Silence,
is rarely golden for
any artist--
especially one, infatuated, elated, & motivated
by word play, tones &
Newton.
For every action...
Would love to give you
2 bits of poetry,
for
2 bits of can--
be convoluted in can't so much
you'd be giving me
one helluva hand...
I've been celebrated & cherished;
corrupted, co-opted, & hated
But when I look in the mirror
I can still see greatness...
We work,
like ants marching
from recently used picnic grounds,
with gathered particles of nutrients
nestled on our backs...
Renew the belief
& grab the pad &
pen--We
never left, just sat back
in shadows.
Now's the time
to be--
Rewritten.
______________________________________________________
When those final winds
come whipping down, you thought you had it
whipped
But that cream came rising to the top
toppling your dreams...
And life changed
as the country changed
and the ship that
seemed to Hope,
couldn’t float, and like waves
we took to the street—...
Refreshing
would not adequately describe
the feeling
if a conversation ensued about:
being rooted, or
belief, or extension of belief
or, or life’s journey, or progressive thought &
perceptions, or commitment...
For we are
the people,
& poets, protestors,
& victims of
storms,
amassed by
factors, the federal gov'ment
ignores.