a pregnant breath

[ Of tRUMP and Wall]

some say his will is stony thick
others opine his head is the brick
I say the skunk's own spray does  stick
and follow like a foul wind, a pinprick
to the most tender part of the heart

a real wall from hateful imaginings

[in a dream of God,]  a sea from her tear
verged sadness and filled Heavenly air
dimmed the gleam, stirred her anger
a gaping festered wound, from there
to the most tender part of the heart

the ears-fill of hateful rages
babies put  in barbed  cages
crossing arid stretches, bone dry
the dire stress- watching children die
for lack of water that we pour to ground
a libation to the  fertile surrounds
of hardness from greed  that cares less
for life than the gains of contrivance
when the sacred helm is a mere connivance

and the enemies appear to have its ear
in darkness, we stumble in blind fear
and America mourns, laid bare, betrayed
wrapt in own arms, confused dismayed
the strong woman was  bound in her sleep
drained by evil, blessings faded. we weep

but hope is an arrow that pierces deep
Tomororow speaks with a pregnant breath-- a new start
to the most tender part of the heart

res publica

The pale and wantful look shook me from sleep,
the public incarnate, a troubled beast;
its needy and baleful sounds make me weep.

The deadly hunt in slow but ceaseless sweep
deceivers, caught by friends it feared the least;
the pale and wantful look shook me from sleep.

No sanctuary found, where shadows creep
beneath the cross, greed is still High Priest;
its needy and baleful sounds make me weep

In precious palms a destiny of truth to keep
an hopeful face to dawn’s crawl from the east
the pale and wantful look shook me from sleep.

Hidden on dark roof tops, a tragic leap
delivered to capture, hoist on falsities.
Its needy and baleful sounds make me weep.

In pitch it fell, a numb and blinded heap,
Aswirl in chaos, and mocked by foes at feast
the pale and wantful look shook me from sleep
Its needy and baleful sounds make me weep.

Authors of Confusion

Into my childhood ears, wisdom poured

From the lips that held the most precious breath

The voice that carried a wisdom from then unto then, and even now

The tones of truths held dear, re-echo, resound

Reappear as that which cannot be long hidden.

Time reaps and returns like the grasp of the seas

That take and keep all things- until returned to the light.

The proof of what was, and that it has ever been,

Held in deeps and keep of the ages, but never gone.

God is not the author of confusion…

In the mysteries of eternities,

there is clarity in the mind of a child;

purity lies in the warm heart of truth

as age turns the young green leaves to gold.

Honesty is abundant like the sun

free to fill the eyes of all that welcome warmth,

and  so too is choice--

the voice within that quietly submits

to the noisy world.

As time molds and shapes us

Like trees agreed with wind and rain

To stand thus; we yet fulfill

The fruits of seasons. The sweetness

Of the inner place can fall from its natural place

Of inherent reflection, a fallen grace, buried

Beneath a worldly gold, and thus

Inscribed, a soul lost in the midst of life.

Tossed in chaos; the inner strife divided

The mansion of many rooms dissolves

Unfound, among rumors of crows in a defiant fog.

Defiant, even unto the burning thaw of dawn. Reborn

Are they now, disciples of the Lost, and chain bound followers,

Dedications of the  authors of confusion.