Where I go to write a poem

I wanted to sit and write a poem, to take an opportunity to reveal where I go.
The spots and thoughts I am inspired to throw, project my imagination,
exploring the impulse of creativity that I practiced since I was a child.

How to see a pirate ship in a playground. Fragmented backyards
framed by pine trees and shallow water, a field of battle,
straw explosions from mental mortar fire. The same full of smiles,
panting, hard at work playing child, sat down here to write a poem.

Make believe is still belief.
That is worth remembering.

No better place than a farm for a writer.

Each egg is a long story. Refilled buckets, feed and water,
maintained roof and three tin walls, excrement in the stalls,
hay floor pens, and them, that upright gathering,
clean taupe brown and red speckled.

A farmer can tell a young bird in her first few cycles just by the dented,
stunted, oblong shape of a typically light cream almost snow white colored egg.

The health of the goat can be smelled lingering around the wealth of her udders,
enough milk and milking to make the beginners hands shudder,
taste the changing days, warming her bloated belly in the burgeoning sun,
the torn green grass and severed flesh tanned hay,
the sweet, yellow kernel dotted feed they clamor,
bellow, knocking sisters over.

The farmer lives by the first and most essential rule of writing.
Your characters are alive. Your labor suffers and hungers same as you.

For all the nuances and imbalances of your work to read,
each one must breathe, bleed, breed, heed you,
dominant call and still muster up height, courage to challenge,
search out and discover that dip below the fence,
the one section where a farmer failed to measure the top wire,
so it hangs low.

Anticipate the protrusion of some familiar mediocre star
mounting the curved unsuspecting hips of a dry horizon.
Crow for it. At it. Beating wings and cotton throat sings
every outbreak of day.

Give thanks and praise
that these planetary bodies once fucked,
and made way for yet another growing season.
Another day. Another reason to crow.

Like a farmer, plant the seeds of what you want to eat.
And like a writer, watch the stories grow.

Working Friendship

Some friends say more with silence than ever using words.
More than can be told has been heard while mouths remain closed.
Phone laying dark and quiet. But the secret is newly out.
I can hear you when you’re silent.
Those two true blue eyes have learned to shout.
And right, I was right all along. You and I get along,
but we have a working friendship.
A functional kinship. You and I are at our best
when we do not rest but work, and work regular.
Committed less to one another,
than one another’s interests.

The root stock.

Where are the writers of old? The classics, who wrote the works clutched dirty and torn in the hands of bored students across the world. Their words, thoughts, philosophies and stories still exist, work is more stubborn than workers, living far beyond that first cracked pen, sharp-tipped feather swimming ink pools, the withered decomposed canvas, recorded, re-recorded, translated, resurrected even after the pen-holder is long gone. The physical vessel, its tools, never seen again, and yet not absent.

Warped, echoed classical voices shake halls, lift dust in quick breath over pulpits and podiums, profits pour in for their last of kin, what living people or entity inherits the rights over an old thinker’s mind. The initial instant of genesis is past, gone, ancient and over for the unimaginative, the scholars and academics delivering daily eulogies to one particular fleeting moment in time when a great antique was invented, storied, shared aloud and never ceased being taught as static and dead, unmoving, unchanging, a memorizable and easily summarized subject. A cynical rant. Impassioned speech. A sonnet. An apology. The gospel. Not living. Certainly not still evolving.

A bold mind goes directly to the source, the root stock, reading words and picturing the furled hand unfurling them, or the young tortured life seeking out truth, and value-increase inspired by the imminence of death. Basically, literature can be worshiped too, and never criticized, questioned, just shoved down a throat. Failed to be imitated.

Cherish the words of classical thinkers, the gospels surrounding young, inspired teachers. But before crossing the threshold into indoctrination, uncover their classic inspiration.


I began writing this in an attempt to explain how I view the relationship between God and existence.

Representative of people

Change is in us and always has been.
A true mature individual has many friends, strong families, but needs no one.
Choice. It is what frightens us most out of life. Forces us to believe
choices for us need limitations, restricted without hesitation, immediately,
legally bound. The representative people charged with enacting change
are incapable of making decisions. They’re crippled. One of many concessions
politicians are asked to sacrifice upon election. Suppress your personality,
your personal issues, marketable regrets, your misplaced anxieties. Yourself.
We, the authentic people, can own those aspects in ourselves. But our mirror,
our reflection, our hoisted, well-dressed representation, must be better than we are. Banish weakness within your majority selected self. Do not act with reason, or logic.
The insurance is in reaction. Wait for oil to spill then drill the rhetoric of development, change, growth, ground starts shaking and buildings fall down,
call just after to mend the source of disaster.
Trace the vine to roots too late. Be sure to hesitate.
It is the safest way to restrict your own choices, limit options.
And who can argue with the last viable solution.
With the world sinking beneath garbage,
let’s finally discuss pollution.
This next part will be frightening, and read like revolt. It is not.
All we must do in order to grow, change, progress, is already in us.
Shatter the mirror, break the desperate stare at a better representation
of us than we are ourselves. It is only superficially better.
It does not matter the marks we scratch against the glass.

