From Where Does Hate Stem? ( poem)

From where do the sound and stench of witch trials, burnings, and lynchings stem?

Why do the sounds and scents seep pungently into our senses?

What was the need, purpose and desire, which sparked and blasted the sparks of hate and destruction?

I heard the reason from the igniters of the chronological eternal flame and sound.

I heard the reason they gather around the fearful flame and chant the fearful chorus.

I heard the reason they take to white steeds with torches purposed to light up streets for a fire mass of hate and the reason they arm up, load up and drive up to blast away lives they wish to cast away.

They say it was because of lives lived against the usual come and go and were clad in different tones of skin and clothes.

They say the news from the prophets, sages, scientists shot against their standard this is so. I ponder and let each phrase sink in.

I ponder upon the depth of intolerance shown to difference.

I ponder upon the desire to spill and pile gallons blood and ashes upon the ground because of this difference.

I ponder and cannot find their logic.

I look into their eyes and shudder – as they continue to chant and continue along with their age old practice.

I look into their eyes and cast my eyes away from their eyes and plug up my ears to the fearful chant.

I hear their slanted stories and attempt to correct and change their view in the hope they will see life anew.

I ask why my brothers and sisters killed my brothers and sisters, fathers tortured my fathers, my clan butchered my tribe.

I ask why knives twisted into flesh, explosives scattered appendages.

I ask why they wish to pile corpses for ideological, theological, hierarchical, sexological deviations.

I ask why the elderly and inquisitive were witched-up and roasted, the red man’s blood was spread upon and removed from his land, the reason six million burnt and were gassed in furnaces of flame, while their ashes rained to the ground, the reason those stained black bore chains and were declared sons and daughters of Ham?

I ask “why is it all these were not embraced but cloaked in garments of fear?”

I ask “why can’t we put aside variants of: geographical,dermatological, theological, hierarchical, ideological … sexual-orientational persuasions?”

I ask “why can’t we spend a night of breaking bread instead of an evening of bombing brick?”

I ask “why can’t we cast away our fathers or preachers demonizing?”

I ask “why can’t we state we will not hate from this date and say we will love, hold embrace, taste, lick, kiss , suck, clutch, warm and form intimate bonds toward all?”

Library (poem)

Lighted castle of aisles, rows, which spark an assorted network inside

In which the restless may find comfort. May you continue to be a chest

Bearing knowledge to all those who have lost their footing –

Racing down, as the wind speeds from their chest and across their face –

Airing them with dashes of ashes of the inclination they will face a destruction bound

Rift in the face of peers. Let your light of illumination flow into each breast to

Yield a shower to water and grow the withered seed inside.

An English Day Dream

May we be a hit

With a dash of Shakespearean wit?

Can we inject a little ironic commentary

To lighten up the calamity –

While making biting bits of phrasing,

Perhaps, tempered with a little British self-deprecating humored anxiety?


May we comment on the weather,

As we weather

Through the rain to the cafe and sit down for afternoon tea

Mixed with milk and lemon? Yes, both you and me.

Can we twaddle down Dickensonian avenues, as we mock the Squeers and Quilps

Around us – in hopes we dampen their ego trips?


May we stroll down Abby Road,

While we we beat our head back-forth with Beatle beats to take off a mental load?

Oh darling, may we visit Ms. Rigby’s Tomb by the strawberry field

Next to the churchyard? What will our stream of thoughts yield?

Tomorrow will never know –

As we stand there and float our thoughts, in mental-ward-yellow submarines to and fro.


May we rollick and roll our thoughts and drift back to sons and lovers courting by stones

And quarries – a D.H. Laurencean sort of fantasy –

Rainbowing with the minds of countless women in love?

Oh, what could Alice find in our rabbit trailed thoughts –

Laced with holes through and through – more permeable that cheese cloth?

I know. I know I am a man of wavering thoughts.