Of Truth

Poets don’t die
Like grandpa’s
Aren’t at little league
Tournament games

And I refuse my
Political views
Beer gushed across
Of spewed atrocities

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It’s Swimming

For some reason, the drawbridge rises. Yet, solo three miles with a bruised and swollen knee to 10,000 plus feet. Resting against trees, smiling on a boulder. Holding dark cliffs behind, deep green streaming below. Growing, ominous clouds painting lace shadows over granite.

Wrapped and elevated. Serious at how quiet a thought finds. How at that time, storytelling comes to mind. Like a one to one. One rock, that one on the right, knows my hand. And I’ve never left this spot, gone off like other trails. Maybe the waterfall past the lake keeps me, dreaming.

Remembering, suddenly, there’s something going on. Tonight, right across the river. Shimmering bright. While my black and blue has faded, waned like a mountain moon, like that. Back, sat at describing what it’s like. High over everything else, catching a breath as if

Felt

Felled, in a glassful
Of half verses stirred
Not shaken on pages
Ringed in forgetfulness

Happiness, written
In favorite author’s
Singsong bandages
Yanked as congruence

Redness cheeked
Between the bruised
Knee jerk inflection
Mentions anything else

As It Waves

She looks like pictures of little her in pink. Agony isn’t easy. We see, without comprehension. Then, the wrong color gum ball dropped. Not, like that.

Not a drop, half European seen war worn Ellis Island. While we wonder what statue stands tall down there. Where a quarter plaque’d poem welcomes home. Like that.

And, what if? Hard working minimal, no assistance. Gifted children placed in advanced classes. Passed as green in waiting. On the backs of. Humanity, not like that