Daniel Rowed A Boat Ashore, Hallelujah


of Pope Francis, it has been said,
“If he does not inspire you,
you’re not listening.”

a new version
of the old St. Francis
taking Christians
back where they once

will we
have ears to hear?
the courage?

i want to hear,
“Jesus never wanted
plots of land
to commemorate him,
or people to feel better
visiting them,
he wanted
and all the peoples of the world,
to walk their talk…and his:
feed the hungry
care for the sick
love thy neighbor,
thy neighbor being
all of us
and yes…
be good stewards
of this Earth.”

Shame on You Fraizer Crane.


shame on you, your writers too
and the lady who played the idiot
natural child birth instructor!!!

how much research does it take
to find the truth of the beauty
of home birth.

the truth of the matter
is a baby born – UN-drugged
eyes wide open to receive
her mother’s smile
her father’s
and/or all that have been invited
to this magical moment
in a child’s life.

to be repeated…
yes there are those who choose
who change their mind
and what better time in life
for a mother to choose to lead
the miracle of life?

You’ve created some very
socially redeeming shows.
May I ask, respectfully,
never to see it again.

Thanks for the Nightmare, Dream Maker


to sleep, to dream, to learn
to learn the divide
between walking and talking

every man’s home is his castle
until the homeless come in hordes
with nothing to lose
and not enough police to enforce

what truly exists
in this material world
that cannot be lost or taken?
what actions might we willfully take
to retain what we deem
we own?

human history is repetitive
with violence begetting violence
to get what we want
by all means possible

who can say this Earth
will not become violent
when treated with such violence
as to destroy Her?

will the final epithet
of the human species read
“They never truly learned
to share.”

you think
The meek will inherit the earth?
It is logical.
It is reasonable.
It is Love.

Hello, Hello Dear Friend


i have to let myself believe
shuffling thru old ashes
is better done here than
the new home i’ll occupying
soon enough
far far away from
brambles and fig leaves

tonights dish a
double entry:
-fiery words written
never mailed so
long ago, but stamped
when stamps were fifteen cents
-fiery mind
that followed me out the door
pulling on a chainsaw cord

i have to…
for tears and sleep
do not add up to
two plus two

write a dear old friend
survivor extradonaire

remember the magic
of poetry readings
the dry socks i pulled from my feet
for you when yours were wet and cold
there were no second thought
thus was my love
and admiration, that, and,
it was your bra flag flying
from a car antenna
that informed me we
had more in common
than common sisters

yes…me…reaching here
for a happen end of
words reaching
beyond my hand and your time
to two smiles
one for you, one for me

ok, here’s a funny of today

a facebook male friend posts:
“I decided to stop wearing underwear today.”
my comment, “ah…free…free at last…”

p.s. i know you’re in a happy place so
here’s thanks for the knowing of you
that helped me thru this night
and no no more tears.

The Visitation


do tell your wife the sweet
little cakes were delicious
and tell your self
Ye Ol’ Hag
misstepped her shoes
in this new age of understanding
your wife perhaps might be either
he, she, or it
conjugate the vowels
or not, my curiosity
does not compel but does
float off in different threads
having never been to California
(interestingly, one daughter
is drawn there every vacation)
“to me or thee?” I laugh…
Looking pleasantly to the next

p.s. A “new-to-me “buzz is that smiley faces are now being frowned upon.
Q. Is it because sometimes it’s impossible to know
if it’s full of falseness
or truthiness?

The Brush Stroke


see hear little person
who would brush her time
with a bare stroke
of no importance.
the fire
so long contained
even the other
believed no embers

beautiful Meadow
repeated his words,
“I did not realize
how much
she helped me.”
her having
wrapped her body around his
to stop the shaking
with physical pain
from hell;
validation helped.

she knew
there were many loves
he loved and he gave
he chose her perhaps
nothing in her demur
smelled like jealously.
now he also knows
she refuses to count coupe.

there once was an Indian maid who knew
overcoming/releasing the pain,
the joy is her’s

