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Religion through inheritance
No thought really required
Searching for meaning is dissuaded
This concern right by birth has retired

Parental approval guaranteed
Endowment from higher powers
A dollar or two buys redemption
For six days and twenty-three hours

Very few will resist inclusion
Acceptance by family's the key
Decisions made by dead relations
Determines what each child will be

A commitment of such great importance
Should be more than a swift passing thought
Blind faith without question is treacherous
You must weigh everything that you're taught

No one on earth has the answers
Whether living today or in past
Regurgitate bile of the elders
Fomenting their dreams so they last

Born out of man just like we are
Religious perceptions  on high
Will fade and change with the seasons
Like all man-made things they will die

Lime in a Bottle

Old Doris had a problem and it started with her nose
It was always in some business that's not hers one would suppose
It was really a big nuisance but it served as her third ear
Collecting information no one else was apt to hear

Of Course if Doris heard it then for sure it must be true
If rumor was in question then the facts old Doris knew
The neighbor ladies loved her, she was held in high esteem
They all must be included in the information stream

Her problem really started when she got into the gin
She passed on speculation though the facts were kinda thin
The girls became suspicious when she gave up using ice
And the information path turned to a highway of advise

How to rear your children was her first fermented tome
Although her son was thirty-four and still lived in her home
Then how to cook and clean instructions for the entire block
That's when the other ladies realized she was a crock

Now they very seldom talk to her although there's still a twinge
They say she's still reliable when she's not on a binge
So if they need some gossip to dissect some would be foes
They'll stop by just by accident to see what Doris knows

Old Friends

Old man Purdy has a wiggle in his walk
And his teeth often click on occassion when he talks
His glasses are as thick as bottle bottom ends
He can start a fire with the sun through his left lense

His wrinkled pants are heldup by suspenders and a belt
And he wears a hat from 1929 that's made from felt
Purdy has a dog,name of Rupert, what a pair
You can tell which one is Rupert, he's the one that still has hair

They both will gladly ride along if you're going for a drive
Love to sit together and just glad to be alive
Neither is to old to recognize a little fun
And relish every moment when they're dozing in the sun

Tattoo

                 Tattoo

Pricked skin with needles shaped from words
Outlined in black by society's random borders
Colored by emotions from a rainbow of feelings
Then rejected for the image that is permanently borne to view

               Piercings

Push it through
Tear the flesh
Pinch the wound
The damage lies inside, invisible

             Scarification

Razors slitting seperation
Fleshy fat erupts in mounds
Shocked by the drying air never to return
Creation's sculpture marred by an errant chisel

An Evening in the Cave

Quiet tonight in the cave. Buddha is sleeping and I am sitting just watching the fire in the stove. It's easy to  doze off on a night like this but i'm waiting for a friend to drop in. We have joined together in an Ebay store venture and it seems to be somewhat successful for having started so recently, so I am excited about it.

I have been writing the next addition of Flybait, called Flybait's Reclamation, but the story is progressing slowly because of my inability to stay focused with everything else going on here. I hope to hear soon about the transformation of "Flybait's Lament" as well as "Wilt's Hollow" into screen plays. I am anxious but I don't want to call and start pushing because I think it should be allowed to happen without the additional pressure of an anxious author.

My friend Kathy Griffin had her open house at the art gallery and I think she enjoyed it. I hope that she finds a lucritive following over time. She's a wonderfully open and endearing artist and deserves recognition and support for her talent. You might say that lately she's "gone to the birds" as she has created a flock of whimsical birds which she is offering. I was the proud recipient of a wonderful Raven that i have named Archangelo after my great grandfather. Archangelo smokes a pipe just like I do and I think my great grandfather might have as well.

As for me I am still pondering . I haven't stop questioning formalized religion or the intrussion of government in our private lives or why toilet paper is in a roll rather than a box like tissue so you don't use so much. I still can't fathom why anyone would take "Dancing with the Stars" so seriously they blow away a perfectly good TV set. Somehow I think we have more serious problems than that to consider. I can't help but believe that regardless of which party controls the government, party politics is really their purpose. Democrats vs. Republicans is the game and common John Doe is forced to be the third string waterboy hoping for the recognition of a pat on the ass occassionally while  constantly being discounted as to intellegence and common sense. Only after a drubbing at the polls will anyone of the political elite claim to get the message and then it will only be long enough to boil a one minute egg. I get the feeling that regardless of who goes to Washington they ultimately conclude that success in office requires the  need to become "clever". In my way of thinking "clever" simply means smilingly deceiptful. I believe in a balanced budget and prevention of inacting legislation which has not been previously funded within the current budget. Cuts from programs which fail to meet expectation should be the source of unanticipated needs. I believe in a flat tax for all earning entities. I believe in the additional taxation of Corporate America who have holdings or are headquartered outside the USA. I don't believe in bailing out businesses including banks, insurance companies or the stock market. If AIG or Goldman Sacs had imploded there were a plethera of stable small companies that would have picked up the slack and thrived from the remains, for as with all things too much in one place is bad for the economy, environment, and the human race. I believe in small town America and look forward to a time when we realize that there should be a limit to the size of any town or city. Undoubtedly there is a mathematician out there who can calculate the size of a community that yields the best return to its citizens in terms of social service while generating revenue sufficient to promote a healthy educated caring community. It's not a New York City, or a Dallas, or a Seattle, or a Los Angeles or a Chicago, I believe it's something considerably smaller and much more manageable. Size emboldens to the detriment of the community as a whole.

