Holding Me Together

 What is to be said about the thousand pieces of tape?

The Speed of Time

Many strange things have transpired inside of my heart

Many strangers have seen into my soul

Many souls have seen into my stranger

Many rocks have seen my roll

Many rolls have gathered stones

Moss thinks itself smarter

but it is the speed of time

that gets me now.

Hope

I cannot let the mindset of hope dwindle

I cannot let the bear of the microphone eat me

I must sing, dance and play

running circles around my own doubt

until I am laughing at myself

Smile and Verify

The computer often asks me to verify myself

and I've been asking myself the same

turning the ring on my finger

and smiling into the wind because life is short

and why not smile

Bring the good mood

Usher in the day

It's about coffee as well as

It's about jogging and eating food to gain energy

I've often thought of prayer

on rainy nights sitting by the window

heart beating and storm raging

I've often thought of sun

when sitting under the moonlight

Why can't I just see what is in front of me

for once?

Home Inside Myself

 I am home inside myself.

 I am home inside myself.

 I am home inside myself.

 I am home inside myself.

The Earth tunes in to 

the waving clouds

burned solid through

the mosquito smoke

trees hang in the wind

like bunches of grapes

ocean waves dark and

indigo melting into the

sand, dreaming in 

wild colors.

How

After speaking in tongues for so long, snake pit venom mixed in with the red wine

on the table with the hemlock the hems of the dresses being pulled by the threads of time

How can I ever now turn honest, in the court of law?

And love the angel that came to me

in the fog of the Clark Street night

Puckered, Pampered, Pacified

Second version:

The night whispers through the trees and hums my favorite tunes

in the darkness, blacker than oil, smoother than a movie star's silk robes. 

First version:

Pacified for now, the heart of my jewels shines

Opened for now, the treasure trunk dusty genie lamps heave wishes

Closed for now, the door to my soul is always creaking in the wind

Pampered for now, the movie star's silk robes are dropping

Puckered for now, her lips are like a wild rose

Pumping for now, the oil fields are on fire

Burning for now, the hearts of men are charred to black

Black for now, the night is calling you

whispering for now, humming her favorite tunes.

Poems After Sunset

It's weird, I've had this blog for years

and I've never tried to write a poem at night

Is it because after sunset, the demons come out?

Or perhaps a Jewish violinist can't stay awake.

Not sure. I throw rocks into the Lake at night

or run a stick through the mud

count the stars and heave smooth glass at the tree trunks

I cup the cold sand in my hand

and peacefully become a remission of my own self.

That's what I usually do at night, 

not write poems. 

No Longer Afraid

These deceits that have no receipts

The correction on the player's book

The pool game that got thrown

The river rocks that got smooth

The grains of sand collected into a hourglass 

     turning it 

                        back and forth.

The champion of the day

The child who, held close at night

The pillows cut and unfeathered--

I am no longer afraid of freeloading SOBs.

Rohn's Battles

The obstacle of passion

governed by feelings 

is pavement 

underneath the bus

of sacred commitments.

These are small battles

affirmations of proof 

evidence of words and deeds

concrete with time and progress.

Feelings are not your friends.

They plan for comfort.

You need a sherpa 

leading you down the hard path

between who are are

and who you want to be.

Tiger Palms

 He said that God will provide it

this feeling of abundance

of peace

He said that God will demand it

this commitment to 

society's release

He said that the bandits will hand it

over, this treasure that they stole

when you became convinced

salvation was in rock and roll

He said that God will revise it

this edited Bible of verse

when spoken from the pulpits

of voices tense and terse

He said that God will reverse it

this pain and this woe

and like a child and a lamb

together you will go

but I know 

he just wants guitars

hanging on the walls

raining from the skies

painted on the trees

tiger palms beckoning

The Old Days

Package of letters

sent from Mississippi

came by rail

and stage coach too.

Don't know what I am about to do,

I've got the Blues so deep

I need a shovel and a tool.

I don't know what I am a gonna do. 

Played

Let my hands touch your drum 

Let me play you let me sway you 

let me run for cover take away you 

Let me run

Let me become 

your solace your leafy glade 

Let me be your finally made 

Your damnation saved

Your piano jammed and John Caged 

played.

Time Will Tell

Time will tell

or will it shout

loudly at night 

in the rain

when I am locked out of the car

screaming,

"you're not innocent!"

There's a story there,

but you will tell you in time. 

Valuable?

If I wrote of diamonds or oil, would it be valuable?

If I wrote of money, trinkets, and feathers, would it be novel?

If I wrote of big skies, roaring clouds, and fierce horses, would it be of value?

Would it stir something in your heart,

more valuable than gold?

On My Bookshelf

In the rustic attitudes of my history books

There is a party of fun flowers and light

masterfully played against the linen and the shack

The Impressionists and the dirt of the American South

are totally disconnected except

on my bookshelf.

The Bible sits next to Deepak Chopra

and titles like "Human Destiny" 

are next to a book from the 1990s about Feng Shui.

