and mulched with grease.

 

Nothing grows in the ruthless country,

barren wastes, pot marked with

foxholes and rusting barbed wire,

lonely winds swirl, stirring the

shadowy soil into clouds of

conspiracy.

 

The rot of the ruthless country.

A moldy odor, fogging the senses,

blinding the eyes with the stench,

burning the nostrils, and clogging

the ears, wretched and wafting

decomposition.

 

The ruthless country,

has no patriots,

no memorials to false prophets,

no valued treasures of a lauded

history,

only dirt and dust,

muddied, sullied,

and ungiving.   

 

The Ruthless Country,

begging for the soil to be turned,

the muck re-mired;

but redemption cannot be

grown there,

it’s ruthless.

 

 

Sláinte!

 

An Irish Toast,

that I’ve made up today,

for the festivities and

merriment intended to

paint the town Green

from stem to stern,

from port to aft.  

 

An Irish Toast,

said with a smirk,

a wink and a hearty

laugh, that nothing is

serious, except what’s funny.

And anything funny, is

anything we think it is.

 

An Irish Toast,

for those in Heaven,

we can’t raise a glass with;

for those in Hell,

we’ll see you soon,

and for those in limbo,

please pay the tab.

 

An Irish Toast,

for my non-Irish friends,

though you may be few,

you are a lot,

for my Irish friends,

you’re family, for shame.

 

An Irish Toast,

for kisses we get from

our sweethearts,

or our wives and pray

they never meet.

A toast to Love in

all it’s forms.

 

An Irish Toast,

for spillers of drinks,

and those with steady hands

who never spill a drop,

be keen and careful of each other,

for while the drinks may be mixed,

you should not.

 

 An Irish Toast,

for Irish folks,

named Vlad or Sven,

Sangeetha or Miranda,

Jose or Reginold,

Maggie or Indira.

 

An Irish Toast,

from one human heart

to another,

wishing you the kindness

and blessings, good cheer

and love you deserve.

Or at least the one you can afford.

 

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

 

Sláinte! 

Rise

 

Above the rabble,

we should rise;

beyond lowly dubious

discourse or disingenuous

diatribes, and

elevate to honorable

heights.

 

We should rise away from

the screaming throngs

demanding their idiotic

voices be heard, because

they are comfortable yelling

with their own, and too deaf

from their own shouting crowd to hear

anything but their own screaming.

 

Rise, towards lofty dreams,

and worthy goals,

together, an esprit de corps of

humanity, bonded by our desires

to be better, kinder, empathetic,

and less divisive.

 

The fires of Hell are hot

enough without the burning

contempt, hatred, mistrust

and denial of the truth or facts;

espoused so often and so rudely,

by fork tongued charlatans,

fanning the fires beneath our very feet.

 

I do not want to burn my feet,

I want to rise above the very,

burning coals of hate and

flames of lies, and cool off

in clouds of optimism and

truth.

 

Basking in the cool stillness and peace,

only found in those souls who recognize

our collective humanness, above

any ideology or religion, and choose

to rise with it on thermals of good.

Above the Rabble and their rabbling.

                                                     

                                                Painting Credit:

https://www.masterworksfineart.com/artists/rene-magritte/lithograph/golconde-golconda-1953-series-3/id/w-2861