Whose fault is it
I struggle
to rip out
the metal cage
of childhood fear
that grew around
my hopeful heart

Its metal mail
nearly absorbed
cripples the pump
capacity to my brain
and crumbled
rusty habits of feeling
battle to remain

I falter
rushing ahead
when talking
corrosion disconnects
gray matter
from my ever
too quick tongue

Skin transformed
to armor
crushes my backbone
with perambulation
clearly unpredictable
I list a little
when walking

The doctors say
I need more iron
But that is suicide
My heart still loves
inside its prison
“Its inside is bigger
than its outside”


Edited Carrie, Grandma & Me

(Top photo of eastern box turtle by Casey Greider; bottom photo of my sister and me with my grandmother in front of the county children’s home)



“…Same as the old boss…”

As Faustian deals
once again cement,
it’s too easy to ignore
poor Job’s lament.
But suffering shows
we’re all the same.
So when we’re one,
there’s no one to blame.

Who is it now
that demands we cower
to history
newly reconstructed?
That rough beast
slouching ever lower,
who prefers that reason
be deconstructed.

When liberation
masks raw power
and makes us bow
to new world disorder,
whose tempests now
blow even stronger,
we need an anchor
forged of courage
to withstand them
yet a little longer.

So when they cleverly
try to divide us,
we reject their slogans
of scorn as porous.
It’s in those spaces
filled with our disbelief,
we may speak together
in sweet relief.

There is one word,
one name I trust.
Everything else
has turned to rust.

first duty is to listen

Top photo shared from; bottom in the public domain

BONUS VIDEO: The Who for all you old rockers out there 😉

Won’t Get Fooled Again



Moments of joy
and terror
are not balanced
with the precision
of a “blind watchmaker”
Where there is
no chance
of error

Nor can these be
blamed on a
“devil’s chaplain”
innocent of intent
Who just asks
that we trust him

Theory can’t
the poetry of rainbows
Yet believes it shuttles
the weft and warp
Starts pulling at and
rearranging its own

Its sparkling strings
trick and trap
but unravel
when fitter words appear
We follow their
endless strands
around our heart
protecting our soul

Concept cannot
why life is short
Can’t explain
how for some
their bliss is
too early
For others pain
knotted too long

Its dogma proclaims
love is chemical
love is practical
A function
whose time itself
is passing
into electrical

It is not self-evident
that our mind
is a “meme machine”
There is also
the reason of faith
A humbler story
of the meek and
evolution of spirit



Photos from Wikipedia; Michelangelo’s Pietà by Stanislav Traykov