The stream (all workshops)
follow
picking stones
for worrying in pockets
and though we hate
to think
for throwing
animal man
shameful and faulted
so few rise above
only the animals are noble
talent like true leaders shine
and everyone strives
for the crown
throwing shit
like Trent wrote
Like Cash sang
predictable masses
burning their martyrs
and feeling glad
smoting fires for fools gold
Let us not play
Into the minds of human beings,
With the good or evil intentions
Of a God,
If there were ever one
The mind of man,
Created a God
So let not religion be
The sole precursor
Of procreation
We have a scientific version.
This earth quake
Wasn’t the first
Nor is it the last,
So with due regards,
To your Science and God,
Let’s get over with the past.
`
There are days
that songs are stifled
or the throat hoarse and weary
No more do notes glide softly -
raking leaves strewn across
the littered lawn
their butterfly wings
hung up in the wait
for another sunny day.
There are nights
that stars squander
their luminescence
on unappreciative lovers
roaming listlessly by
a moonlit shore
their brilliant points
curl up in the hope
of another cloudless night.
My fountain pen in hand to press the page,
a tree for thoughts with sap in burly case
to flow its heart for others to engage,
a maple stem for words in ink to trace.
Its root a nib to fill its dark blue vein,
in polished branch alive by fingers’ clutch,
with dripping cut by which it bleeds and stains
upon the paper to pump my pulsing touch.
Perhaps its pensive pace is waste of time,
a time of cyber signs so quick to say
by rapid speed and easy spilling lines,
rejecting paper, pen and slower ways.
Look at that boy over there
running about in underwear
all he does is yell and shout
throwing insults all about
Expecting EVERYTHING to go his way
and Always wants the final say
if he doesn't he throws a fit
he'll hold his breath,stomp feet, and spit
Any wonder other children frown
turn their backs, cast their eyes down
when they see him coming their way
ready to disrupt their play ?
These odd-numbered years
seem to have a strange way,
of dealing me cards
that a "shark" couldn't play.
But, odd doesn't come close
to what the even years do,
they can take your worse nightmare
and then, make it come true.
Now, I've been around
nearly sixty years,
and all "time" has accomplished
is to validate my fears.
They are ashore now
quiet on stone and sand
no terror left
just silence and
slight shifting in
an ebbing tide;
workers hunt inland
dogs and helicopters
whining hope
chattering rescue
stunned faces drained
of all but horror,
at twisted homes
and mangled flesh
mixed obscene
by shattered earth
and smash of ocean
in places once community,
while on the bleak horizon
smoke lazes
into freezing air as
radiation levels rise,
Sweat pouring from wrinkled brow
a hard day's work behind me now
blisters and small cuts on my hands
from post hole diggers and wire strands
At break of day just grassy field
dark green grass its fertile yield
the lei has now been turned to grazing
beneath a setting sun so blazing
For this day's work produced a fence
to prevent cattle running hence
the posts are straight, the wire is tight
all in all it looks alright
each star
a beacon scar
come midnight blue
and dreams like milk
light seeping like
a puddle neath
hall door
every smoke
and every mirror
flicker trick
a blade smile
reddened
the polish
abundant
and beautiful
every strand
a meaning
rusted sink
like a copius moat
where black coral
streaks
run like a chord
on talents fingers
"everything" she whispers
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