[Sacrifice]
with a lingering kiss, may be his last, he waves goodbye
on firm foot steps, he marches on, may be never to return
leaving behind a wife of two years with a baby bump
with a host of treasured moments in the family album

[bravery]
what drove him on this checkered path
with life and death squares to cross
a right step holds a victory clap
while the wrong one a casket?

So many things you cannot say
Many groups can be offended
More the power, less critics may
Utter Truth that gets upended

Politically Incorrect
Better than political wrong
Nation gains when critics direct
Their focus on the rich and strong

When the supernatural utters its word,
it carries a sword and
is inevitable.
I never believe, interested;
In utterance rendered
From the belly
Of the beast-
Only on the mouthpiece
Of the supreme.
Oracle of old!
Who sincerely scold.

we could all be more
like little children

with how we remember
and how we forget

going down the slide
again and again and again and again
or letting it slide

sometimes it seems like children
are the divining rods in life

finding the vein
beneath the surface

we grow up
and learn how much appearance
how much the skin
matters

we’re caught in war after war
based on the most superficial things

we forget the heart
that a child sees
like with infrared goggles

The dark strikes fear into the hearts of naive children,
Yet to lovers it brings them passion,
and moments of pleasure.
To the sick it gives hours of light relief,
from the agonising pains suffered by day,
but to the troubled soul,
countless questions and thoughts flood his mind,
disturbing much needed rest.

Night time brings lonliness to the single women,
but to husband and wife it reveals their love,
and contentment with each other,
displayed by loving embrace.

I wish I was her favorite pencil
Oh how She would write me with care,
She would use me in her journal
My pages wouldn't be the ones or tare.
I wish I were her favorite pencil
She would use me everyday,
And if she lost me
She would find me
In all of the best ways,
But if I were her favorite pencil
And my led was too short to fix,
Would she get a new one
And just use me as a stick?
For she thought I was more than just a single piece of wood,

I drop my motorcycle, stand up and walk
on the cracked crust of the dirt road
on the edge of the forest.

Still partly deafened by the motor
I hear a hallow staccato of giant woodpeckers,
the heartbeat of the late afternoon.

Black cows sleep-walk in the meadow.
Mustard and yarrow are in full bloom.
I take off my jacket.

I feel warm breath of the sun soaked earth.
I am lost in the honeyed air,
in my own wandering thoughts.

I saluted the beret
felt resolve in those steely eyes

soaked in the colors
of ribbons of valor
worn with pride

noticed a come what may powerful stride

marveled at the gait and muscular frame

an icon of strength, a beacon for youth

then I stepped closer to read
letters inscribed in stone

"Sergent Brave-heart breathed his last
on the battle front in Operation Desert Storm
leaving behind family, friends and an expectant mother
who wants to wear his colors"

I stay hidden away
From the unknown
Tucked beneath the covers
Where one thing is certain,
It’s dark.

like waves
of loneliness
and then love
loneliness and love
sometimes the movement
seems like the perfect design
sometimes only
a recipe for sickness --
the ocean can
lull you to sleep
or rock your world
violently awake.
it contains
the strangest creatures,
like the thoughts
in my head,
from cute
to Kraken-like,
shallow and speckled
to deep and dark.
do we crawl
out of this, someday,
into a world of steadier legs
and sturdier brains?
or is this