Let's not forget all the photography books from my uncle

and one book in plastic called "Lyrics for Song Hits"

which is from the 40s approximately

and is hard backed

and the ideas of those songs being hits

is what makes it a gem.

Perhaps I will open it, and write one.

Calendar Day of No Rain

Mark this day on your calendar with a red pen

full of love and solace

It wasn't exactly smoke from the peace pipe

But we stood here on horses together

Watching the prairie

and there was no rain

Bastions to the Future

The Earth began to spin as if it had stopped then started 

and engine in the rare earth minerals the field rocks after frost

Caterpillars crunched themselves forward

the stems of leaves bastions

to the future

Vinegar After Ravens

I crave simplicity

I seek to nullify the complications

To desalinate

To pick the seeds from the hay

and the pearls from the water

I crave a good cup of tea

Chamomile and honey

I will wash the floor with vinegar

after the ravens fly.

I will spot the cardinals

in the pine trees

the hare in the snow

I will look under the hood of the old Chevy

I will chop wood.

No More Wars

No more panic

No more awful obliterations of the truth

No more rewiring of the neurons

No more chimney soot

painted on our foreheads on Ash Wednesday

because we missed supper on Tuesday

and forgot the trash on Monday

No more apple cores

hurled out the windows of passing cars

No more wars

I Saw a Door

I saw a door and it was a two-sided coin.

It was welcoming and curious, allowing entry.

Yet at the same time it was a

a shield as it was a barrier.

No More Masters

The bones are really breaking inside of me

and I have no one left to conceive of

no imagination to dry up

no silence to feign

I have no foreign war to derive pleasure from

no shame bought and sold in miles

no fame crumpled and torn like sheets

no clothes fractured and torn

no sheep counted as I fall asleep unborn

no ribbons to tie my hair

no masters to serve

Image source: https://histclo.com/style/head/hair/bowh/chron/hb-chron.html

War

In the midst of the rubble we must pick up our chins

win sideways or not at all

find the beauty in the butterfly wing

soar on the ocean with the wind whipping

cry in silent tears

as the bombs pound the shores

Fake views brought us this lake of fire

oil tankers, floating Titanics

destined for the depths

but it's humanity

that is really taking 

the plunge

Image source: https://www.aljazeera.com/news/liveblog/2026/3/12/iran-war-live-oil-tankers-hit-in-iraq-tehran-sets-3-conditions-for-peace

Gratification

We were hoping it would be here by now

but ma'am you will have to wait,

your gratification has been....

delayed.

We are terribly sorry. 

Normally the gratification is right on time.

We are dreadfully sorry.

Would you like a cold glass of water while you wait?

Perhaps we could entertain you,

juggling oranges or telling jokes?

There is really no excuse for this

and we think there may have been a thunderstorm

a bomb threat

or an arrow which was aimed at an apple

missed.

We are not sure when gratification will 

arrive

in the meantime

may we suggest you read a book 

from our library

and sit here by the window.

Gratification will be with you shortly.

May I hang your coat in the

meantime?

Jan Sterling waiting for love in Mystery Street 1950 (image source unknown)

Ode to Pilsen

Passages from broken poems 

pathways back to my home

my bending backbone beckons

pigeons peck the corn filled ground

the graffiti and the engines

of the rushing buses

the frozen man with a cigar

his shadow on the black tar

smoke bellows up

while strobe lights flash

and coffee cups clank 

at the Jumping Bean

Give Me Hips

Audience dance 

happenstance chance

Glance 

at the fancy pants

fall 

into a trance

keep 

your balance

hold out your hands

spin and shaman luck shape shift grin

rip and ruby press hold this in

heart love cramp passion slip my lip

change my pockets give me hips

Image source: https://stanceondance.com/2017/02/20/bringing-african-dance-into-the-larger-conversation/ from an article: 

"Bringing African Dance into the Larger Conversation"

February 20, 2017

An Interview with Rujeko Dumbutshena

by Emmaly Wiederholt

Moot

Black on black

suffering fool

Rip me apart

it will be cool

Heartbeat Betty

scoops the loop

It's sorty heavy

war cry whoops

Harley Davidson

Grand Canyon Boots

I took my vacation

then I fell moot

Blue Fire

 In my past life I was a passion flower

pink and rosy blue with yellow insides

melting in the heat of a jungle

in the Amazon

In my god days I was a monk

silent and ringing in that silence

the halls of stone

the mountain of grace

In my glory days I was a ball player

shooting baskets at the buzzer

popping champagne

In my zombie apocalypse years

I was living in a bunker

face covered with dry blood

trying to connect the wires for the bomb

In my jazz days I was a rhumba player

tapping the skins outside in the firelight

by the cafe it was so poetic

it would make Van Gogh swoon

his red hair glistening

under the lights

his eyes

on blue fire

My Imagination

Do the details matter, he looked at me

sideways and sinewy like the seaweed floats on the surface.

