Category: Poetry

Don’t tell me this society is evil

What is irrational fear?
Is it the fear a child feels?
Or the fear of an adult,
who doesn’t know what news is real?

In a society of false advertisement,
the ones who lie pull ahead.
While those who seek truth,
move forward, afraid to tread.

Riots destroy society.
Murders break families.
Wall Street gets rich.
Politicians pass helpless policies.

Meanwhile-

A pastor calls for peace.
A black panther organizes youth centers.
A coffee shop donates profits.
A 70 year old man mentors.

Don’t tell me this society is evil.
Society isn’t evil, it elects evil.

Mountain Mind

My mind is in the mountains.
My mind memorizes paths in my dreams.
These dreams for now my mind’s contents,
Soon to be released.

For now they are only dreams.
Eventually they will become reality.
One day I’ll stand in the streams.
Colorado is calling.

I yearn to answer.
I yearn to be there.

Billy Whiskey, Part 2

Billy went to the saloon
To drown his shame away.
He knew the law would be there soon,
But it didn’t matter anyway.

Suddenly the door folded in.
Gin stood there, about 6’4″.
He gave Billy a half grin,
“Bartender, give Billy one more.”

Billy wished he could say no,
But he knew his mind was weak.
He shot it down fast, then tried to go.
Gin said, “We need to speak.”

Billy knew why Gin was there.
Billy had killed his brother.
He knew he could run nowhere,
He flipped a table and dove for cover.

Gin pulled his steel, and cocked the lever.
Pointed at the table Billy was behind.
The gun suddenly felt heavy in his hands of leather.
For as big as Gin was, he was too kind.

“Billy, come out from behind there.”
Billy peaked from over the side.
He knew in this moment he should care.
But he also knew, Gin would die.

He came out real fast,
Pulled his gun,
Gave it one blast,
And then it was done.

Gin was no more.
His body fell to the floor
The sheriff came in, knocking down the door.

Metal Cans

Metal cans line the street of my mind.
If only I could throw my memories
in them, and leave them behind.

The cans scrape across the cold cement.
I conjure up images of chalkboards,
and a feeling, of abandonment.

I feel pain in my ears and my chest.
Maybe it’s the voices of friends that have left,
or the family, that gave up our crest.

Regardless, the lids remain closed.
I leave them on the street, for someone else,
to open.

Billy Whiskey, Part 1

He was the last of the outlaws.
People called him Billy Whiskey
Known to be smooth with the inlaws,
But fire when he got a little angry.

One day he was riding his horse,
When he saw a poor man outside town.
Billy knew he should feel some remorse,
Billy pulled out his six and shot the man down.

Who hurt you when you were younger?
We know your pain is real.
It eats at you like true hunger.
You neglect your words and use your steel.

Read Part 2

Academia is Dead

They say God is dead.
And we killed Him.
As if we could kill God.
Yet, we bow our heads with a slight nod.

I walk to the front of the chapel,
To pay my respects seems, natural.
Forced to look upon the face,
And forced to offer my disgrace,
When I notice this is not the face
That I was expecting in this boxed place.

It is academia who lies in the coffin.
For students sit silently in rows too often,
While information is spewed onto boards,
We string her up like strange fruit with cords.

Laptops are guillotines for creativity.
They steal ideas like the sharp blade,
That falls at the will of gravity.
As we sit and “take notes,” we fade.

Academia wishes she had died fast.
I know this, because I heard what she said last.
As I looked at her face, she spoke to me.
“Bury me alive, so I don’t have to see.”

Perhaps she would have preferred a cross,
A death more tedious than the growth of moss.
At least everyone would have noticed her as she died,
and there would be no excuse not to fix your eye.

Academia is dead.
We have killed her.

My Human Vices

My human vices.
These small, strong devices.
Greed. Envy. Lust.
These are the American must.

I will not do what you do.
I will, turn to virtue.

I choose to trust my brother.
I choose to love my lover.
I choose to forgive my father.
I choose to care for my mother.

I choose to live for another.  
Will you do the same?

My Shoes

I have holes in my shoes.
I don’t know how they got there.
The fabric that once protected
my toes now leaves them bare.

As a child we’re surrounded by walls.
But the tall wall once for security will fall.
Our emotions left defenseless.
Our minds forced to pretend less.

My Hands

The frost is settling on the reluctant grass.
I try to speak, but there appears to be a mass.
It’s lodged in my throat.

The pressure from my heart builds.
My left lung with air, fills.
My right lung deflates despairingly down,
Giving its breath to the other, that it
Might force the words now bound.

Just as I am about to speak,
A speck of snow falls in a streak.
I’ve missed my chance to say it all.
The bitter, white snow begins to fall.

The land has frozen over.
My chance to speak is over.
So I will keep silent.

I’ll cover my ears, and hide, between
my hands.