A note about absence

I have withheld from writing for quite some time now. It is awful, I know. I've been trying to arrange my life and figure out what things to keep and what to throw away.

Anyhow, after much consideration, I am going to continue to write. So expect soon, to actually have more posts up here. I don't like boring you all.

Ignorance...

is a precious but abundant commodity.

Ghosts in the Graveyard

This is a song/poem I have been thinking about, but haven't started to write. Here are my words as they streamed from out somewhere between my mind and my throat.

There are Ghosts in the Graveyard and they're rattling bones,
casting their curses out across the unknown.
An old man in a white shirt walks up to you
hands you his phone and says
“Do you know which way you are headed?”

Meanwhile the meaningful progressives are all gathering in shacks
talking about how the white man needs to learn to relax.
And gathering together a great collection of facts
as their elbows turn to dust amongst the cobwebs.

Bob Dylan’s whispering love songs in the presidential ear
In the revolutionary ballroom, Elton John calls someone queer.
The audience all turns away and trembles in fear
thinking that poor man he is so delightful.

The wise children cling to their newspaper scripts,
translate the verses onto their lips.
Develop the notion that they are now equipped
and well rounded and concerned and free thinking.

a free man runs to some master and says, come enslave me
the master turns his head and says you are no property.
So the free man throws on shackles and beats himself to sleep.
Says to live as I want is my desire.

And the papers roll on and the time wheel turns
the sun passes through the sky
the whole city burns
to rise again tomorrow
to see if it will learn
or will it circle circle circle on forever.

Morning Prayer

For the green leaves that greet me,
for my lungs and the air that they embrace,
for the man whose rake combs the earth's shaggy head,
for the ocean's unending crash,

but most for the mornings that I wake early enough
to see each new day truly new,
I thank You.

He Dreams of Brake Drums and Gears

The sky sits
watching as stars tick
threaded lines through fabric.

Somewhere in Botswana,
an old man is sleeping simply,
dreaming of brake drums and gears.

His knees scratch the bedpost
hard as cement,
fingers ache
from the turning and proding
of engines and rods.

He floats within himself.
Drifting through diesel,
he dreams of standing
before a car,
"What sound is it making when it stops?"

There, in his dream,
he is finding and mending
the beautiful machine
His fingers twitch without pain.
He smiles in the warmth of his labor.

If In Waking You Find Yourself Lie

Among the grey stones
sing your praise
statuesque and proud to have

arms held high
but not upheld
see sincere
sincerely see.

My Life as a Deer

I have eight point antlers and am almost certain that, were we to buck,
then your little sprigs might shatter all across the wilderness,
but what goodness would I feel,
having left you bald beneath the maples.

But what if my untried antlers turn upon themselves
like an old man's back or a politician's words (and I am a bit of both)?
What if I wake up to read the news and find myself already lost?

I will wait here by the pond, you know the place, and you also.
I will confess, it is easy for me, the one who waits and knows, that
whichever way the world is settled,
my crown will be waiting at your feet.