Landlubber lived in the forest.
He built homes and splatted his tail
in the stream when danger was near.
Landlubber’s gnarly teeth chewed branches
creating shelter for his little ones.
Life was good until the owner
arrived and blasted his home to pieces.
The farmer was glad he got rid of the beaver.
Landlubber moved on to build the house
of his dreams on some
other land lover’s property.
everyone knows my name,
everyone knows my face,
everyone knows my smile,
everyone knows my laugh,
everyone knows my voice,
but it doesn’t matter cause,
they don’t know my story,
they don’t know my scars,
they don’t know my lies,
they don’t know my pain,
they don’t know,
how much I’m breaking down,
how much I’m trying to hold on,
how much I’m losing my trust,
how much I’m struggling,
how much I’m dying
There is a sadness
In my heart
That never goes away.
It follows me
Like a shadow
Every night and every day.
It has become
A play- thing of sorts
Like a long-lost teddy bear
It makes me shed tears
When I need to
And it brings me a little comfort
When I need that too,
But someday I hope to lose
This sorrowful shadow of mine
And find something better
To ease my weary mind.
(Chicago’s North Side)
This senior citizen
whose face is Rushmore still
squats with pigeons on the steps
of the Rogers Park Masonic Temple.
She wears a shawl this snowy day
and is beneath the visor of a hunting cap
a woman who has paused along the way.
Her shopping bags, stuffed, frayed,
and each square feature of her face confess
she speaks at best a little English.
Rested, she will rise,
a penguin on a floe,
and navigate her day.
More at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com and http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com.
Much has been happening these days .
The world around me is changing very fast.
I find my own universe lies threatened with new possibilities.
I wait and watch and enjoy how erasure is a pleasing thing.
I like only to cling to my past for the ring of security is still there.
I see the ring as I hear how everybody near and dear comforts me.
Today my world has expanded far and wide leaving me expecting much.
The ring of my past heard in my silent hours brings the clamour of demands alive.
I see everybody around- father, mother, brothers and sisters with many more- consoling me.
Am I desperate today ? Am I very sure my world of explanations is growing unchanged
Despite wind of change sweeping every floor of expectations and dreams at a magician’s speed?
There is an answer still- all is so wrought already well , there can hardly be any ill!
Conflict requires participation.
Its unfolding depends on
what you’re holding:
wits or weapons.
One leads to resolution,
the other to escalation.
One leads to conversation,
the other to combat.
One leads to explanations,
the other to hostility.
Don’t battle when you can barter.
Bring your trade bead abacus
And show the true accounting
Of possibility and peace.
Vacillating Benny, an ancient chemist
now retired from Monsanto, must decide
if a poem his friend Ron has sent to him
is good enough for his hobby journal.
Benny finally decides to let the poem
marinate for another month
without sending Ron a reply.
Maybe it will sound better later on.
A month later, Benny asks his dog,
Monsanto Max, for an editorial opinion.
Bolstered by his dog’s advice,
Benny sends Ron a note:
“I’m considering your poem
and will get back to you later
with a quasi-final decision.”
How might you respond if you were Ron,
a retired professor who wrote his poem
while teaching English in Vietnam?
Ron decides to send old Benny
three cases of Dom Perignon,
each bottle filled with Agent Orange.
Ron hopes Benny will have
the time he needs to decide if
his poem’s worthy of publication.
Ron remembers decades ago
when they were young and in their prime
and his old friend Benny was
First Vice President at Monsanto.
Ever decisive, Benny quickly approved
new applications for Agent Orange.
More at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com.