Aging in Three Acts

Rail against the body's aging
Rail against the loss of time
Rail against the final heartbeat
Rail against the finish line

Anger serves to fuel the spirit
Anger buffers pain with rage
Anger beats back time's suppression
Anger cloaks the fading age

Hang on to your rage and anger
Bookmark this the final page
Scream your heartsong in full volume
End act one, your final stage

Longing for a past rememberance
Longing for the strength to rise
Longing for a word of kindness
Longing for lost lover's eyes

Throw away life's past endowments
Throw away life's past regret
Throw away the signs of future
Throw away all goals not met

Now rescind the pledge of duty
Hold back plans of future view
Lock away all that's remaining
Sit and wait, end of act two

Accept the weakness of your stature
Accept the fact you do not know
Accept the help that's thrown upon you
Accept excitement's ceasing flow

Sleep away the final moment
Sleep and dream of only past
Sleep protected from discomfort
Sleep while final dies are cast

All awareness now suspended
Soaring spirit soon breaks free
Silver thread breaks no resistance
Now you're gone, the end act three

The Last Lesson

Soft downey tunnel so warm and secure
Protected from weather and wind to be sure
Fly thinks it's home and there's nothing to fear
Until he gets stuck and the spider appears

Fish in a brook feeding frenzy in force
Grabbing at bugs as they float down the course
Thinks it can eat everything in its way
Even the worms that are shaped in a "J"

Beautiful light glowing soft bluish hues
Circling around to enjoy all the views
Mesmerized lover besotted young sap
Zips into touch hot loves final bright zap

Squirrels chasing tails up and down the big oak
Climbing so high is considered a joke
Dashing young daredevil leaps tree to tree
Til the spans six foot four and the jumps six foot three

Cardinal singing and flying in flits
Then views a stranger from where the bird sits
Challenge is made no allowance to pass
Until it's cut short by a sheet of plateglass

Fat cat is grooming just out of dog's reach
Unphased by barking and growling to teach
Lies down to preen and prepare for a nap
The noise is so loud he can't hear the chain snap

Nature's last lessons can be rather stark
They happen regardless of daylight or dark
To each of its victims beside the term "Duh?"
Is the unfinished sentence we hear said "What the...???"

The Gray Crayon

No longer sent to dreaming places
By colors used to fill the spaces
Childhood memories are made from color
A magic wand for a crayon muller

Don't cross the lines or carelessly scribble
Fill the space and not just a dribble
The boldest colors are the best
For emotions that we must express

Why is it then as we grow older
We shrink to gray instead of bolder
Perhaps this is the dearest cost
When the thrill in color with age is lost

A Flicker

It's Friday and things seem to have improved over the last few days, not in the legal struggle but financially there has been somewhat of an easing.
  I finally have the woodstove installed and it seems as though Buddha and I will experience a somewhat more snug winter this year than in the past. Next is to rebuild the toilet to work from harvested rainwater and then perhaps by spring to start digging a retention pond. I'm on a mission to become as self reliant as I can be and break away from as many City services and utilities as possible. Additionally I will remove as much hard surface on my 5 acres as possible and convert it back to urban farmland where I hope to grow a market garden and sell the produce. I have already located a vending trailer that I'm hoping to buy sometime in the spring.
   One benefit of transitioning away from business as usual has been the loss of stress relating to the coming holiday season. Now that it is just me at the plant , I don't  have to worry about keeping other people employed which is a great relief.