Climbing into my soul like a germ into a cadaver,

he escaped me only to find himself on the forest floor,

looking up where the sun breaks through the trees.

Did he kneel for me?

Or was that just my imagination.

$127 Million

Written while listening to Youtube...

Millions of dollars in the pockets of several federal judges 

hand picking files and complying with selected directions,

and the FBI is going through the sealed transcript.

Someone will selectively prosecute the leader of Congress

the communications from the deadlines show executive

complications became contemptuous

and seniority obstructed the court.

Crayons So Thin

These crayons so thin, like my fingers get

long like shadows on the canyon walls

I roll the ring around in circles the silver lining of the clouds

spinning around and around

this thing of dreams this Rubix Cube

clicking this way and that

the ears of the fox twitching

as the clouds like giant white mice

race across the sky

The stones in the river, a thousand colors of a rainbow

get rounder and rounder as time passes them

wet, sweet and clear

I dip in my hand and drink

my long fingers hold the water

if I hold them tight together 

and lift life to my mouth

I get on my belly and drink more

my knees are sore

I close my eyes

I have been painting pictures on the rocks

the caves and crannies of this world

In the colors I find the breadth of fire

and talk to the sky

in my own language

my fingers

this charred earth

makes lines

running my fingers across the walls of the cave

these crayons so thin

make a thick connection

to the other side

it pulls at my guts

Today

The cat is attacking itself in the mirror.

I can relate. 

Creeping Fox

Update the scotch and whiskey and pour it on my mind

I've been deranged and hungry and it's almost supper time

The nuances are lost like lambs I haven't got the fingerprints to touch

the edge of the glass sitting next to the couch

I'm tired and I'm old and made of gold and rubber stamps

Climbing all the walls at once I haven't got a chance

To leave my home in disrepair to fly into the wind

the hen escapes the henhouse

when the fox comes creeping in

Fairy of Peace

I long to be

The Fairy of Peace 

To move men's hearts to paint canvas

And not draw blood.

Hello Everyone.

 Hello everyone,

So sad that you could be here today in our moments of quiet boredom, numb to the death of civilians and counting the monstrosities on our hands and running out of fingers. So glad that the bombs that dropped today on Youtube fell silently in a forest of chaos, every bit and byte sauntering through the light waves of French physicists and landing on the ground next to the angel who spied on Newton in the apple orchard with a compelling thud. No fear not that these tragedies will last more than a day, we will have more gas lighting coming your way soon. No worries.

The cupboards full of overpriced groceries will bend, giving way to the new dawn of Authority as Democracy is held in a vice grip like a pet cat running out of mice. Our goons, cloaked in ICE gear and full of grenades in their stomachs will blow up peacefully, and you can watch from a distance, on your Apple Watch.

Sincerely yours,

The United States Government

Ms. Pain

She sits on the mountain

free 

at last

I've learned so many things from pain

I need to thank her

Ice Cold Eyes

From an email I received: Authors of fiction may submit sci-fi and fantasy, 1,000 to 8,000 words. They accept stories on most themes, but they are especially interested in, “compelling adventures, folk-retellings, stories of hope in the dark, emotional healing, love of all sorts, environmentalism, and the humanity (or lack of it) among the fantastical and speculative.”

He stared at me with ice cold eyes. Every part of the cave was melting. I hung back in the shadows, not knowing when the growling in my stomach would go away, or if I even wanted it to. I had come here, after all, for a spiritual awakening, but this cave in the middle of God knows where in Mexico was starting to feel like a prison.

Adam was always quiet, and today he was especially, except he was talking with his eyes. The burned into me. There was an anger I had never seen before, usually tempered by a softness, but not this time. I cleared my throat. He scowled.

I looked up at the stalagmites and watched the dripping. All of them dripping together sounded like a percussionist convention, haphazard but oddly comforting. Methodical and hypnotizing, it eclipsed my attention until he spoke.

"We are stuck here, you know," he said. 

Just moments ago, I tried to move a large rock and it created a small avalanche, which created a new obstacle of stones which now blocked our exit. The fall was the height of drama. Then the rocks settled and it was quiet. Minutes seemed like days. I hid, waiting for what was next. 

There was still sunlight coming in over the pile of rocks, which was encouraging. Light could get in. It gave us hope for now. I stepped out of the shadows and into the one sunbeam falling in. 

"I know," I said. 

Radical Acceptance

He wrote me a paper

Bled it into being

Sat upon the salt mine

Turned my envy green

She said her name was Ruby

she poured the champagne

Grey Ghost stomped me silly

I swung where I hanged

Gretchen was the one

who served the beer

that fateful night

when I fell into his stars

Memory of a Mermaid

I saws the photo on my brain, burned in like the tattoo on a sailor

his arm hairy and strong from pulling rope

his face sunburned and hard flesh

calloused palms and eyes as clear as vinegar

My life escaped like a mermaid under the water

pristine in its disappearance

like a memory 

or a dream.