On the beach gathering some stones
To decorate the front quarters
Black and white, immense and petite
All set to be carried away
In different baskets we’d brought

From the pebbles I collected
A gleaming object reflected
Rainbow colours inside the sun
Against the evening skyline
A gold coin meant money at hand

I turned the item round and again
Within the palm of my damp hand
Yellow turned into golden hue
With an edge of silver lining
When dropped in the ocean water

Freedom and liberty,
so often a catchphrase
sacrificing sanity
at the end of a smoking gun.

They're not concepts of faith or belief
they are complex ideas with no absolutes
that require thought, sacrifice, and grief
and need to weigh loss with answers.

We live together for better or worse
and freedom to kill is often the first
liberty lost.

So we consider what it means
when we lose the right to cause harm or blame
and gain the good of mutual nurture
guiding us to a better future.

 In the heart of life
we grow
sometimes friends
sometimes foes
to build and construct
or even to destruct
but
we all end
wretched and
worthless

six
feet
under

under a grave stone
 

Trinkets of solitude, seed-pearls
of wisdom follow me like small birds of
indecision,
how far do I go before I must turn back?
I've been here, but not quite yet.

In love with two men,
as different as the flowers of my servitude,
to whom do I owe my allegiance? Where do
I go when the last train has arrived and
there are no more excuses to be written
into a poem. No shadows of doubt or witnesses
to a holy conclusion or brief interlude, no matter
how ecstatic with revelation.