What begins from the first day?
The world goes slowly white,
Not black and white: black
Is all colors, but white is empty.
Even the greatest go, they
Cannot change or come back–
In Japan they do not wear black
When someone dies, but white.
The greatest stand alone to sing
The time, a poem, their life, a fact.
Cover Photo by Rayn Roberts
It would be a lie to say
I have no sorrow for the dead
I sing to them
To steady heart and head.
Sorrow, a boy forsaken
Sleeps no doubt
In the quiet of my bed
He cannot be mistaken.
Rising to the early light
To torpor I awaken,
I care for him
His Sadness never shaken.
Cold days in ink
I give him voice, the mild
And the meek,
Seldom have a choice.
Sometimes tears are words.
Ghosts follow in gloom
Throughout my home
Looking on lovingly
They crowd the rooms of memory
They do, until we join them too.
Friday 13. 2017
This poem has nothing to do
with Shawn Morrissey being dead.
He’s very much alive & well.
It’s for him because he’s into ghosts, horror, sci fi
and other spooky stuff.
You’re better to believe what we tell the children: God loves all
Satan’s to blame for the evil in the world, the horror of war.
You’re better if you just think it, think the heart of humanity
The soul of the nation is one, indivisible under Mr. Donald J.
Oh say can’t you see something eatin’ away at the heart-land
Like an amoeba eatin’ the brain, a crow peckin’ the liver of liberty?
Chipping away inside, death has a bone to pick with us all.
We let hate and bloodshed go, over and over, but never have we
Quite committed to memory how we do it—our books rust on shelves
Our art rots on walls, television keeps us distracted with football
Our laws help check, but there is no remedy for reality– violence
Erupts at any turn, with or without imams, rabbis, priests
A merciful God, Almighty Wall Street—
There’s no getting away from that unless we remember
How to love one another, send the cops and soldiers home for good
Lay down our views, our arms, and live in perfect peace—
Believe it’s possible and you’re better than me, pushin’ seventy
Kickin’ the tires of a heavenly car, never seen nothin’ like it so far.
Religions are a balm to a wounded heart
but an insult to sound intelligence.
They provide peace and connection
while kicking us in the head,
So because we need to connect for peace
and we like being kicked around,
We’d do well to study and get use to them.
Nothing you were to think, feel, know, remains intact
The givens all gone, the body unravels
The soul does not exist: where spirit seemed to breathe
A great hole deepens, a sea of liquid sound spills in
Pure as God’s voice, moonlight-shoals and starry reefs
In vacancies of time too wide to navigate, the soul
A supreme fiction, a lost frame in an old film
Lightens out of being, a dream in pure color, sensation
Glittering the last hour, the lives that lived you
And left you to wonder, completely gone, directions
Collapse in light, light in all from all
Nothing to hold you, what you are dissolves in awe
A dreadful wonder of knowing all and nothing at all
But the jewel in the lotus, this, this moment.
What the hell was I thinking
to a Hell, I keep asking myself
what on Earth
I’m doing here and come up
with the same
and different answers– Heaven
devours itself and then looks
for more to eat
because it is always expanding
Thirsty hungry restless alive…
Whatever it is you’re doing here
as long as you leave room
for doubt to question
will shape who you are
answers arise on their own
Cover Image by Gwyn Henry
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