Cafe Musing (poem)

Take a cup of tea with me.

Would you like some milk… sugar?

Is that a “Yes please?” Who will you be my dear?

A friend… a lover?

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Oh, who knows? Let the evening pass on by.

It is too much to take in? After all, we both do not know how to begin

Our years are spaced and made of moments where we don’t know whether to smile or cry.

We just stare and look and guess what we chose to wrap our selves…our lives in?

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Right now… the two of us here.

Yes, us two. Both you and I staring at each other – eyes facing eyes

Yes, somehow this is all. Yes, all that is needed, though we both see semi-clear.

Yes, both you and I… us two. Let us both let the clock tick by.

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Shall you and I clasp and warm hands, as we stare at each wrapped in sweaters?

Shall you and I look at the snow fall, as we travel huddled down the highway?

You and I… shall we move along? Is there something better?

Shall you and I go now? Are we sitting here…both together…stretching out our stay?

Morning Musing (Poem)

I crept out of bed with a heavy head,

And strolled to the kitchen for morning coffee,

And seated myself at my computer and read

And thought upon the latest political calamities –

Political shouts to keep up flags of hate –

Political shouts to increase the till of those willing to bring the earth to a wasted state.

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I crept out of bed with a heavy head

And saw men shouting for their own destruction,

And looked on loonies damning their offspring for their foreign bed

And raising their fists with mad shouts to beat them into submission –

Mad shouts calling for the death of sons with sons in sacred matrimonial –

Mad shouts calling for the death of daughters with daughters linked as testimonial.

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I crept out of bed with a heaving head,

And took sips of bitter coffee mixed with sips of bitter ironies,

And pondered how long till I continue to call my country my homestead

And pondered how long till a dictator rises to cast and mold catastrophes –

My shouts call for peace among sons and daughters –

My shouts call for them to stroll and converse together not in tears but laughter.

Personal Inquiry (poem)

Who are we who are tossed into this world and sent screaming with each step –
A scream which contains both joy and pain with each puff of breath?
Who are we but forms built up and torn down and rebuilt –
A Holy Temple or a Tower of Babble?
Each step is a risk –
a step which can contain within its motion pain or joy.
Shall we raise a head up to sky or bury it in the soil.
Each moment sends a chill –
a chill which can paralyze our limb and compromise our ambition.
Each moment sends a chill,
which may send our feet speeding toward higher sense of being.
Each moment contains within it a test of of will –
a will told  and filled with a test of our mental…perhaps physical constitution.
Shall we bless or curse each moment we are given.
Would it be easy … difficult fill our days will self promotion or depreciation ?
Perhaps, a subtle mix and balance between the two is what should be given.
May we find for each of us a muse
– to lift up out of the dust.
May we find an advisor to hold us back
– before we stamp off toward our destruction.
We need elevation
To lift us out of our shaded…enclosed outhouse waste
We need to placed back into our allotted shed
Before we flush others down with toilet paper.
Yes, we should raise our head, but humble our knees.

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?

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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.

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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.

Abecedarian (poem)

Awing entertaining escapades about town…

Bracing ourselves, as we make swerves down adjacent streets

Crowded with the steam from cars and the breath of the breadth of the populace –

Drowned in their own conversations of their daily occupations, which they will

Ease on into the evening. They speak languages both

Foreign and domestic –

Generating a feel for their particular regional dialectic –

Harped in homespun words and phrases

Inched into one anothers ear with

Jazzed up jive –

Keeping up with an intimate beat

Leered from their neural passageways at

Metered rhythm in a careful string of

Nuanced insinuations and inclinations drawn from a multitude of situations,

On which make up their daily reverberations –

Petered in and out in a particular patter –

Questioning the standard say so …. perhaps a bit

Racy for polite cafe conversation.

So what? All have a particular conceptualization crowding up their mind, which

They feel must be transmitted onto another being

Upon which they feel they must make an intimate connection, even if it is an opinion

Vetted in intense passion…

Waved in wafts of flustered flurries,

Xylophoned in pounding notes,

Yodeled from purported pretenses and

Zeroed on obscure subjects.

The Heroes on Retro Saturday Morning TV. ( poem)

I sit here with remote and reminisce upon Saturday morning TV.

I sit and muse over heroes in tights who fight for right

Through the day and into the night –

Teaching each of us how we ought to be.

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I insist we need a hero with a cape to fly high across the skies.

With an emblazoned symbol across their chest –

Who fights for justice and who can be summoned upon request

And able to break through villains greed and lies.

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Tell me when will a Superman fly

Through the sky from up above to save us

From the disorder and greed around us?

After all, Lex Luther is mocking us from an office high up in the sky.

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When will Captain Planet be summoned up?

After all, Loot and Plunder is running amuck and stashing cash,

As they reduce the forest and sky to trash.

As a child, I thought they were fables a writer summoned up.