Category Archives: Poetry

tool

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a wounded outlaw limps across the brokenlands
his blood the trail for his pursuers
a thin red line back to the grinding machines
of society

eyes burnt by sun seek bees
buzzing guides to the spring
where healing awaits

there he will rest
he will enter the cool cave
he will make a forge and with fire he will build a hammer

then
after many days
the outlaw
with wounds healed and hammer in
swinging hand
will return
and the
machinery
will be
changed

Fit to be Towed

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in the city
the predators circle
your car their prey

do not look away
your vehicle will be towed
and you will have to pay

don’t be angry
she said
we’re just doing our job
and it’s on the sign

that is true
and perhaps i could have been less strident with my words
maybe i crossed a line

but my car had broken down
what was i to do?
you’d have been stunned too
to show up at the parking lot and not find your car waiting for you

what about the people with no insurance company to come through
who can’t find a way to get to the impound lot before closing or who can’t pay what’s due?

seems to me some businesses have forgotten what is good and true
the goal is not making a fast buck
it’s taking care of folks like me and you

immersion

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i do not like this sea
or the fish here
i have come from another ocean with other swimmers
so much more diverse than these
but our direction was the same
it is difficult to maintain my stroke
i am buffeted on all sides by the waves of those going the other way

i seek to stay strong
i seek to endure
i seek other swimmers to keep me afloat when i am tired
i seek to do the same for them

together we can be each other’s ocean

The People of the Day

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in this darkened room
all is quiet save the
breathing of sleeping
loved ones

there are others here
i can hear their muffled movings and mumblings through the walls

in the morning
light will enter here
and i will step outside
to reengage with
the people of the day

O Aimless Labored Friend

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Whither dost thou goest,
O Aimless One,
hither and yon til the
wandering day is done?

What dost thou doest,
O Labored Friend,
upon thy anvil beating
til your time’s at an end?

Will the sum of thy travels
be of more joy than pain?
Will the works of thy aching
hands have not been in vain?