I am a poet for all
genere
of society
some like me some don't

I am no Angel
or
God
of poetry

Some read me
some smile with me
mostly along with me
so
IF you don't like
a particular verse
just treat me like a hearse
and
ignore
I ain't here to bore

I am a modern poet
for all gen-ere of all society

My task is to protect and warn
An untold oath I've never sworn
Of danger I must silent shout
Illuminate a bright light out

I'm beaten, soaked and ravaged by
Relentless sea and glowering sky
Yet still I firmly stand my ground
And warn of peril all around

A thankless work, I get no praise
I'll stand alone for all my days
They're passing on the horizon line
Their distance kept, they'll stay just fine

I suppose I have a choice to do
whatever I please
with whatever time I have left.

At this point
I'm not sure how much of it is wasted,
how much of the past.

Donna Greene called me a false prophet.
(I assume among far worse things said in my old church)
My cynical self at one time would have laughed at the ignorance,
but instead I hurt.

And so the saints keep on sainting,
having no idea they are destined for Hell.

Corruption
Hearts plunged in mass hysteria
Donald Trump
We must rid ourselves from such corruption
Rage against the machine
Evil schemes
They hide behind the false hidden garb of compromise
Can't we see through these lies
The parade of political upheaval
Eyes with tombstone in their heads
Evil minds that plug destruction
There brain washed minds
Viscous fangs that bite
Bribes
Some one has to do it
Hillary Clinton
Drain the swamp

Perhaps they are in a social circle
which circumscribes one’s outward demeanor,
rather like the requirement of a hijab.
Perhaps I do not understand what is being shown,
like a monkey peering behind a mirror.
Perhaps it will all be revealed upon marriage,
or the birth of our first male descendant,
or following a blood pact.

So many questions!
“Are you writing a book?”

Take a painter out on a grassy knoll
Out with the easel & brush
Illumination
Hearts to unfold through the scene
A knowledge of sullen brevity
For he had treasured a red rose that was plucked a time before
A blank canvas then a brush stroke
The cue to summon his next move
Shadows taunt in long lines of division
Such as the pen with paper
An artist knows what there after
It's a special skill that takes some time
A heroic embrace across the Peyton Place

'what are you most attached too?'
'attached? now that's an interesting query isn't it'

slips of convection
gravity soars

in the boiler room the gas fire
roars
Heady heats vodka rush
shower steam
mirrors ghost prints appear
like mirage thoughts
emerging from ghost fog

Oasis

Jin Jin magix

Nothing learned is new,
there’s nought we come to know
is useful in life’s game.
Though striving to be true
we’re caught up in the flow,
to end up much the same.

I’ve not imparted much
interpretation,
the slightest feather’s touch,
through trepidation.

Existence a mere sham?
Why therefor think, I am?

The journalists have done their work
Photographers have captured all
Decency has gone berserk
And brought compassion to a crawl

Now newsprint greased in gasoline
Ignites our souls in immolation
And I burn I burn for amnesia
And offer a crumb to salvation

Children march to a famine death
Bodies explode for god’s greed
I cannot think I cannot breathe
I sit and watch and inside bleed