Life is usually

maybe always

an inside job

consider that we construct

our reality

and name it ubiquitous

a bit deranged

but that’s what we do

though it seems deadly

the only way to life

is the inward path

take responsibility for your

fears

and reactionary patterns

set by scars and scorns felt

long ago

understand that the persons and

circumstances before us

are brand new except for the lovely

way we deign to fit them into

our patterns of endless life strife

we’ll all  get further in the game of love

by looking at the writing

on the wall of our

closed

eyeballs

life is always

or usually

an inside

job

 

We are pruned/
cut back/
in ways that emerge and appear random/
shocking/
but we are part of the pattern/
somewhere and somehow/
in the pattern in deeper ways than we see/
far beyond our fear and victim posture/
mighty this fierce cutting back/
lives in us as activated/
turbo charged/
evolutionary growth/
and we become more of what we are/
mighty
 

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We are pruned/

cut back/

in ways that emerge and appear random/

shocking/

but we are part of the pattern/

somewhere and somehow/

in the pattern in deeper ways than we see/

far beyond our fear and victim posture/

mighty this fierce cutting back/

lives in us as activated/

turbo charged/

evolutionary growth/

and we become more of what we are/

mighty

 

We found ways back in those days/ Ways to order our lives in community/ We spent time among friends and neighbors/ We compared notes in housekeeping tips over back fences/ We hung our laundry for all the world to see/ It has been a while since I assessed every corner’s baggage/ squirreled away by a lifetime of disordered orderliness/ Its time to find our way back/ to the neighbors we once knew/…

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We found ways back in those days/

Ways to order our lives in community/

We spent time among friends and neighbors/

We compared notes in housekeeping tips over back fences/

We hung our laundry for all the world to see/

It has been a while since I assessed every corner’s baggage/

squirreled away by a lifetime of disordered orderliness/

Its time to find our way back/

to the neighbors we once knew/

open the doors and windows/

and let the sun/

disinfect/

and cleanse/

the corners of our hearts

 

 

It is beyond understanding/
these heinous interminable countdowns/
of death/
where we dwell/
human life is cheap/
except when it isn’t/
all too often the innocent perish/
oddly the killers/
seem to/
go on/
and on

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It is beyond understanding/

these heinous interminable countdowns/

of death/

where we dwell/

human life is cheap/

except when it isn’t/

all too often the innocent perish/

oddly the killers/

seem to/

go on/

and on

The bliss of sweet potato pie/
Is a promise so sweet/
We move in waves/
Spend years perfecting recipes/
Until one day/
The promise of an older/
Wiser mother comes true/
A little of this and a few beauties of/ that/
And if not perfect the pie/
As life/
Is better than we hoped for/
And the taste of/
Purest love moves in/
Memory/
With every bite

I wish the poem was nicer/ on this eve of the day we celebrate hospitality/ and survival/ we are treacle nice/ or try to be/ shooting for the hallmark pretty as a picture/ life/ considered rude/ to point out the hungry/ the lonely/ the ones sleeping under bridges/ are there the other 364 days of the year/ and we care less/ even ruder to point out the hospitality we celebrate/ was wrapped in…

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