The Pine Tree

Tall and prickly, it gains weight
Slowly as white dust lands on it.
The strong trunk supports,
While the small branches sag.

It has no legs, but those underground.
It has no arms, but those which absorb.
Never moving, but always pushed.
Never changing color, except for branches hushed.

I have legs, always moving.
I have arms, always grabbing.
Always moving, but never pushed.
Always changing, but never hushed.


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Cows have taken over my camp.

Cows have taken over my camp
I tried to take it back, I advance
On them, but stand no chance
Against that original leathertramp.

They mean no harm, they are curious.
They wonder what I am, what I do
Just as I wonder, “who are you?”
Though this is inconvenient, I am not furious.

There are other camps on this property,
They require more hiking, sure.
But they all offer ground still pure.
Something that has become a rare commodity.

The cows may have my campsite.
It was theirs before it was mine,
I stole it from them from their treeline.
I know they would run, there is no need to fight.

I have said before, nature kills reason.
Perhaps reason beckons a different call.
That this land was created for all
There is no reason to commit treason.


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Family Styles

What you offer is not good enough.
I deserve meat.
I deserve chicken.
I deserve ham.
But your hand offers the lightest of
Of proteins, the simplest of grains.
Which wash the hunger as a cup
Of water washes blood from my hunt.
As if I hunt anymore.
You hunt for me.
You hunt for the king.
You hunt for the queen.
You hunt for the dispersed people
You call family.
Are you so close that you cannot call?
Are you so close that you cannot see one another?
You live next door, yet,
You live miles away.
So far that antennas cannot connect
So far that plates cannot collect.
So far that conversations cannot context.
You speak of a connected family,
Yet you are more distant that Him and me.


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Nature Kills Reason

It is nature’s intent to kill reason.
Hell bent on destroying that
Which colonizes nature.
There is a war which will never end.

A cabin sits in the forest.
It was once the home of a man
He thrashed the grass and cut
Choice logs, but could not contend.

While he won the battle
It seemed at odds he lost
The war for the space
As Queen Anne’s Lace crept in.

Brick buildings make for cold shelter
Heated by the the spy of nature-
Fire boils our tea and cooks,
Seemingly a friend, but only pretend.

Nature did not pick this fight,
We did. With our ill intentions
We decidedly chose to kill
That nature which threatened.


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The Sins of My Father

The sins of my father rest
Upon my shoulders, sinking my chest.
Like a yoke with two buckets
Straining sinew in my knees.

The buckets are full to the brim
Five gallons each, contents grim.
The lids are on, I dare not open them.
To do so would force me to face what is within.

I carry this yoke ignorantly by choice
Perhaps to avoid having to voice
My true feelings, hunkered inside
My chest, now failing, falling towards feet.

My back is tired, it creaks and cramps
I should have left the lids over those lamps
If I had, I would not have seen the buckets
I would not have seen the yoke, I would not carry it.

I question why I am the one who lifts,
Why I am the one whose foot shifts.
Is it love? Is it hate? Is it a way to be civil?
Am I just being complacent? Compliant?

I have to believe it is love.
We all have those things which shove
Us to our feet- demand payment.
I choose to help lift, to carry these burdens


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The fog of my eye

The fog of my eye hides truth.
I peer through the haze,
I think I see a corner booth,
It’s full of friends from past days.

I rub my eyes and the image changes.
The lighting of this booth is dim,
Ill-lit to hide the scars on our faces.
As one mutters, “who invited him?”

My ears deceive me in this moment.
Am I wanted, or not? I cannot tell.
My feet are stuck in the cold cement
The sudden shock rises in a drastic shrill.

The exit serves as a sweeping draft
That cools me from the rising heat.
Is it just me that feels the heat blast?
Or are we all just faking, stuck in defeat?


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Broadway, Nashville.

Push past the homeless people.
Step over the waist-high garbage piles.
Ignore that triple digit bar tab.
That smell? Snub your nose.
The music is but a hum in my ear.
Everything is background.

You. You are what I reach for in this place.
I step in line with your off-tempo pace.
I spend lavishly, for money is cyclical.
Your perfume is all I smell, so mystical.
All I need to hear is your voice,
It carries me from here- your choice.

I am a sucker for your love
Though it is not pure as white dove
I hope it to be eternal
I pray it to be immortal
I realize your limitations
And I’m not too stupid to realize imitations.

There is fake, there is real
What I can promise of how I feel
Is that my words, these words,
They are forever, like hymnal chords.
For when our vessels fail and the end is near,
History will remember my prayer.


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It’s now or nothing, something or never.

Some days I want to submit
Selling my time is easy, no pressure.
A man with more money than he admits
Pays me hourly for short-changed measure.

Other days I want to fight.
Seize the day, stand for my humanness
Give myself my undeniable human rights.
Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

But most days I fall under the shroud
I sit back and dream of what I will be.
Each day slipping further into the crowd
Where I sell my time, to someone other than me.

The reasoning of a premature high schooler’s mind,
That someday when I grow up I’ll be something,
That I have dreams to accomplish, and plenty of time.
Truth be told, the clock is ticking, soon there will be nothing.

It’s now or nothing, something or never.
Do I sit back and watch my dreams die?
Do I devise some scheme barely clever?
Or do I say no and actually grab that ladder and climb?

What if instead of just reading you actually wrote?
Or are you afraid your words will be lost?
What if instead of listening you actually spoke?
Or are you afraid of what your words might cost?

Macklemore made it by confessing his sins.
Johnny Cash rose by breaking the status quo.
Chance the Rapper can barely sing, but wrote Blessings.
Do you really think these self-starters submitted?

No.


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Denver

She stalks her prey
In short grass cut last week.
She hunts this way,
Fur laid back and sleek.

She is a concrete cobra
A grass stalking stray.
Performing outdoor yoga,
Hunting in her driveway.

The world owes her nothing,
Nor is she in any debt.
She only enjoys hunting,
And she poses no threat.

She is simply a cat
Who dreams of catching bugs
Who knows no land of fat
Who resembles the greatest of thugs.


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In a world where you can be anything, be kind.

“In a world where you can be anything, be kind.”
This phrase proceeds repetitively in my mind.
Read from a cheap piece of wood, poorly signed.
In the narrows hallways of ambition, untruthfully lined.
It is a lie, maliciously and hopefully combined
Meant to stir kindness, but reaping a harvest unkind.
“In a world where you can be anything, be kind.”
The lie is not in the virtue which I find.
It is in the poor philosophy of these words pined.
“In a world where you can be anything, be kind.”
As if you can be anything, but what is predefined.
Decided by you status, your color, your life, your ill mind,
You have little say, I would be inclined not to remind
That you are brought up like those mankind
Who teach you to be a worn down rind
Of the self which they left behind.
Destitute and disinclined.
“In a world where you can be anything, be kind.”
A lie, meant to make you complacent and resigned.
I offer a different truth, which I beg you bear in mind.
Be different, unbind, unassigned, and unaligned.