When we change ourselves in order to alter our reflection,
no protest is necessary to influence our representation.

Butterflies aren’t born butterflies

Being young feels like hunger.
People look at you like an invasive pest.
Until about twenty five.

When you protrude from that self absorbed,
emotionally dense cocoon, and for once,
people can stand the look of you.

Some of them may even smile,
spending entire lives in denial,
they ever put pesticide on butterflies.

More like vengeance

The spring sun comes with vengeance, doesn’t it?
Full of memory, and contemptuous resentment.
As if to communicate the fiery sentiment,
how dare you turn the side of that oily adolescent face to me?
Where did you all find the strength to roll over the other mountainous cheek?
Like leaves only came to conceal shame and cower in shade.
Like flowers are gestures, jokes and tricks, vying to be the one
to show the sun a bauble, trinket, or color it did not know of before.
As if the whole sparking intention of nature was to express,
well, now there is more.

Yes, we turned away from you God, you flaming liquid blob,
you roiling chariot of fake yellow gold, but yet, turned back,
away from winter’s star spoiled black and cold mist mornings.

A choir of erratic voices, a billion years of genetically recorded choices,
all loud and delighted to be your wriggling little satellite,
make you proud being burned by light who escaped, temporarily,
into chilling darkness and felt a pale, frail,
sort of lonely happiness in your absence.

But when that full sun returns to shine against the living,
slapped unprepared while the trees are still bare,
it feels more like vengeance, than Spring, doesn’t it?

The Human Layer

Keep your truths like Easter eggs,
sins just under the choppy surface,
skewed, blurred, unknown,
a mystery for others to gossip on.
Appear pure and pious until day declines
and dark drinks day’s disillusion, 
leaving truth as scarps, old cliff walls 
built up as a river dug, revealed
in layers the history of the earth.
Man walks a single layer.
One hair on the grizzled head of time.
Our bones yearn to lie down
in the human layer, to perhaps fuel 
some other future with oil to burn
in their industries.

All feel gravity’s feet on their shoulders, 
back and knees, but mostly
in the mind and heart,
flattened, urged to collapse and fall beneath
unending pushing until we are a layer,
for oceans to erode.
And rivers to reveal.

Family – Old Journals

Once a remedy,
aid in the face of a struggle-based environment,
has moved away.

The landscape is differed. Changed.
Organizations of humans far off from kin offered to take the gap,
a cat hole formed at the base of the family tree, and fill it in.

When hardship was equal, beneath tiered economic heights,
rooms higher up stack heavy on molded basements,
before the promise of insured amnesty,
healthcare aimed like automatic weapons only at symptoms,
before upper, middle and sad desperate foundational,
before widespread acceptance of ambivalent modern calamity,
sisters, brothers, cousins, uncles, aunts, fathers, mothers,
grand and great and twice removed too,
friends scattered intermittently,
before government or society,
people turned to community.

In ever-changing environments that provided no immunity,
creatures of all kinds fell too hard into family.

That word.

You used that word. You posted as many pictures as you could.
You wrote impotent love songs and tricked innocent people to play along.
But worse. You used that word. Love.
And whether it came from your heart or rolled off your tongue,
I want to cut it out of you. I want it gone.
I never want to hear it used again.

And it might be sin. But it is also true.
I would take on hell to take on you.
I need the world to know who and what and how you are.
Though only you will ever know why. Well. You and I.
See I saw your sad, small-peckered heart.
I heard your flaccid, trickle-down art.
I played my part. Because I didn’t know.
I didn’t know you could caress a neck you also choke.
I didn’t see callused fingered fists leave dark blue weakness
swollen beneath her eyes. None of us wanted to realize.
Not even you. Not even you. Yet you used that word. Love.
And whether it came from your heart, or rolled off your tongue,
I want it gone. Whatever it was.
I need the whole world to know your definition of love.

And if I’m being true, I would like to take that definition,
and try it out on you.