To Be Beautiful

 

To be Beautiful,

is relative,

to what is beauty.

 

A puddle in a

pothole,

a rainbow in oil.

 

A sad smile,

tears on a cheek,

laughing through pain.

 

A ticking clock,

in an abandoned house,

measuring time.

 

A meal that lingers,

heartburn,

but delicious.

 

The hint of nudity,

when not called for,

in casual moments.

 

An abundance of

subtlety,

in loud places.

 

The depth of emptiness,

in a crowd,

dancing to the band.

 

Stilted sunlight,

through blinds,

against a plain wall.

 

Their laughter,

standing out,

filling the heart.

 

The beholder,

smitten,

with wry intimacy.

 

Strange beauty,

abounds,

everywhere.

 

No Old Souls

 

Old Souls are not a thing.

It’s something I’ve self-referenced

and have been referred to as, by

others, but I’m coming to realize,

there’s no such thing.

 

If souls exist, they are neither

old or young, it’s a pretentious label

slapped on the prepackaged idea of

who you are; your self-identity

as described to you, by others.

 

“Young Mr. So-and-so, is very responsible

for his age,” doesn’t mean Young Mr. So-and-So,

has an Old Soul, it just means that they

might have a greater sense of responsibility

or have developed some empathy at an

early age and comport themselves as such.

 

The same applies to those we accuse

of having a Young Soul, some youthful

exuberance or Devil may care energy,

it’s not a real thing, but a crafty way

to classify and separate people.

 

We’re all just (if you believe in it) souls,

bumping into shit as we plod along

this pathway of life, tripping and stumbling,

learning and growing, breaking and healing

with each precarious step.

 

We do not need to be labeled,

we do not need or branded into some

codifying corral, we are who we are

the moment we reach that moment,

and whomever we are at that moment.

 

There’s wisdom in the soul, old or young,

(if you believe in that sort of thing)

I’d rather believe that people are capable of

great acts of good or of evil and hopefully

choose to be good.

 

For the betterment of their soul,

(if you, of course, believe in that sort of thing.)

 

Battle

 

How’s it going to be

when you won’t believe

a word I say?

 

How’s it going to be

when you won’t hear

the tone in my voice?

 

Will you stay?

Will you go?

Will you put away those

childish things?

 

If you hear me,

if you see me,

if you understand.

 

Will you pretend it

never happened?

Will you ignore the

things you said?

 

Will your legs still

ache after walking in

my shoes?

 

Words are the warriors,

in this ceaseless battle of

ideas and feelings.  

 

A battlefield cluttered

with ideas and theories,

clashing across ideological

landscapes.

 

Words, jabbing and stabbing,

slicing and cutting,

with vitriolic hate lashed

with ignorance.

 

Ideas, dead on the ground,

shields glinting in the noon Sun,

as smoke tendrils of fire linger.

 

Can you imagine?

Can you see?

The power in poetry.

Did any side win?

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.