While We Wait We Witness


A firestorm of controversy,

life turned upside down,

dangling in the clouds

are the idealists, the true

companions of our forgiveness.


On earth here in damp soil

trodden upon by the masses

there are children screaming

parents crying

siblings a wonder

of just where it all belongs.


In the news today there’s noise

the sort that settles the easily

drawn by naive persecutions.

Instead of wondering what

goal is felt by all of them,

it is the personal will to struggle.


While we wait for our prosecution,

The execution of rhetoric we witness.

Photo – Pinterest


When Obama Cries

I would ask you this, when your criticism mounts,

do you remember your own tears?

When President Obama shows real tears,

is there a moment when we wonder about ourselves,

when human nature responds with emotion,

we enjoy, we love, we relish the opportunity

to point out our weak society.

When the Newtown tragedy was discussed in your own home,

were there tears, do  you remember,

did you block that part out only because you couldn’t possibly

agree with the truth?

Do you remember the first time your mother told you it is ok,

to cry.

To cry in public,

to recognize we are human beings and sadness when on display

could be powerful beyond display.

Do you understand passion, I believe President Obama wants you to.

Think about your last cry, and honor the beauty of peace

of mind and body.

Think about what leadership means when emotion is honorable.

Haven’t Heard

I listened only long enough to fear,

the easiest emotion,

that moment when suddenly confusion, our lives,

becomes less about

being in control,

far more about wanting to

run away.

I want that,

more than anything else in the world,

I don’t want to be there when it happens.

I don’t desire definition.

Whether we begin to accept anything at all,

seems relevant only to those who might no longer need hope,

those who are the souls walking the earth tonight.

They are the ghosts in and around our mechanical antics,

fleshing out the reality of our lives,

while we with little regard for our own sanity,

struggle to understand just why hate needs to be a precedent

in our daily lives.

I cannot imagine the horror beyond my own intellectual


to all of the cruelty that exist outside my door,

outside yours, theirs, and wherever I walk tomorrow,

well that could be the right place again …

the wrong time doesn’t really have definition anymore.


Perhaps there is something to the purpose of faith

beyond expectation, beyond us, beyond me.

Rain On

We woke up to the storm,

same chilling atmosphere last night,

a carryover to our daily,


though there are few that do

really understand the entire picture,

except that that fits

that that allows our own delusion

to satisfy our societal angst.


Perhaps for some …


Would that we could be the otherwise,

the voice that speaks of peace

rather than the angry scowl of a predator.

Oh that we might recognize,

our blood drains as quickly as the other,

before we see it happen again,

daily in the schools, in the office,

in her home last night,

when he decided his life more important

than hers, his, hers, his, all of those living creatures,

we seem to forget about when our own selfish

lacking motivations

deride the over-bearing consience

of an ill-ridden, entitled,

ignorant people.


When I woke today …


If to believe a different day,

when everyone could again recoil

from the horrific nature of Man,


live another day to see the smile,

rather than the pale complexion

of death so easily taken in a flash

a spark of terror beyond our dreams,


for in dreams we awake to the soul,

the beauty and grace of what is real.

Trying to Focus on Home

There’s this thing happening,

on the streets of my neighborhood,

there isn’t a name really,

just a lot of confusion.


Oh some like to call it

inalienable rights,

others refer to the

strength of the NRA.


Whatever the cool language

of the day,

what matters more

are the continued loss of life.


A bullet rips through the skin,

tears through organs,

with little regard for anything

in its way, simply horrific.


the steel blood of a callous

action, mending little ground

beyond ripping apart the soul

of anyone nearby – loved ones.


I’m unable to really speak

to the fear and pain and reality

of the world I live in today,

though not much different.


Years ago, we could call

an isolated incident just that,

where today, we cannot predict

what might occur in the evening.


What might happen tomorrow,

what if the movie theater,

perhaps the mall later on,

live on local news, film at eleven.


Then of course there are the students …

People Killing People

(this is clearly just an example of venting without any regard to form or structure. Somehow I was tying Lennon’s death to the senseless shooting in Roanake, and intermingled recent controversy over Lennon’s past. Not quite sure where I was going yet.)


When I was a younger man, an impressionable lad,

I followed an icon, a singer named John,

he spoke of a need for peace, believed our only release,

meant song and love, his words cooed like a dove.


Now over thirty years later, we haven’t come any further,

last night two people again, with lives that’d just began,

snuffed out by another nut case, a mentally ill whacko in case

you haven’t figured it out, joined a legion of killer’s devout.


Over thirty years ago a man, slain by hands upon a gun

represented peace and love and forgiveness, his own demons newly address

a tormented life of abuse, he placed himself on the loose.

Yet demonized his attitude one time, canonized his life now sublime.


There are two stories being told in our daily lives, one first of our abused wives,

the second the hands of death by a bullet, in a world where exposed every minute,

we see the eyes of death in the hand, of the mentally ill with very little demand,

for scrutiny, or call of action, to stop the violence, to have a reaction.


Lennon, recently recalled as a wife beater, still in my eyes a leader,

smacked around yet later did acknowledge, his actions were no longer alleged.

He died at the hands of a shooter, by society’s terms, a mentally ill loser.

So when we pass judgment on our people, how do we define that towering steeple.


I suppose it doesn’t really matter as much to me that a visionary singer, was once abusive,

when across the country, a gun in the hands of a nut bag makes anything less permissive.

A Morning Stroll (after the tragedy)

 Pinterest photo

Pinterest photo

Walk with eyes open, a different look today,

notice the change of heart, perhaps a hesitation,

that normal glance of hello now secondary

to this inherent need shadows fear’s trepidation.


Seems everyday can never be the same as it were,

when yesterday the stroll seemed arbitrary.

Crossing the street occurs always a bit easier

when safety, our very existence isn’t held contrary.


Their eyes were gleaming when later I drove by,

two or three standing together, smiling, innocent,

I watched as they noticed me a stranger whose ‘why’

rather might protect their hearts from hate’s lament.


There is race, simple hate, monstrous terror’s release,

The child’s eye is when love lost, crying, yearns peace