Wind Sprites

Breezes playing tag, blowing in my ears and face
Ruffling up my old grey cap of hair now out of place
They really are quite gentle though they're rascals all the same
To tease me is so shameful as they hardly know my name

The little sprites are joyful even when they poke my eyes
Because the tears they cause me , with their kisses, quickly dries
Some of them are warm, gentle signitures of spring
While others are a bit more cold, the last of winter's fling

The twirling and the swirling of their gentle fairy dance
Transitions other seasons where big brothers get a chance
Old man summer's thunderstorms and brother winter's snow
Their sharp swords truly blunted by the spring/fall pixie show

Invisible to sight they play a game of hide and seek
Although the tree leaves warn me just before they kiss my cheek
Their rough and tumble games push down the branches and the grass
And slam the old shed door each time they make a gleeful pass

Two of them across the field will wildly make a dash
And lift up into heaven a discarded piece of trash
Then gently place it down and shift it 'round 'til it fits best
Like a swan who with her down constructs her future signet's nest

Ghostly little cherubs come to herald season's change
Dance away the  winter cold or summer's heat and rains
I know they won't forget me as they leave I feel them wave
They'll return and bide me dance even when its on my grave

Lessons in Play

Innocence startled by a lie
Heart flutter with awareness
Precursor to an abomination
Ice skating lost for a lack of edge

White sphere poised for success
Helmeted Trojan advances
Weapon swung in desperation
T-ball sits unaffected by the anticipated dream

Bones rolling to reveal the spots
Destiny held in points of black
Angst awaits the accountants tolling
No advance, return to go

Twist the handle
Hear the music
Dread fills the stomach and mind
Jack is held for the lack of one note

Children eagerly wanting to stay
Begging for someone to watch how they play
Mother insisting they put games away
Winning must wait for a more perfect day

Too Stupid to Lead or Gov't and the Law

Placated but not resolved
Ambitions mollified for a moment
destination still unreachable
Movement stalled by a word

Progress diverted
Forced to take a longer path
Intellect as a weapon
Common sense the victim

Reason ransomed
Self serving fills the cup
Slaves to Intelligentsia
Common man abased

The Idle Hours

Moments softened in drowsy haze with a sense of completion
No urgency to rush forward or back but stay safe at home
The mind's eye blinks at last and moistens the lens
Thoughts become clear, resolution is at hand

Untightened shoes release the foot to dance over the tingling grass
Uncinched waist relaxes, purring like a cat enjoying a good rub
Cool water flushes the tired haggard face
And for a moment youth returns

New awareness of sights and smells
White noise seperates into colors of recognition
Humor returns, bubbling up like a covered pot
And the earth draws the body down to rest centered

Moments unfolding in the idle hours
Where rest renews the flagging spirit
Pressure of the masses is thrown off
Returning to the gift of self and home

Z-end

And if I die before I wake
Not a prayer, but a wish we make
Anguish of never knowing when
But if you knew you'd wish again

Better left a big surprise
Then know when you'll not open eyes
I pray the Lord my soul to take
But I'd rather have more birthday cake

We all must go I understand
Leave this world for an ethereal land
But when it's time to seek that shore
I hope that it is in mid-snore

The Well

Cursed well of broken dreams
Filled by wishes in the night
Prayers for sustenance and keeping
Drowning depth has now been reached

Dredges force the bottom deeper
Though the ether holds no mass
Untold heartbreak flows like water
Bubbles of hope break at the surface

Draw the senses up in buckets
Dash them across the face of want
Washer woman's washboard scrapping
Rasping off the illusions of youth

Tadaaaaah

 Well here I am...hello...anyone? I suppose it's natural for someone such as myself to blog. Not that anyone wants to read what I have to say as much as I want to say it. If this space is simply the ramblings of my internal mind to my external self then so be it.
  I have finished my third book entitled "Wilt's Hollow" and am half heartedly seeking a new publisher. My original publishing company has done a rather unamazing job and so I am hoping to discovered someone else. It's like having to re-audition every year with the opera company I sang for in years past. I dislike it immensely but in as much as I don't make the rules I must abide. There are so many similarities between the music industry and the publishing industry and unfortunately they all seem to center around ego.Just as you must swallow your pride and endure the conductors and "Divas" in opera so too must you cow tow down to editors and agents and genuflect in their self-important presence even though they themselves owe their existence to  a myriad of daydreaming,mental adventurers,ie authors,who willingly sequester themselves away for weeks, months and even years to churn out a story to be used as fodder. I suspect that the temptation to self publish is growing stronger and stronger even though the "traditional" publishers attempt to psychologically maim the concept with terms such as "vanity publishing" etc.. I find there to be little incentive to place my work in someone elses hands and then be told that the success of the book is dependent upon my willingness to promote it, given a small if otherwise nonexistant royalty, and then forgotten a few weeks later in favor of their next victim. It's my own fault however for being nieve and trusting. At least I was able to learn the harshness of the business with little personal expense except for a severely bruised ego myself. The lesson learned was that I lost the reason why I write in the first place. I write for the joy of it. When I told my first story it filled me with a sense of completion and a feeling of attaining something ,a goal if you will, that many people talk about but relatively few achieve.