It is not the first time, I heard these words before
Recently, Egypt, after Tunisia, told their chiefs to go
The people are suffering, enough of the misuse. Go
In Libya, the refusal and the outrage, see blood
Flowing to streets of Benghazi, hear the wailing

Yes, I heard these words by and by, where I worked
When some staff stole with pen and paper, not gun
When bankruptcy hit us, see helpless victims cry
And when landlords wanted to increase their rents
See tenants roam till someone says come home

Let Us Now

Let us create poetry,
Of our contemporary times,
We wouldn't like to disown…
Creativity is no slave of mankind
Nor subservient to past unknown…

Let’s create a tree
Called creation
And
Not live alone,
in glorified jubilation
Of times and poets
Since buried
aeons passed.

To current times
We should remain married
And
Leave behind a poetic legacy…
Likewise to be buried.

Flowing with the last Narcissus  (original version)


flowing with the last Narcissus
you've taken meaning out of context
extracted sterling weights of measure
from the rings around the moon
you've heard the morning warbler awaken
the cacophony of receding stars
and touched the bark of sentiment hanging
loosely from the white river birch,
the tortoise head bobs
as he meanders into the vanishing horizon,
obliquely unaware: he may be the last of his kind,
so what does this say if not the sound that will break

standing in front of a mirror
time
presents itself with a click of imagination
stop, shock therapy
when did i lose the outer me to the image
present in my mind,
i am always me, aren't i?

you look at her beauty, force
me to notice your noticing, by this and that...
a movement of your body, closer to hers,
a camera's flash, you take a picture of
someone else, her face like a
finger pointing between, framing
the painting you paint of me

there are wiki leaks and
super-bugs
with
more changes
than superman
teen mothers
child drug addicts and
baby martyrs
waiting to be born
while we are
fucking one another
with our backs
against the wall
every moan
elicits reaction
your rasping breath
and salty sweat
grinds hips
in circles
whispers rise
the words are said
>oh god oh god<
as flaccidly
you recede
and like the power of prayer
i am left with nothing

Easing down the street today
it's warm and toward the end of May
the sun is not too hot or bright
all in all, the day's just right.

I'm disengaged except my feet
which pound an automatic beat
my mind's adrift as are my eyes
a perfect day, I do surmise.

My eyes, perchance, drift over there
and light upon a derriere
encased in skimpy running shorts
( for all I know her face had warts ).

a neighbor's chimney smoke
drifts through a stand of jack pine
delivering small billows of fascination
onto my porch

the wide smile warmth of her kitchen
in every inhalation
and almond paste and cinnamon
a busy country oven

seepings of an open paint box and turpentine
sidle in as faint undertone

a unique blend of her, hearth, and home
nothing in the world smells quite like this

my nose becomes a projector
for all associated images
I fall back onto dog musty wicker
and watch

From the corner of my eye,
Your love I feel so strong,
When I stare straight ahead,
I know that I am wrong.

From the corner of my eye,
Your kiss is soft and real,
When I stare straight ahead,
It's for someone else to feel.

From the corner of my eye,
Your heart belongs to me,
When I stare straight ahead,
That devotion is for her to see.

From the corner of my eye,
You whisper softly in my ear,
When I stare straight ahead,
It's just for her to hear.

At the sound
Of her voice
Agony grows
Weary

She knows
The pain
Of living with
A two headed demon
That nauseates
Stomachs

She understood
The fear in a voice
The sweat dripping
From palms

Finding safety
From the seed of
Growing paranoia

Dancing on the page
Leaving images behind
Giving birth to words
That saves

Pilots of Pages.

I set my pen against paper
like a rudder entering water
the pen guides this paper
to it’s conclusion.
Such simple thoughts are
scary even hard to comprehend.

We are I believe pilots of the pen,
obtuse maybe, playful certainly,
serious sometimes, downright angry,
frightened, brilliant, almost anything
you can imagine we are, but pilots