Speak softly, carry
a big agenda:
peace, calm, empathy
and undemanding love.
Make me smile and
laugh until it hurts.
Go ahead, I dare you.
Be a little wild,
use your imagination,
avoid snark to snark combat.
If you like art forms, or care about living things, this is the blog for you. Poetry, essays, watercolor, acrylics, films, novels, music...pick your pleasure. I'll post my own work, and anyone else's which catch my eye. I'll recommend books and films, some obscure, others not. So, as Walt, my fellow Living Poet on the poetic asides section of writersdigest.com, says, "come little goldfish in my pond, interact, don't be koi."
Speak softly, carry
a big agenda:
peace, calm, empathy
and undemanding love.
Make me smile and
laugh until it hurts.
Go ahead, I dare you.
Be a little wild,
use your imagination,
avoid snark to snark combat.
I want to be
seduced by beauty,
have it look a lot
like truth.
Not too quickly,
not all at once.
I want to let it
come at me slowly,
give me time
to get a feel for it,
before I bid it flow
in my material world.
As with my
experience of Grace,
I want to be primed,
relaxed in readiness,
wishing more for wisdom
than for intelligence,
praying more for peace
than for just a good time.
He knew it was best to
follow his gut when it
came to his scribblings,
to let his stomach tell him
the truth, when his desire for
approval tried to
lead him astray.
He knew that every poem
was born from a need,
each one a mystery,
yet all of them on a mission,
a fight, or flight,
to reveal his life.
He knew it best to
follow his gut, but
those damn buttons,
send and post and share,
so easy to push, so easy to
lead him into temptation,
when he knew it best to
follow his gut, to
attend to his heart.
I will not sit idly by,
allowing all those hurtful words,
the weak should not be made to cry,
if they are harmed, then we cross swords.
I will not sit idly by,
by my quiet allowing bullies to berate,
to abuse the weak, as they often try,
and when they do, I won’t hesitate.
I will not sit idly by,
hearing hebe, spic, nigger, dyke,
faggot, cripple, crybaby cry,
rag head, slope, slut and kyke.
I will not sit idly by,
or I would be the same as them,
I will not allow these words to fly
without response, never again.
From “May”, by Mary Oliver
“As a poem or a prayer can also make.”
Peace
A simple piece is best, as
only a
poem,
a letter or
perhaps a
prayer
might bring, if it can,
contributing also
to the peace we make.
Here Shall My Heart Find its Haven of Calm
Dear Friend,
I find myself thinking
of you, me, us.
It’s a lovely, gentle thought,
leaves me with a smile.
I don’t always expect nuance from myself,
yet once in a while, it just pops out,
most often in a poem,
frequently inspired by another person,
their writing or speaking.
Someone like you.
Sometimes, when there is a strong breeze,
it blows right through the hole in me
that was formed by my own
unmet dreams and expectations.
Not so when I think of you.
As busy as I know you to be,
I’ll only take a minute,
just to tell you to a certainty
that the world I know is
better because you’re in it.
“Pity the nation whose breath is money
and sleeps the sleep of the too well fed”
(Lawrence Ferlinghetti)
Just a Moment
Life is too short.
Period.
It might be too short for
a lot of things, like
worry and jealousy and regrets.
Could be.
So people say.
The ones who are not dying.
Not yet.
My friends who are dying now know.
Life is too short.
Period.
Money doesn’t matter.
Period.
It might matter if you’re short
of food and meds and rent.
Could be.
So people say.
The ones who are not dying.
Not yet.
My friends who are dying now know.
Money doesn’t matter.
Period.
Man plans, God laughs.
Period.
It might help to have a strategy,
with wills and trusts and next of kin.
Could be.
So people say.
The ones who are not dying.
Not yet.
My friends who are dying now know.
Man plans, God laughs.
Period.