Tan suit and crisp white shirt
Another cog in the mechanism
Pull out your laptop and push aside my art
You’ve got consumerist meetings to arrange
Lock and load your dollar driven guns
Fire! Take out those that get in the way
Jiggling jowls and pig faced
You smile out of habit
Your sweaty electronic lit face searches
Role models in the form of dollar signs
Difference equates to anti-christ
Keep your head down
Keep checking the Dow.
Your addiction to money
Had no 12-step detox.
No felony attached to your abuse.
With fingers of sausages
Handkerchief slops up your
Drenched money worried
Too often you are misplaced
Not allowed in the culture of art.
Sailors and rebels could tell you different
But society hasn’t accepted your position.
Yet your craft is true and pure
Who else is willing to dabble in the blood of ambition?
The low hum of needles and smears of ink
Reflect your passion, making you unique.
A canvas for only a lifetime, no museum to hang your art.
But that isn’t what drives you.
Watching a person’s persona come to life under your gun,
Each line representing the pain of life endured,
Each smear of ink representing the tears wiped clean,
Each color reviving life back into your soul,
That is what drives you.
Cinders burn red
Shadows are cast
Scales of all colors
Adorn his sleek body.
Great spines staircase his back
Yellow eyes wonder everyone’s bodies
11 year old you draw with
Determination, taking your mind to
Creating worlds is your forte.
You take great care in feeding
Your mind with myth, magic and memories.
Dragons become real through your pencil.
Don’t give up. Worlds are waiting to be
Filed under My kids, Poetry
Starlings sing over sparkling chlorinated waters.
Quarters plop and bubble to the bottom of the pool.
Her oversized goggles assist in tales of water monsters.
Scattered flies entangled in her hair are the only obstacles.
Yet diving for silver becomes more important than hygiene.
Peels of laughter echo off the concrete resort,
Giving competition to the cries of hungry birds.
Slappy, soggy feet give away your stealthy mind
In a bout of hide and seek.
New friends are made in imagination and buoyant warm waters.
Common goals keep you all bound together.
Find the quarter first and the prize is
Getting to do it all over again.
Today you turn 11 years old. Too often I’ve sat and thought about the most poignant of words to share with you, to have you understand the depth of my love for you. It is in those moments that I come to understand the phrase, “there are no words.”
Looking at you grow into a young women has me speechless far too often. When I see your smile, wrapped in the braces that will take away the final remnants of awkward youth, it warms my entire body. When I hear you speak of mature subjects I’m quickly reminded that flaws in your speech are forever gone. And though it sounds as if I’m mourning the loss of your childhood, the truth is, I’m vibrating with anticipation of what you will accomplish in your teenage years.
Please know that I do not hold any expectations of who or what you will become. I want you to be happy, for you, and enjoy your life to the fullest. I find it exciting that you get to define yourself. You get to explore what makes you tick. Truly, my only request is that you stay true to yourself. Do not let your life be dictated by anyone but yourself.
Of course I’m not foolish enough to believe that you and I won’t have our trying moments, but as promised, those moments will be met with chocolate chip cookies and rootbeer floats. Remember Cheyenne, I have an unconditional love for you. No matter the circumstance you may find yourself in, I will ALWAYS be by your side, loving you!
Horizons of youth become sunsets of adulthood. With a horizon the orange and yellow hues of light signal a beginning, a birth, a fresh start.
Most of what I understand of life and order I gained from dogs. They make order without using words or complicated theory.
Is kicking the bucket a sunset? Riding off on a horse of death? What if all of it is nonsense? What if East is west and West is east? Lies, truths, what’s in the middle? All of life is a riddle. Repeated and thrown away. Trash of minds. Wind blowing horns and balloons filling air. Professors full of lied about knowledge and students lacking politically correct proofread and bled on papers?
What if youth is a fucking sham? Something to revere, to pray to, yet God isn’t answering? Money spent on Botox and slurping fat. No wrinkles equal youth. But … but … but. All of life is sitting next to buts. Born next to butts and dying with “but if only.” How do we erase words from an indoctrinated nation? How do we make sunsets last longer, mean more and not drive away from them? How can dogs understand order, yet people slip and fall all the time? We pick up dog shit … who owns who?