Ode to Pomposity


Fraiser Crane wine so old
previous owner was Lincoln
don’t interrupt me
this is a conspiracy
not a theory
Sylvia Plath jar bell
a familiar hell
ahead of her time
the artist paints
or otherwise creates
oh the mirror of pomposity
shining clearly thru
our “social media”
I am I and you are you
spider web crossings
now the whole world is watching
the whole world

. . . here in dark of dawn’s rebirth
comes a whooshing whooshing. . .
angel wings still flutter softly
’round the hearts of mortal man
. . . hoards of angels’ singing voices
praise the passing, evening light
praise the birthing day to be
unclung to old miseries
. . . all love is a pulling, tugging
to what calls a heart to play
see us here all tugging, pulling
one big clam shell open, closing
“will you come and play?”

A Rolling Stone by Robert W. Service


There’s sunshine in the heart of me,
My blood sings in the breeze;
The mountains are a part of me,
I’m fellow to the trees.
My golden youth I’m squandering,
Sun-libertine am I;
A-wandering, a-wandering,
Until the day I die.

I was once, I declare, a Stone-Age man,
And I roomed in the cool of a cave; I
have known, I will swear, in a new life-span,
The fret and the sweat of a slave:
For far over all that folks hold worth,
There lives and there leaps in me
A love of the lowly things of earth,
And a passion to be free.

To pitch my tent with no prosy plan,
To range and to change at will;
To mock at the mastership of man, T
o seek Adventure’s thrill.
Carefree to be, as a bird that sings;
To go my own sweet way;
To reck not at all what may befall,
But to live and to love each day.

To make my body a temple pure
Wherein I dwell serene;
To care for the things that shall endure,
The simple, sweet and clean.
To oust out envy and hate and rage,
To breathe with no alarm;
For Nature shall be my anchorage,
And none shall do me harm.

To shun all lures that debauch the soul,
The orgied rites of the rich;
To eat my crust as a rover must
With the rough-neck down in the ditch.
To trudge by his side whate’er betide;
To share his fire at night;
To call him friend to the long trail-end,
And to read his heart aright.

To scorn all strife, and to view all life
With the curious eyes of a child;
From the plangent sea to the prairie,
From the slum to the heart of the Wild.
From the red-rimmed star to the speck of sand,
From the vast to the greatly small;
For I know that the whole for good is planned,
And I want to see it all.

To see it all, the wide world-way,
From the fig-leaf belt to the Pole;
With never a one to say me nay,
And none to cramp my soul.
In belly-pinch I will pay the price,
But God! let me be free;
For once I know in the long ago,
They made a slave of me.

In a flannel shirt from earth’s clean dirt,
Here, pal, is my calloused hand!
Oh, I love each day as a rover may,
Nor seek to understand.
To ENJOY is good enough for me;
The gipsy of God am I;
Then here’s a hail to each flaring dawn!
And here’s a cheer to the night that’s gone!
And may I go a-roaming on
Until the day I die!

Then every star shall sing to me
Its song of liberty;
And every morn shall bring to me
Its mandate to be free.
In every throbbing vein of me
I’ll feel the vast Earth-call;
O body, heart and brain of me
Praise Him who made it all!

From http://www.internal.org/Robert_W_Service/A_Rolling_Stone

No Fairyland or Ground Control


said Spider to Fly,
“it was your forever moving
out of reach, the ever expanding
web now converses,
top and bottom ,
side to side”

said Fly to Spider,
“the definition of
in the process,
is being formed”

“Where and how will it end?”
lamp lit, the poet pens.

Will they walk the walk of love?

Somebody said,
“We are all born naked –
the rest is drag.”

They imaged a world
comfortable enough
in their birthday suit
never to be
abused again.

The creatives returns
to the work at hand
here and now.

first light by Jim Wilson


across the river howler monkeys still howl
the coppery stillness of the river
two men in a dugout
one standing in balanced yoga
tosses a coconut to splash
to fool the fish into thinking breakfast is near
he casts his net

and back home
the fish have all been caught
they have a car so they can work hard
so they can have a car
so they can work hard
so they can have a car…