A Space All Mine
Here is where I am
Planted next to
You near the
Next to the pile
Of dated magazines,
Along the river
Where we walked
Quiet days mine
And Yours to share
A Time Bottled,
Scents abound near
Where you stood
Your thoughts, signs
Read through fog
But I will stay,
As I know I must
Reliving joy of a
Morning meditation on rhyme
Words that fit together in rhyme are
the second hands on a clock that tells
A skip, a hop, a full stride gallop
one can see the effort as the
Once in rhyme it is hard to leave
because so much of it is something
up a sleeve.
Paul Simon was called Rhymin' Simon
the words just flowed, honey rolling,
Some use a dictionary of a kind
to find words they may not know
or yet to define.
Like the couple who complete puzzles,
the missing piece may be a lost die
some call a trussell.
One must leave the land of rhyme
or risk becoming enchanted in
Don Quixote time.
Thus, as with all meditation
even this one must end,
lest it become consternation.
The 3/5 Reprise and the Fight for One Vote
I did not get at first
but now I do; the folks
making voting harder
just want the people
of color vote to be:
down to 3/5.
Even the fool knew that
11,000 votes or so just
means watering down
the vote in hand in
some conniving way:
down to 3/5.
Slavery in a free society
starts with limiting those
who can vote, making
their dreams of democracy
just an illusion of our scheme:
down to 3/5 vote.
Shouts of thunder ring
in the halls of legislatures
in the South, no water,
no food, no standing
in line, we need just cut:
down to 3/5 vote.
What brilliant constitutional
scholars are we; it was right
in front of us the whole time;
how do we ensure slavery
as they did in olden times:
down to 3/5 vote.
Let's call out for what it is!
Let's gather sisters and
brothers and let them know
lashes come in different forms:
down to 3/5 votes.
And lashes and slavery
we will not stand for,
not this time around.
One person, one vote!
is our rallying cry!
3/5 no more!!!
Easter Sunday in the Time of Covid
Ennui pervades the unsettled air.
Reaching for escape, continual caution
perfumes a pilgrim's list
Of medically approved do's and don'ts,
evasive maneuvers, dodging bullets
shot, unseen rifles near and far.
Longing a renewal, a return to
a dream of free yesterdays without
security lines and vaccines.
Knowing that retreating does nothing
to shade the disappointments of our
own olive garden betrayals.
Feeling the joy of forgiving those
that sold us for silver and whose
feet we washed together.
Treasuring the humanity of it all,
time's dyed egg surprises, reminding
of youthful carousels.
Wearing the scars of the injuries we
fought against but could not repel,
heart tattoos we wear.
Sheltering ourselves from annoyances
around us not keeping safe distance
from now missed humanity.
Resurrecting our frolic and dear
times when you believed and I
believed in better times.
Loving the memory of a time before
COVID and the comforting nostalgic taste
we savor lest we lose tomorrow.
No better answer than the blues on a Saturday night.
I've met enough liars in my life that people speaking truth are out of place, they don't belong, innocents among the sharks I know so well.
And yet I watch the honest ones as they navigate the pool. Holding on to the side walls, inching closer to the deep end dwell.
I want to tell them that eventually you touch the bottom and just when you think you are out of breath, fly to the surface before you gasp.
I don't have the heart. The innocents need to feel the fear that lies bring and hopefully not become so afraid that deceit no longer flabbergasts.
Those grounded in truth will win. I believe this to the core, because if I did not I would, as Ricky Nelson sang, might as well just drive a truck.
I'd be lucky to drive a truck. Good honest work that by the hour pays, but got to be honest, on time, not late or you are out of luck.
Tonight, play Albert King, cue up the BB, find the Elmore James, get KoKo on the phone, I'm tired of liars; truth me with the blues.
Saturday night blues like a winter fire, warms to the core, you, me and the innocent Miss Daisy all dance to forget liars and what is due.
Birds on the porch eave showing off
Small brown chested coastal bird with a pronounced
yellow beak flutters, turning in half circle,
natural helicopter, holding still but shuffling,
amidst the morning air.
Dancing solo waiting for his partner to continue
their duet, Astaire and Rogers of the feathered
set, wearing their plumed finery to appreciate
another day without despair.
Larger black chested and subtle silver trimmed
warbler flies near not wishing to call attention
to itself or the designs he has on the ladybird
on the wire, his love bared.
If wings I could sprout, I would be a humming
bird, speedily searching out intoxicating nectar
of the top shelf kind, the sugar that costs money
to show off for my lady fair.