measuring…

guess
the clinical
definition
of
depression
would apply 
to
a lot
of
folks
these days
so many of us
having
to bury
family
and friends
as the dust
from
their graves
swirls
in
the winds
of
hatred
it settles
on
my beliefs
turning them
ashen
but
i recall
hearing
someone
say
when you’ve
laughed
more days
than
you’ve cried
it’s been
a good
life

 

 

like black elk…

all of my beliefs
all my passionate moments
gone from existence

 

 

ain’t got time to meditate…

now
i
certainly appreciate
all
the heartfelt
words-to-the-wise
we’ve
been having
about
the benefits
of
daily contemplation
learning
to
deliberate
on
the moment
and
not
project
into
the future
or
woller
in
yesterday’s mud
but
when you’re
just trying
to
survive
the day
then
pausing
to
smell the roses
ain’t
an option
nor
is there
any respite
to
look
towards
tomorrow
tomorrow
isn’t a consideration
and
when you don’t
look
to tomorrow
hope
becomes
a useless
vocabulary word

 

money changers and dove salesmen…

sadness
has become
a
national
tradition
tears
are shed
as
we leave
our beds
and
confront
yet
another day
of
inhumanity
while
global warming
warnings
go
unheeded
and
death’s children
bleed
from war’s wounds
many
before
they leave
a woman’s womb
but
barnum and bailey citizens
applaud
the empty promises
made
by
word juggling
political clowns
that
unholy
heartless
unappeasable
slanderous
cult of charlatans
charlatans
of
little
real
biblical renown
but
quite capable
when
easing coins
from
unsuspecting devotees
of
blind ignorance
devotees
when provided
with
some form of
traditional
pavlovian
stimuli
like
make america great again
begin
to do
in blackface
a steppin’ and fetchin’ routine
that would
make
hitler proud
such
a lovely praying
lynch mob
makes one
want
to go back
to bed
and
start all over again
dreaming
that things
will change
the next day

 

vision…

i know for some
the gift
of
sight
is
a good things
and
for many
a downright miracle
but
having my eyes
open
for so long
has
blinded me
i
no longer
can see
the shoreline
of
hope
and
the doves
of
peace
that once soared
above my head
are
lost
in the blurred vision
of
the world’s self-interest
i’ve
also noticed
i can barely hear
the dove’s
gentle song
the waves
of
war and hatred
roar
day and night
and
without sight
it is
all
that is known

 

requiems in the sand…

 

i’ve started writing
my new poems on the beach
words briefly exist
like the lives of those they speak
voiceless souls trapped in man’s games

 

with our deepest apologies…

this
is
somewhat
embarrassing
but
several
of
your self-portraits
have
been
destroyed
or
significantly
damage
you may recall
the one
of you
saving
the world
it would appear
that image
has faded
our restoration staff
has determined
that the damage
has been caused
by environmental factors
too many
pollutants
shall we say
and
the one
of you
standing with
with your
soul-mate
has ripped
right down
the center
we suspect
a lustful moth
as the causative agent
for this situation
further
the painting
of you
standing by
the fountain
of youth
has begun
to dry
and show
wrinkles
in some
rather
conspicuous
spots
around the lips
and eyes
along with some
graying of
colors
sadly
restoration
will not
be
possible