Light, Love, Life

Something Shifting in the Sky
 
Another poet with a bled and broken heart –
oh, gag me with both of your silver spoons
 
Another poet with a jealous ego –
hell, I thought art was designed to be more creative by half
 
Another poet with a grudge to grind –
here, let me kiss first your chip and then your shoulder
 
I have yet to see it all
(and surely never will)
but I have seen enough
 
to start singing thrice
on every Sunday
about the trinity
of God, glory
and holy grace
 
without fear
of any repercussion
 
because the light and love offered by life
is not a theory of guilt
I would weep for
or ever wear
as a millstone
instead of this
smile.


The Visions of Verse event this weekend was an absolute joy. It was good to see Cliff Brooks, Holly Holt, Chani Zwibel, and Shane Etter; great friends from the SCE. Just as much a pleasure to watch them all read.
 
The audio from my set is up now here on SoundCloud.

Down and Out/Up, Up and Away

Funny How It Goes Sometimes
 
Considering how everything was wrong
when our ship went down,
the situation could not have
ended up any better.
 
Insert your next parable here
while I keep busy
never figuring out
this paradox called…
 
Shift so subtly with the spin;
cycle when the circle sings.
 
Open wide my weathered ears;
bless me with the sounds of spring.
 
Considering all I failed to learn,
I’m still happy being dumb.
Basking in new season’s light,
I realize life’s just begun.

Visions of Verse tomorrow is going to be dope. Poetry is the only high I need in life. Though I’m surely not adverse to several other methods of reaching out and touching sky.
Visions of Verse (3-25-17) promo 2
Five of my poems were published here at Medusa’s Kitchen earlier this month. Thank you to Kathy Kieth for hosting such a great site.

Feed Your Head

Midnight Wonder/Wander
 
Head in the clouds,
soul on the brink
 
of salvation and/or annihilation
at any/every moment.
 
The signs in the sky
appear to point out our future in space.
 
The signs in my mind
seek to find the path home to source.
 
But the signs on the street
are marketed for entirely different ends,
singing their songs about realtors
who have erected
new neighborhoods
as far as the eye can see
in this suburban wonderland
(Call Alice;
she might know
the truth by now).
 
Chopping down trees,
chasing deer
from their home.
Come meet me at midnight,
my friend;
we’ll stare straight
into heaven’s void together.
I too know
what it is
to roam.


Thank you to Raja Williams for posting “Platitudes toward Paradise” at the CTU Publishing site recently. The poem is an excerpt from my full-length collection, Happy Hour Hallelujah.
 

Cleansing Karma under the Sun

Just to Be on the Safe Side
 
A day with so much shine
even the shadows
wouldn’t dare
try to tame us.
 
But night always falls,
same as the sun,
same as the stars,
same as our nature,
same as these
bombs.
 
Protection offered by the light
still goes a long way
in life,
but a nuclear missile
defense system
isn’t the worst idea
either.
 
All I ever want to say is something perfect,
but I’ll keep settling for less every time
as long as the process comes with a promise
to continue urging me forward…
 
with a kiss, with a caress,
with a push, with a shove,
with whatever force
equals out
to evolution
in the end.


It would be preposterous to claim that I was blinded by the light. So I won’t. But I will swear to the fact that it did give me a nice buzz (and a cleansing sweat).
 
Two of my poems (Manifesting Minutes All the While; and Burning down the Throne) have been published today here in Tuck Magazine.

Seasonal Shift with a Hint of Frution

Kool-Aid
 
Green is the color of envy,
and jealous are the eyes
that once could see
but lost all focus.
 
Better to have never experienced God
to begin with
than to have sipped
from golden chalice
then turned your back
on heaven’s gate.
 
But always be careful
when walking toward the light
through dark tunnels
that it’s not just a train
coming your way.


With the birth of Spring on a sunny day, I would only pray for a season of peace. Grace is more pure than poetry. It always gets straight to the point.
 
“Gardening” is out this week here at Dissident Voice.

Prophecies and Hand-Me-Downs

Numbers Game
 
Let’s stay awake
through all hours of the night,
here with the pillows,
and talk about heavy subjects
such as whether or not
soulmates actually exist;
 
or
 
let’s get sloppy drunk
to receive the revelation
that the sky is set to fall
in eleven hours.
 
Age is just a number,
it’s true…
until it kills you.
 
Platitudes and empty promises
are not one and the same.
I’ve consumed them both in triple doses.
One keeps me high as a kite
most of the time,
and the other always
leaves me in the lurch.
 
Prophecies and hand-me-downs
predict a righteous future.
I saw you up there screaming for your silver.
Even if you have a pile
of jewels and gold,
you’ll still be starving and cold
by the time you taste your grave.

This is the blitzkrieg we’ve all been begging for. Full-frontal assault. Lord, please have mercy on us all.