Eighteen might be special, it's true,
Or twenty-one, or fifty-two.

He thought that seventy would be grand,
But sixty-nine, a place in his heart's land.

The day arrived, then slipped away,
No party graced the passing day.

Just wishful thinking, dreams in air,
The day's demise, beyond compare.

The birthday party, a phantom's call,
Perhaps at seventy, joy will befall.

Or maybe seventy won't appear,
Could he be smaller than small, gripped by fear?

All of my scars have a story.
Some I can easily touch. Others I can only feel
below the surface. Some speak of epic yarns
of stubbornness and foolishness.

The wounds I feared most were delivered
by the most talented knife of all, love and loss,
seemingly immune to bandages.

I learned to patch them up with time. In this way
when they open again, as they do, it will be gentle
and they’ll not make such a spectacle.

Long marriages are a blessing
A couple no longer is guessing

A man has long been the person to train
It may take years to really decrease the strain

Sometimes you can hear the directions for the day
While the other is dreaming about what to say

There is little that he can do right
Even when doing things out of sight

She often complains about things she can’t hear
But can tell what you are eating without being near

He walks with the normal pace
But is told that he must be in a race

Dear donna, your song's getting weak
your performative future is bleak
it's TIME you musk sing
of your master and king
oh, the sting, what a ding in the cheek!

Creativity.
Free flow of thoughts.
The sound
of music
and singing.
It's all part of
my life now.
The ability
to express
my thoughts.
The joy
in expressing them.

That's what
makes me productive.
The silence
in my mind.
The peace
in my soul.
It's all there now.

I'm so grateful
for these skills
newly learned
and constantly
activated.
Progressing
so nicely
so gently
so thoughtfully.

If you were here
I'd offer cake
then take
your lovely smile in
while watching as you
hold your plate,
its chocolate disappearing.

If you were here
I'd comb your hair
then care
for any need within
your weary soul, as you
sit and wait
the end of day

nearing.

("Thus always I cause the death of tyrants.”)
the purported line Brutus uttered
after assassinating Julius Caesar.

Alternatively titled:
The prose and consequential arguments
for the death penalty.

Warm, sultry summer nights,
Mosquitoes, like miniature biplanes of the damned, waiting to siphon your dreams,
A buzzing, invisible orchestra of thirst.
Are you ready for this heatwave to end,
This shimmering, hallucinogenic mirage of heat?
Is it worth your soul, this fevered, melting season?
Or is it a nuisance to behold, a sticky, surreal dream?

The map of future, folded, creased, and worn,
Lies hidden, like a secret yet unborn.
Around the corner, shadows softly creep,
Uncertainties that lull my soul to sleep,
Yet rouse it too, with whispers of the new,
A vibrant life, though tinged with shades of blue.

no longer land of the free home of the brave,
original rightful occupants hoodwinked, petrified,
where diseases xeroxed
ambushed, crushed, extinguished,
squashed, trashed, wampashed,
the entire kit and kaboodle zapped
violent unwelcome intruders
celebrated acquisition or outright
annexation of lands
inhabited by indigenous peoples
showcasing courtesy outright theft
torturing, liquidating, flourishing braggadocio
nattering nabobs of nativity
pièce de résistance mere pennies on the dollar